Nanberry

by Jackie French

  ‘Bennelong has been seen,’ Father White added. ‘He’s with a great party of natives feasting on a beached whale. The Governor hopes to persuade him to come back to the colony.’

  Nanberry’s smile vanished.

  He sat next to Father White and Mr Tench as the rowers pulled at the oars. It took a long time to cross the harbour, but it was good to watch the coves and headlands pass, to see the cooking fires of his people — his old people, he corrected himself — rising again among the trees.

  At last he could smell the whale, faintly at first, and then a huge stench that covered even the brine of the sea. The whale must have been dead on the beach for many days already. He remembered jumping on swollen whale guts when he and his friends were small. The guts had burst, spraying them with stuff that dripped and stank. The boys had run into the sea laughing, and …

  He thrust the thought away. Ghosts now, every one of them. Memories hurt too much. It was true: it was not good to think of the dead.

  Soon the boat was near the beach. The whale had been half eaten: a giant shape all blood and torn flesh. Perhaps 200 people from several clans lay around it, sleepy from feasting. Suddenly someone saw the English boat and gave a cry. Women ran into the trees, taking the children with them.

  ‘Tell them we are friendly,’ Father White said to Nanberry.

  Nanberry stood up in the rocking boat. ‘We are friends,’ he cried in the Cadigal tongue.

  None of the men on the shore bothered to answer. Nanberry glanced back at Father White. No matter how many times warriors ignored him, he still grew hot with humiliation whenever it happened. He wasn’t a Cadigal boy to be ignored now! He was English, the colony’s translator!

  ‘Try again, lad,’ said Father White.

  Only a handful of warriors stood by the whale now. The rowers leapt out and tugged the boat onto the beach as the warriors watched.

  ‘Ask for Bennelong,’ said Father White.

  ‘They won’t answer me,’ said Nanberry reluctantly. Father White nodded. It was only too obvious that the warriors would keep ignoring the boy.

  ‘Bennelong?’ called Father White.

  A warrior stepped forward, all bones and thin, straggly beard. The man had a great spear wound on his upper arm, still swollen and black with blood, and an almost healed wound on his head.

  Nanberry stared. This couldn’t be Bennelong! He’d been fat when he lived at Sydney Cove. How could he have grown so thin in a few months?

  ‘Do you have hatchets?’ the thin man asked Father White, using the Wangan words that were close enough to Cadigal for Nanberry to understand.

  It was Bennelong. There was no mistaking the voice.

  ‘He wants a hatchet,’ Nanberry said to Father White.

  ‘How did he cut the whale without a hatchet?’ asked Father White. ‘Ask him where is his own hatchet?’

  Nanberry translated.

  Bennelong held up his woomera, with its sharp oyster shell at one end. ‘Hatchets,’ he demanded again.

  ‘Tell him we have no hatchets with us, but we have other presents.’

  The new skinny Bennelong gazed at the officers as they laid down shirts and knives for him on the beach. He seemed happy about the presents, but wary of being caught again. As soon as the officers stepped back he leapt over to the whale carcass, and sawed off three large chunks of meat. He thrust them at one of the rowers, who took them reluctantly. Bennelong spoke again. Once more Nanberry translated.

  ‘He says the whale meat is a present for the Governor. Bennelong wants to see the Governor, his beanga. He wants hatchets in return for the meat.’

  Father White shook his head at the stinking meat, then turned to the rowers. ‘Tell the Governor that Bennelong wishes to see him. Tell him Bennelong looks thin and ill. I think the Governor can persuade him to come back with us.’

  The rowers pushed the boat out again, leaving the officers, Nanberry and Father White on the shore. Slowly the women and children emerged from the trees.

  ‘Ask him why so many natives are here,’ said one of the officers.

  It seemed obvious to Nanberry — they were feasting on the whale — but he put the question anyway.

  For the first time Bennelong looked straight at him, disgust in his eyes. ‘Don’t you know what we are doing?’ he asked in the Cadigal speech.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nanberry, confused.

  Bennelong casually reached out and struck Nanberry across the cheek, just as he had the year before. The blow stung, so hard it almost knocked him to the ground. His ears rang. Father White held him protectively. Bennelong shouted something, once again not even glancing at Nanberry.

  ‘He wants scissors to cut his hair,’ whispered Nanberry, ashamed and humiliated.

  Father White reached into his medical bag. He put scissors down on the sand, then stepped back again to Nanberry. Bennelong picked up the scissors and started to cut his hair. The dark locks fell onto the sand. Bennelong began to trim his beard.

  ‘Ask him where Barangaroo is,’ said Mr Tench. Barangaroo was Bennelong’s wife.

  It seemed Bennelong understood this, for he didn’t wait for Nanberry to translate, he laughed. ‘She is gone. She is the wife of Colbee now.’ Bennelong nodded at the man next to him.

  Nanberry blinked. He and Colbee hadn’t even recognised each other. Colbee too looked different, thinner in the face and with a longer beard.

  How could I not know my own uncle? he thought. And then: How is it that my own uncle doesn’t know me?

  I am becoming English, thought Nanberry. I do not feast on whale blubber on the beach. I wear clothes. I eat my meals at tables.

  ‘I have two fat women,’ boasted Bennelong. He used a mix of Wangan and Cadigal words. ‘They are much better than Barangaroo.’

  Colbee laughed.

  More and more people crowded back onto the beach now: children peering around their mother’s legs; and the old women standing to the front, naked except for the bungu-fur string around their waists, their skins shiny with whale oil and fish guts to keep off mosquitoes. Nanberry edged closer to Father White. There were so many of them, and so few officers. Some of the warriors had long thin fishing spears, their barbs sharp in the sunlight.

  At last the boat appeared again, carrying the Governor, Mr Collins and Captain Waterhouse, who was the chief of the small ship Supply. Convicts rowed the boats and soldiers stood guard with muskets.

  Bennelong muttered something, too low for Nanberry to hear.

  Too many soldiers, thought Nanberry. He thinks they want to capture him again. He’s right.

  Bennelong walked swiftly back down the beach, and stood, half hidden in the trees, as the rowers beached the boat. Governor Phillip jumped out and strode up the sand.

  ‘Where is Bennelong?’ he called out.

  ‘I am Bennelong!’ Bennelong beckoned to Governor Phillip to walk along the beach towards him.

  Phillip hesitated. ‘I don’t want to scare him away, or make him think we are going to take him prisoner again.’ He smiled briefly at Nanberry. ‘Friendship works better than chains, I think.’

  The Governor signalled to one of the sailors, who collected bread and salt beef and handkerchiefs and a bottle of wine from the boat, and gave them to Mr Collins. Governor Phillip held up his hands to show he was unarmed. He and Mr Collins carried the gifts towards Bennelong, who stood where he was. The Governor put the presents onto the sand. Bennelong grabbed the wine, pushed the cork into the bottle and took a swig. ‘To the King!’ he shouted.

  ‘He remembers that much English,’ muttered Father White.

  ‘Captain Waterhouse!’ called Bennelong, waving the bottle of wine. The big sailor began to walk towards Bennelong and the Governor.

  All at once a mob of warriors surrounded the Governor, Mr Collins and Captain Waterhouse. It was impossible to see the Englishmen among the crowd. Nanberry recognised one of them. It was Willemeeerin, a giant Guringai warrior. He held a long barbed hunting spear, not a lighter fis
hing spear like most of the others. He glanced at Father White. Should they order the soldiers with muskets to go and rescue them?

  Father White frowned, trying to work out what was happening. They still couldn’t see the Governor, though there were no shouts or yells, just a mutter of conversation, and Bennelong’s laughter as he drank the wine. Perhaps Bennelong has remembered more English, thought Nanberry. Perhaps he will come back to Sydney Cove. Nanberry rubbed his cheek where Bennelong had struck him. It was swelling now.

  He hoped Bennelong stayed away. He hoped Bennelong vanished forever.

  Suddenly he realised that all the women and children had vanished again. Only warriors stayed on the beach now. The Englishmen shifted uncomfortably. ‘What’s happening?’ muttered Father White.

  Suddenly someone shouted, and a man gave a scream of agony. The warriors broke ranks and ran back into the trees. The end of the beach where Bennelong had stood was immediately deserted except for the three white men, two standing, the third lying on the sand. It was the Governor. Willemeeerin’s giant spear had pierced his shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound, black on the white sand.

  He’s dead, thought Nanberry. The Governor is dead.

  A fishing spear flew from the trees, and then another. Mr Collins and Captain Waterhouse glanced down at the motionless body of the Governor, then began to run to the boat. The spears fell like rain now.

  Father White pulled Nanberry back to the boat and shoved him below the seats. ‘Keep your head down,’ he ordered.

  Spear points cracked against the side of the boat. Nanberry felt the rowers push it out into the shallows, beyond the reach of the spears, then hold the boat steady to wait for Mr Collins and Captain Waterhouse, still running on the sand, to reach them. Nanberry peered out again, over the edge of the boat.

  Suddenly the Governor moved, his hands clawing at the sand among the fallen spears. ‘Help me!’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake help me!’

  He was alive.

  Nanberry glanced around the boat at the officers from the New South Wales Corps. Why didn’t they run with their muskets to help the Governor? Weren’t they warriors? But the officers crouched behind the side of the boat, away from the spears.

  Mr Collins hesitated, then kept running to the boat. Captain Waterhouse ran back, ducking his head as though that might protect him from the flying spears. More spears fell around the two men as Captain Waterhouse grabbed the one protruding from Phillip’s shoulder, then paused. ‘It’s barbed, sir,’ he yelled. ‘It will kill you to pull it out.’ He tried to snap the massive spear in half instead.

  Phillip screamed in torment. Another spear flew across the beach from the trees, hitting Captain Waterhouse’s hand. He pulled his arm back, his blood mixing with the Governor’s, then despite the danger bent over the Governor again.

  ‘We need to get the Governor to the boat,’ said Father White. He stood up. Mr Collins held him back, just as the spear snapped in Captain Waterhouse’s hands.

  ‘He’s got him,’ said Mr Collins.

  Several feet of wood still protruded from the Governor’s shoulder. Captain Waterhouse began to help him along the beach, the weight of the half spear left in his shoulder slowing them down.

  Another flurry of spears filled the air. Nanberry could hear the whoosh, then the thuds as they hit the sand. He poked his head up above the edge of the boat.

  Phillip was grim and white-faced, only just managing to stumble with Captain Waterhouse’s help. He reached down with his good hand and took his pistol from his belt. He fired it at the hidden warriors in the trees. The man who had steered the fishing boat finally lifted his musket to his shoulder and fired too. The stink of black powder and sulphur almost overpowered the stench of whale. At last the two officers raised their muskets too, while the sailor reloaded, but when the officers pressed the triggers nothing happened.

  ‘Powder’s damp,’ muttered Father White. ‘Not even the muskets fire in this damned place.’

  Why did they wait so long to fire? thought Nanberry. Why didn’t they attack the warriors?

  He gazed at Captain Waterhouse, still half carrying the Governor, blood welling from his hand. That man is a warrior, he thought. He sails ships. He faces danger.

  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.

  Chapter 33

  RACHEL

  SYDNEY COVE, 7 SEPTEMBER 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.’