‘Master … eat o’possum?’ He corrected himself: ‘Master eat the o’possum?’
‘Eat it? The very idea! He’s going to put it in a bottle and send it to England for wise men to look at.’
None of the words meant anything, but one thing was plain: this bungu was not for eating.
Maria glared at him. ‘Now you behave yourself, Andrew.’
Andrew. That meant him.
Nanberry sighed. This new world was strange.
One day soon, he thought, I will be strong again. I will catch a badagarang, a great kangaroo, and give all the meat to Father White. He and Father White would feast together, even Maria perhaps, though she was just a woman.
It would be a better feast than a bungu.
And by then he would really be Andrew, an English boy. Nanberry would be gone.
Chapter 18
MARIA
SYDNEY COVE, 30 MAY 1789
Maria sat by the firelight and glared at the o’possum, sitting on the top shelf chewing a cold potato.
Why hadn’t she let the native boy kill the wretched thing? For two halfpennies she’d do it herself.
But the Surgeon had been good to her. And you couldn’t ask a man trying to save the colony from death by fever to waste time preserving his o’possum.
Hss chee. The creature bounded down in front of her. It looked up with those big dark eyes.
‘What are you wanting then? Another potato?’
The beast chattered again, almost as though it understood her.
‘Potatoes are precious. How about a cob of corn?’
The o’possum gave a squeal. She grinned at herself. Talking to an o’possum! But at least there was no one to hear her. The native lad was outside, helping Lon shuck the corn crop, pulling off the outside leaves to find the big yellow heads inside. How that boy could eat! She’d never seen anyone eat so much corn, cob after cob, and as for fish — he just kept eating till it was gone.
She fished another cob out of the pot, and held it out to the o’possum. It grabbed the offering in its tiny paws, and began to gnaw it. What a waste of good corn. It should be eating leaves …
She grinned again. She went to the door, shutting it carefully in case the creature escaped, then yelled into the darkness. ‘Big Lon?’
‘What is it?’ The yell came from the hut down the hill.
‘Go get leaves for the Master’s o’possum.’
Big Lon’s lanky form was silhouetted against the hut door. ‘And why should I do that? If the Master wants summat he can ask me.’
‘Because if you don’t I’ll tell the Master about how you tried to get his rations as well as your own.’
And you’ll be hanged by your neck if the Master decides to charge you with it, she thought. At last Big Lon said sulkily, ‘What kind o’ leaves?’
‘The kind where you found the o’possum.’
‘But that be an hour’s walk away!’
‘Then you’d best start at first light, hadn’t you?’
She slipped inside into the warmth again. The o’possum had nearly finished the cob of corn.
I’m just doing my duty, she told herself. If the o’possum were a chicken the Master planned to eat for dinner, she’d have kept it alive till he was ready to wring its neck just the same. It would be dead soon enough, its eyes staring sightlessly at the world from its glass jar.
And she couldn’t help a strange ache in her heart as she watched the tiny animal finish its corn.
Chapter 19
SURGEON WHITE
SYDNEY COVE, 1 JUNE 1789
Surgeon White trudged home, the late-afternoon southerly gusting at his heels buffeting the bark huts around him like it planned to flatten them. At least the wind washed away the scents of men and sewage. Stench and death and every sin known to man — that is what they had brought to this land.
It was the colony’s second winter. And where were they now? Starving, in bark huts, with death all around them. No word from England in all that time. Had the colony been forgotten? Had each one of them been left to die here at the end of the world?
But one miracle had been granted to them. Somehow only one colonist had been struck down by the plague. And he was an American native, a sailor. No English man, woman or child had caught the disease.
Impossible. Yet it was true.
Surgeon White shook his head. What was this curse, that natives died, and convicts and soldiers were immune?
It was impossible.
Surgeon White sighed. So much was impossible here. Animals that hopped and carried their young in pouches; swans that were black instead of white; wood that didn’t float, that twisted as it dried.
Where had the disease come from? There had been no outbreak since the Cape, eighteen months before. True, he had brought some bottles of cowpox pus and scabs, to inoculate the settlers in the event of another outbreak. But he knew better than anyone that the seals on his bottles were still intact — and it was unlikely, so many years after leaving England, that they’d be able to infect anyone, even if someone had stolen them.
The French? But they were long gone.
Had Dampier or some other explorer brought it here? Was it a disease the natives had suffered from before? Then why hadn’t Arabanoo asked for some native medicine, as he had when he’d had dysentery?
Too many questions and no answers. He needed to sit by his own fire. A hot rum and water, and a good dinner … He opened the door.
A creature stared at him from the table, sitting on its hind legs and holding a crust of cornbread in its paws. It twitched its nose at him, then bent its head to nibble the bread.
‘What in the —’
‘It’s your o’possum, sir.’ Maria looked up from turning the cornbread on the hearth. His heart warmed at the sight of her, so neat, so clean, unlike the other convict wretches.
‘I’d forgotten it.’ Surgeon White stared at the animal. It was almost twice as big as it had been just a few weeks before.
‘It’s quite tame, sir.’
‘Nonsense. I’ve tried to tame American o’possums back in England. It can’t be done.’
‘He eats from my fingers, sir …’
He was too tired to bother with an o’possum. It wasn’t as though the animal was interesting, like a kangaroo. He’d sketch it tonight, then wring its neck and put it in a preserving jar.
He reached towards the animal.
Gah! squealed the o’possum. It jumped onto the floor, then ran on four legs, out the open door.
Maria ran to the door and stood staring after it. ‘You frightened it, sir,’ she said, a little sadly.
‘Were you hoping to make a pet of it, child?’
She shrugged. ‘I have no need of pets.’ She turned back to his cornbread.
He watched the girl for a moment. Was she as lonely as he was? What did she have in common with the other women, with their drinking and their swearing? Thank goodness the Governor had assigned her to him.
He would have liked to hug her, but it might be misinterpreted. He didn’t want her to think that his interest was anything but fatherly. Fatherly … Were a convict girl and a native boy as close as he would ever come to having children of his own?
‘You can’t tame an o’possum,’ he repeated gently. ‘Where’s Andrew?’
‘Asleep, sir.’
‘Wake him up and ask him to join us for supper.’
‘Us, sir?’
‘Tonight all three of us will eat together.’
Chapter 20
ANDREW/NANBERRY
SYDNEY COVE, 2 JUNE 1789
‘Toast,’ said Nanberry, carefully turning the slice of soda bread over above the flames so that it browned on both sides. Outside the kookaburras welcomed the new day.
Father White smiled at him. ‘Excellent, Andrew. Now bring it to the breakfast table and put it in the toast rack.’
Maria brought a bowlful of boiled eggs over. She sat next to Father White, a bit uncomfortably, Nanberry
thought. He placed the toast in its rack then sat on the other chair. They had three chairs now, one for him and Maria too, even though she was only a woman.
Chair, toast, table, eggs … He knew so many words now. He was even working out the complicated ways the English put them together.
‘Would you like an egg, Andrew?’
Nanberry took an egg. He placed it in the eggcup, just like Father White did with his, and cut off the top. It was a funny way to eat an egg, yet this was what the English did. It was silly to sit dangling your legs off a chair too, instead of comfortably on the ground.
Father White smiled at Maria. ‘Are you missing your o’possum, girl?’
She flushed. ‘Of course not, sir.’
‘If the Governor’s cat has kittens I will try to get you one.’
‘A cat? Truly, sir?’
‘If I can.’
Father White took his hat and coat — freshly brushed by Maria — and opened the hut’s door.
The bungu glared up at him from the doorstep. It gave a squeak, then ran inside on all fours and clambered up the table leg. It looked around for its sack of wilted greenery and squeaked again.
Nanberry laughed. Oh, it was good to laugh.
‘Maria’s friend is back.’
‘My friend —’ Maria blushed. Nanberry wondered if she had another friend.
‘Your o’possum. I think it’s looking for its bed.’
‘I threw the leaves out and washed the sack. It stank.’
Father White stared at the bungu, no, the o’possum. ‘Let’s see how tame it will become. It’s quite fascinating, don’t you think?’
‘No, sir,’ she said frankly.
Father White smiled. ‘Get Lon to gather dry leaves for a nest. Find it a basket.’
‘On my clean table, sir?’ Maria’s voice was resigned.
‘I’ll send a small table up from the hospital. The o’possum’s basket can sit on that. Lon can bring fresh leaves for it to eat each day too. But see what other things it will eat.’
‘Oh, it will do that, sir.’
‘It will be company for you,’ Father White said gently. ‘What do you think, Andrew? Will it amuse you to have a pet o’possum?’
Nanberry knew the word pet, though the idea was strange. A pet was an animal you owned, but didn’t eat; you laughed at it, though it could be useful too. The English kept dogs and cats. Like Father White keeps me …
He thrust the thought away. He was no pet!
‘I am Nanberry Buckenau.’ The words came before he knew he was going to say them. It was the first time he had used his full name in the colony.
Father White looked puzzled. ‘Your name is Andrew now.’
‘I am Nanberry.’
Father White shook his head. ‘I don’t have time to argue with you. You be a good boy, and help Maria and Lon.’ He picked up the stick with the silver end that he used to help him walk. It was another English thing, using a stick even when you didn’t have a sore leg or foot.
Nanberry watched Father White stride down the dirt lane between the huts. Behind him in the kitchen the bungu — o’possum — chattered, demanding corn.
Nanberry, he thought. I am no pet. I am Nanberry Buckenau. Nanberry.
Chapter 21
SURGEON WHITE
COCKLE BAY HOSPITAL; SYDNEY COVE,
1 AUGUST 1789
Late winter breezes fluttered a touch of fresh air into the sour stench of the hospital. Surgeon White glanced out his office door as a tiny canoe, almost level with the water, vanished into one of the coves.
Surgeon White found himself smiling.
Only a couple of months ago he’d thought the whole race of natives wiped out. But they were trickling back to the harbour — and they were healthy too. He supposed many had fled inland to escape the infection. There had been no signs of the disease for weeks.
‘Sir!’ One of the convict porters puffed up the hill towards him.
‘What is it?’
‘Bad case, sir. Cove got ’is leg crushed under a tree down by the stores. Got ’im in the surgery ’ut.’
Surgeon White nodded. He reached for his surgical apron and his bag of instruments. ‘I’ll be there directly. Get the iron hot, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He heard the young man’s screams as he neared the hut. Its bark roof was already half rotted, offering almost no protection from the rain. Army surgeons on the battlefield work under better conditions than I do, thought Surgeon White. At least they could get medicines.
The blood had left a wet trail on the dirt floor. Too much, and bright red, thought the Surgeon. An artery cut …
He looked down at his patient, a skinny lad but so tall he only just fitted on the bench. The youth panted in agony, his eyes wide and terrified, his face sweating. Black hollows under his eyes showed he’d lost a lot of blood already. His trousers were black with it.
He might only have minutes to live.
The Surgeon grabbed a scalpel, slit the trousers and assessed the leg quickly. Bone protruding. Blood pumping. He pressed down on the artery. The pumping stopped. He gestured to one of the convict assistants. ‘Press here. Hard. Don’t let up.’ He bent down and picked up his bone saw.
‘No!’ This scream was anguish as well as pain. ‘Don’t cut it off! I can’t be a cripple! I can’t!’
‘The leg is crushed, boy. There’s dirt in it, bits of cloth. If it gets infected you won’t just lose your leg — you’ll be dead.’
‘May as well be dead as have only one leg!’
‘There’s work for a man with a wooden leg …’
‘Not here there ain’t. I want a farm o’ me own one day! Please, sir. Don’t cut it off!’
The Surgeon hesitated. ‘Very well. But I warn you — if infection sets in I’ll have to cut it off anyway. And this is going to hurt.’
‘I can take it. I can take anything. Just don’t take me leg!’
‘I’ll do my best then. What’s your name?’ he added to try to distract the youth while a porter put the iron in the fire.
‘Jack Jackson. Work in the stores,’ his breath came in panting gasps. ‘Seen your housekeeper there.’
‘Maria? She’s a good girl.’
A year ago the Surgeon could have given Jack laudanum to ease the pain, and got him drunk on gin to boot. But there was none of either left now.
The Surgeon nodded at the three convict porters. They held Jackson down on the bench as Surgeon White wrenched the leg into shape. Jackson howled like a dog. Sweat ran down his face.
The Surgeon strapped thigh and foot to a length of wood, to keep it straight. He reached for the tweezers and extracted every bit of cloth he could find in the wounds.
Now for the great gashes in the leg. He bent and lifted the iron out of the fire with a pair of tongs. It glowed white hot, then red as it began to cool. The Surgeon carefully pressed it for two seconds — no more — to the flesh within each gash in the man’s leg.
Jackson screamed, then fainted.
White bit his lip. At least his patient would feel nothing for a while. And maybe, just maybe, he had saved the leg. The hot iron had sealed the wounds and perhaps stopped infection from the dirt too.
White wiped his bloody hands on his apron, then took it off and handed it to his convict assistant. Well, he had done what he could. ‘Give him sarsaparilla tea when he wakes up — well boiled, make sure of that. Keep the leg dry. When the flies lay maggots in it, come and tell me, but don’t try to wash them out. Understand?’
‘Why not, sir?’
Surgeon White nodded. He liked a man who asked questions. Perhaps this one could even be trained to be a surgeon too.
‘Maggots eat dead flesh. They stop the wound rotting. Once rot starts you have to cut the whole leg off, fast, before it spreads. But you have to watch maggots carefully, stop them eating into good flesh once they’ve cleaned the wound, or the wound will just get bigger. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.�
�
‘Good. I’ll look at him tonight. But if the wound begins to swell, send me a message at once. I’ll need to work fast. If wounds have dirt in them there’s a risk of gas gangrene.’
‘I’ve heard of that, sir.’
‘Good man. And don’t touch the wound if it swells — if you have any cuts on your hands you might get infected too. Then you’ll be dead as well.’
‘But what about you, sir? Mightn’t you get gas gangrene if you touch ’im?’
‘It’s my job,’ said the Surgeon. Typhoid, dysentery, cholera, diphtheria, gas gangrene — a surgeon risked them all.
‘Sir?’ It was another of the convict porters. ‘A message from the Guv’nor. He’s sending out an expedition to capture another native to replace Arabanoo. He asked if you’d bring your little native boy down to the harbour to interpret.’
The Surgeon’s face brightened at the thought of his adopted son. ‘I’ve never known a child to pick up a language so easily — nor a man. I’ll fetch the boy now.’
He put his hat and coat on, and walked swiftly home. The colony needed some way to talk to the natives. He’d heard there’d been an attack on convicts out hunting. Or that was what the men had claimed they’d been doing in the bush. The Surgeon frowned. He wouldn’t put it past the wretches here to have been after native women.
He was sure Andrew would be able to translate for the Governor. Perhaps they didn’t even need to capture another adult native. Andrew was a brilliant child. He already spoke English almost like a white man — better English than most of the convicts, for he spoke with the Surgeon’s own gentleman’s accent.
Suddenly the Surgeon realised that the boy still didn’t know that any of his people had survived. Maybe he would want to go back to them …
No. How could a lad who had been welcomed into a gentleman’s home want to go back to the miserable native life?
He pulled open the door of his hut — it sagged even more since the beginning of winter. ‘Maria?’
Nanberry Page 6
