Echo in the Memory

by Cameron Nunn

  “Ah,” he said to one of the soldiers standing guard. “I seem to be in the right place.” He were a Scotsman. He handed the paper to the guard, who scanned its content.

  “Prisoner 87409, step forward,” the guard demanded, as though he were calling across a crowded market. The Scotsman winced. I stepped forward and tried to stand as straight as I were able, though I were uncertain why.

  “Well, yes. Thank you, corporal. I think that’s all.” The fat peacock suddenly seemed uncertain about what to do next. Then, turning to me, he said, “Well, I think that’s all in order. You’d better come along.” He turned and I began walking after him. I hadn’t been ironed for the whole of the journey, and walking along now I were particularly thankful.

  At the end of the dock were carts what were being busily loaded from the bond stores. The Scotsman pointed me to an old four-wheel pony chaise what stood alongside the big carts. It were pulled by the most forlorn-looking mare I’d ever seen. Bones stuck out every which way.

  “Well, hop up, hop up. The horse isn’t going to give you a leg up by you standing there. I thought it too nice a day to be walking all the way to the barracks, so I borrowed the carriage, so to speak.”

  I weren’t sure whether I were supposed to speak, so I sat without saying a word.

  “Ah, so you are the silent type are ye? ’Tis no bother, I shall probably talk enough for the two of us anyway.” And with that he began the longest one-sided conversation what I ever heard a man speak. “This is George Street. Named after the late king, not the present one. The only thing they’ll name after him is the bawdy house in Durand’s Alley. I shall tell you this for naught, ’Tis a good thing that you are being sent to the Carters’ Barracks. A harlot’s kiss is a fast road to hell. Yes, yes, it is a good thing to be going to Carters’ Barracks. There are much, much worse places that a boy could be sent. They train boys like you there. They’ll make you useful, and I expect you’ll look back with gratitude some day. The superintendent, Mr Murray. Funny chap. They say he’s the nephew or godson of Sir Walter Scott.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “You have heard of Sir Walter Scott?”

  I shook my head.

  “Goodness, my boy. Where have you been? Probably the finest writer in Britain since Shakespeare. Mr Murray, on the other hand, is an orchardist. Odd chap, really. You see, it’s all about connections here. I’ll tell you this for naught, a man can make anything of himself if he can make the right connections.”

  I looked blankly as we passed a barracks square.

  “The best thing you can do in this place is to forget about the past and I tell you that for naught. It does a lad no good looking backwards when the world is moving forward. Aye, it does no good to hold onto the past. And I shall tell you this for naught as well, that a man who has his wits and a little book learning could do a lot worse than being sent to this colony.”

  “Amos said that the only learning a man needs is what he can taste with his own tongue.”

  “Ah, the mute speaks. Now, this Amos of yours, would he be a confederate in crime?”

  “He were the wisest man I know, and he hadn’t a letter to his name.”

  “A man who doesn’t have a letter to his name, as you so eloquently phrased it, doesn’t have a name. What is a name if it isn’t a series of letters?” He gave the reins a quick flick and the horses quickened.

  “A man has a name because he says it,” I said angrily. I were already grown tired of this Scotsman and his double-talk.

  “And it vanishes as soon as it is spoken. ‘As for man, his days are as grass, for the wind passes over it and it is gone and the place thereof shall know it no more.’ Do you know where that comes from?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Never mind. I suspect that you and Amos would have no time for wisdom beyond your own wit.”

  For a time we fell into silence. The town lurched by. The street were wide and dusty. Two- and three-storey buildings lined each side of the street, some with large porticoes and others with broad balconies running across the fronts of the buildings. Wagons and carriages and carts pulled by teams of oxen moved each way. Women were selling goods from small stalls and children played in gutters, dogs were barking and cockerels crowing. It were a scene of dusty ordinariness and I ached even more for the soft light of London.

  We travelled only another ten minutes before the Scotsman pulled the chaise to a halt outside a public house called the Black Swan. “I have to attend some urgent business with a gentleman with whom I have an acquaintance. Be a good lad and stay here. I shall only be gone a moment.” And with that he were gone, leaving me with the reins of the chaise.

  My first thought were escape. As soon as he were inside I jumped down from the chaise and looked around, but I’d no idea of where to go. I could just run, but to where? I were torn between an eternity of decision and indecision.

  It were over half an hour afore the Scotsman appeared again, mopping his brow and redder than ever. “Capital fellow, Mr Benleigh, capital fellow,” he muttered as he tried unsuccessfully to hoist his arse up into the cart. I could smell the rum on his breath as he grunted.

  “I could’ve run away,” I said as soon as he regained his seat.

  “Run away? Don’t be ridiculous,” he chuckled. “Run away where? We are surrounded by oceans and scrubland and black fellows with spears. I’ll tell you this for naught, there’s nowhere for a boy to go that won’t have you crawling back into Sydney within a few days.”

  “If I’d wanted to, I still could’ve done it. I just didn’t want to.”

  “You do say the most ridiculous things,” he replied as he slapped the reins.

  Carters’ Barracks were on the edge of the town overlooking a bleak cemetery and pastures of cattle. It were a series of yellow buildings with a small iron fence on the outside. It looked no more like a prison than I looked like the king. The main building were two storeys with bars across the upper windows and double doors with a fan window above.

  “Boys get taken around by the back entrance,” the Scotsman announced as he swung himself down.

  He proceeded to lead me down a passage between parts of the building and into a large courtyard. Around the outsides of the courtyard, boys were engaged in all sorts of trades. Hammers and chisels rang out with green confidence as if the whole place were rebuilding itself in that very courtyard.

  “New boy!” the call went up, and began echoing around amidst the shouts of overseers telling them to get back to work. All of a sudden, I were surrounded by boys no older ’n me pulling me each way and asking whether I had baccy, whether I’d any money, whether I’d news. Overseers grabbed boys by their collars and their ears to haul them back to workbenches but it were like trying to hold eels. As soon as one were pulled back, another would slip in. The fat peacock were pushing boys away and slapping hands as they reached into pockets. If he were carrying anything, he’d be lighter when he left.

  It were only when a large burly man came around the corner and shouted with such force that he’d thrash the lot of them, did the crowd slink back to their workbenches. “You’ve seen a new boy before. And if I find even one of you has filched so much as a button, I’ll be sending you up to the magistrate.” He paused as the boys turned back to their work. “Mr Dalrymple, I see you’ve brought another boy. Mr Murray was expecting you this morning.”

  “And it’s delightful to see you, Mr Orilley. I cannot be responsible for delays in unloading the convicts onto the docks. Like you, I found myself waiting most of the morning. I will of course report my concerns to Mr Hely but I suspect such things are beyond the scope of the superintendent.”

  As he were speaking another man came into the yard. He wore the clothes of a gentleman and walked with a slight limp.

  “Mr Dalrymple, we were expecting you this morning.”

  “Mr Murray, I was just explaining to Mr Orilley about the delays at the docks this morning.”

  “I heard. So this
is the new boy. Does Mr Hely realise this will take us to one hundred and four boys? We have space for one hundred. We have hammocks for one hundred. We have seats for one hundred. Perhaps Mr Hely would be good enough to send a larger building or at least some extra beds.”

  “I will mention to Mr Hely your . . .”

  Mr Murray held up his hand to silence the fat peacock. “Do not waste your breath. I know what Mr Hely will say.” He came over to me and looked at me over silver spectacles as though I were some repulsive type of toad. “He looks consumptive. Is he from the ship that had to be quarantined?”

  “The ship was fully clean when it arrived. The yellow flag was just a precaution.”

  “Precaution or not, I can’t afford to take a boy who might infect others; morally or physically. You’ll have to take him back.”

  Now for the first time the fat peacock seemed troubled. It were a convenience to have me on one visit to the Black Swan. It’d be quite inconvenient to have me a second time. “Be reasonable, Mr Murray. As one Scot to another . . .”

  The small man cut him off immediately. “The coincidence of our birthplace is an accident of nature. If you think it provides you with some sort of camaraderie, you are dearly mistaken, Mr Dalrymple.”

  The fat peacock tried a different approach. “I have his papers. You’ll see that he has an excellent gaol report and the ship’s surgeon speaks most highly of the lad.” He held out the papers and Mr Murray took them reluctantly, scanning them.

  “Tell Mr Hely that I will take the boy as a courtesy to him, but the boy will have to be assigned as quickly as we can arrange a suitable master. Can you ask Mr Hely to look to the applications and see what he can do? It is hard enough to find masters willing to take boys, but the new regulations simply make it impossible. That anyone can have use for such a mouse is unlikely, if there be not incentives to go with the arrangement. You aren’t a papist, are you, boy?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Well, at least that is one redeeming feature. You may go, Mr Dalrymple, and make sure you speak to Mr Hely as soon as you return. Mr Orilley will take charge of the boy.”

  Mr Murray were true to his word and had me assigned within four weeks of being at Carters’ Barracks. I were glad to be away from that place what crushed its boys like a giant screw. A thick-set Irishman with large hands like dinner plates and fiery whiskers arrived to collect me. The Irishman stared at me and I were straight away aware something were wrong.

  “I was expecting a bigger lad. I ain’t sure this boy will be up to the work,” he said as he walked around me.

  I’d been told if I spoke a word Mr Murray would have me birched. He stood there with his hands on his hips, perhaps hoping I’d grow under his stare.

  Finally, Mr Murray grew impatient and said, “Take him or leave him, ’tis all the same to me, but you may as well know that I have a dozen other applicants who are in need of indentured help. If you wish to make further inquiries, you’ll find that there are precious few boys these days.”

  The Irishman grunted. “Does he have any belongings what need to come with him?”

  Mr Murray looked up from his ledger and said sarcastically, “What do you think the boy should have with him? The crown jewels? You will need to sign here, and here. I’m sure you are aware of the responsibilities that are involved with assigned convicts.”

  “Yes,” came the gruff answer. “I’m fully aware of all the responsibilities and obligations.” A signature were scrawled across the books.

  “Well, I suspect you would be.”

  I didn’t understand what Mr Murray meant at the time but it were clear the jab hit its mark and the Irishman glared at the Scotsman. For a moment I thought he’d reach across and throttle him, but Mr Murray stared him down. Without saying more, he grabbed me by the upper arm and dragged me through the door and into the alarming light outside.

  When I thought it were safe to say something, I said, “Now I’m assigned to you–”

  “Save your breath. And it’s not to me you’re assigned, as that ass knows full well.” I stumbled as the Irishman let go my arm and gave me a shove up the path. “Hurry up, or I’ll put the boot into you.” I scrambled to regain my balance and staggered up the path.

  Sitting outside the barracks were a large flat cart they called a dray, loaded high with sacks, furniture and other things I’d never seen before. Yoked to the front were six enormous bullocks, each bigger ’n the Devil himself. One turned his head and let out a low groaning bellow to which several of the others spoke back. At the front of the team stood another man. He were older ’n me, but it were difficult to tell how much older. I’d never been good at guessing people’s ages. He wore a tricorn hat, and a stained white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. But what immediately struck me were how thin he were; like Death himself. His face were bony and his eyes so deep set it gave him the look of a skull. He stood, resting on the wooden yoke what stretched across the front cattle, staring at me as I stumbled from the Irishman’s grip. Coils of smoke rose from the thin clay pipe stuck out from his mouth.

  For reasons what now seem beyond reckoning, it occurred to me this must be the man I were being assigned to. “Begging your pardon, are you the master?”

  It took a moment for the man to recognise I were speaking to him. First a sneer and then a laugh rattled up through his body, “Listen to him, will ya? Begging your pardon, are you the master?’’

  “Shut your trap, Jack! No, he’s ain’t the master. You some kind of simpleton?” the Irishman stared. “Just get up on the dray.”

  My face burned with embarrassment. Jack were still laughing, gripping his skinny frame. The Irishman clipped him across the back of his head so hard he near fell over.

  “Back there amongst the sacks of seed you’ll find some room. You’re assigned to Mr Harrison, but you’ll answer to me. When I tell you to do something, you’ll do it. Right away. When I speak to you, you’ll say, ‘Yes, Mr O’Neill.’ Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mr O’Neill,” I said climbing over boxes and wire.

  “Good. If you do what you’re told, then you’ll be looked after. But if you’re wicked and lazy, then I’ll feed you to the savages. You understand?”

  I hoped to find some humour in his eyes but found only an empty stare. “Yes, Mr O’Neill.”

  The Irishman turned towards the bullocks and, tapping the first one with a long cane, began the slow lurching movement of the dray. Jack sat up front beside the Irishman.

  The iron rimmed wheels turned with slow grinding patience. “Where are we going?” I called from behind Mr O’Neill.

  “Parramatta,” came the solitary reply.

  “Is that where Mr Harrison is?”

  Jack laughed again, a grim, humourless snigger.

  “We’ll spend the night at Parramatta and rest the bullocks. It’ll be some time before we get where we’re going.”

  How long were some time? Two days? A week? How far did the colony stretch? The dray moved no faster ’n a man could walk. I could hear the strain of leather and timber as the wheels turned. I lay against the sacks piled high and tried to find a place what were comfortable against the hard hessian. It were clear Mr O’Neill weren’t going to say no more, so instead I stared up into the unnatural blue of the sky until my eyes ached with the brightness. It were a brighter blue than I’d ever seen before.

  The dray lurched heavy through the worn road. This were a strange hard place. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the streets from home, but already the pictures had started to be sucked out on a tide of forgetfulness. The whole area of Southwark and the new bridge across to Cheapside were already beginning to slip. If I’d known then I’d never see London again, the loneliness would’ve drowned me.

  Within two hours, the town had changed into small hamlets and groups of whitewashed huts clinging like weeds to the strip of dust what headed westward towards Parramatta. The smell of old tobacco drifted back from Jack’s pipe, and I felt inside the large p
ocket of the overshirt to make sure my pipe were still there. My broken pipe were the only thing I’d been able to keep hidden and the one thing what linked me with a past life.

  That night we camped just beyond the town of Parramatta. Mr O’Neill sent me to get sticks for the fire with the warning, “And be careful what you pick up isn’t moving. If you get bit by a snake we’ll have to haul back to Sydney for a new boy.” He spoke the same dry irritated way he gave all his directions.

  That night we ate salt mutton, dried peas and damper, the same as we’d eaten for lunch and would eat for near every meal what followed on the slow journey west. Mr O’Neill lay on the ground wrapped in a blanket, the same as Jack and me. “The dray were certain to get stolen,” he muttered, if he left anyone else to keep an eye on it. He slept with a primed Brown Bess musket by his side. The bullocks were unyoked and tethered to a series of small trees.

  I lay there looking up at the stars, brighter ’n I’d ever seen in the night sky above London. I tried to make out the patterns what hung in the darkness above my home in London, the animals what Amos had shown me – the Great Bear and Draco the dragon – but the lights were strange and as changeable as flecks on the ocean. Nothing in this land were the same. As I lay there, the bush around cracked and moved with a thousand night things. I began to think about savages lurking just beyond the fringes of leaves. I don’t know if it were the paralysing fear what kept me silent or the knowledge Mr O’Neill would thrash me if I woke him on no account. Either way, I lay there, I don’t know how long, until tiredness wrestled me to sleep under that strange night sky.

  We travelled much the same way for the next twenty-three days. Mostly, I sat awkwardly, surrounded by the stacks of goods being brought back from Sydney. I tried several times at talking, but each time I were met with single word replies. At Emu Ford we crossed the Nepean River at the foot of a steep rise of mountains. The bullock leader refused to enter the shallow water and wouldn’t be persuaded. Mr O’Neill cursed and Jack and I dragged on the yoke until he began to move in slow, splashing steps through the river. As we moved, Jack’s arm flung out and knocked me into the water. It were possible it’d been an accident, so I got up quick without saying naught.