‘Did you see who threw the spear? Was it Bennelong?’
‘A man called Willemeeerin.’
‘Maybe the native was frightened,’ said the Surgeon.
Nanberry shook his head. ‘A warrior like Willemeeerin wouldn’t be frightened.’ The boy’s voice was soft now. ‘I think it was a punishment for the things the English have done.’
Rachel snorted. ‘What have we done then?’
The boy’s voice was even softer. ‘You’ve taken the land, taken the fish and game. Made the water dirty.’
‘It’s called a town, that’s what it is. Even if you heathen don’t know any better.’
‘I am not a heathen.’ The boy looked as though he might cry again. ‘I listen to Reverend Johnson. I dress in trousers. I’m not like Bennelong. I’m not!’
‘No one said you were.’ She looked at the boy’s face, then patted his hand. It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how young he was. ‘Don’t you mind. You’re a grand lad and don’t you forget it. Now you run up and wash and get into bed.’
She waited till she heard the boy’s footsteps overhead, and the crash as the o’possum leapt to another branch outside, before she said, ‘How bad is it really?’
‘As I said.’ His voice was infinitely weary. ‘The Governor’s in great pain. But with good care he will live.’
‘He’ll have the best care in the world,’ she said gently. ‘Do you think there will be more attacks from the natives?’
He stared into the flames. ‘The Governor has ordered that no native be killed in retaliation.’ He shrugged. ‘We couldn’t survive an outright war with them. There are too many of them, despite the smallpox, and too few of us. Only one of the muskets even fired today. The natives could kill us all in an hour, if they only knew it.’
He bent his head, looking unutterably weary. ‘I must go back and see how the Governor is faring, then to the hospital. I have been gone from it all day.’
‘You need rest,’ she said.
‘How can I rest, Miss Turner? There is work to do.’
‘A few hours’ sleep. You’ll work better later if you stop now.’
He smiled at her, briefly. ‘Perhaps you are right. Just a few hours’ rest.’
‘Why do you do it?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Spend so much time, all your strength, caring for others? The other surgeons spend most of their time on their farms. But if you’re not at the hospital you’re on some expedition for the Governor.’
‘He needs men he can trust,’ said the Surgeon. ‘There are few enough of them.’
‘And he can trust you. We all trust you. But why? Why not take time — just a little time — for yourself?’
‘I sketch my birds —’
‘By firelight, for men of science to see. That’s not for yourself.’
He was silent. At last he said, ‘It is my duty, I suppose. It gives me pleasure to do my duty. To help my fellow man, to do the best I can. Does that seem so very idiotic?’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘To me it seems the most admirable of all things. Now you go up to bed too. No writing in your book tonight.’
‘I am not a child,’ he said mildly.
‘I know. But sometimes you need care nevertheless.’
He smiled at her, then trudged wearily up the stairs.
Chapter 34
NANBERRY
SYDNEY COVE; COCKLE BAY HOSPITAL, OCTOBER 1790
Rachel had sent him to take dinner to the Surgeon at the hospital — a good meat pudding. Now Nanberry dawdled on the way home.
He was bored. It was too cold to swim. He could weed the vegetables with Big Lon, but that was boring too …
The days stretched long sometimes. It was good when Father White had time to fish or look for birds or take him hunting. It was good when someone needed him to translate, or explain native customs. But sometimes the space between meals and sleep seemed to go on forever.
What would he have been doing if the English had never come?
He smiled. Hunting bungu and bandicoots with the other boys, probably; making grass traps, skinning the small creatures and roasting them on their own cook fires before going back to the main camp; pestering the warriors to show them how to spear fish — not with a big spear, forbidden till you were initiated, but with a small practice spear. He would love to have a friend …
He blinked. A young man stood by the rocks; a young man with dark skin, but wearing trousers, ragged but still proper clothes. He was older than Nanberry — almost an adult. His face was stretched out of shape with pain. One hand was pressed against his arm, trying to stop it bleeding. An axe — an English axe, not a stone one — lay at his feet.
It wasn’t a total surprise. There had been more native people about the colony in the past few weeks. For Governor Phillip hadn’t died. Father White had made him well — or almost well, for Father White said the wound still hurt. And the Governor now wanted to encourage the native people to get to know the colonists — as friends, not vanquished subjects.
The young man saw Nanberry. At once his face lost its pain. He is trying to be a warrior, thought Nanberry, even though he has no initiation scars, nor a bone through his nose or gap in his teeth.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Nanberry. He spoke English automatically.
The young man looked at him with eyes so like his own. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘You speak English!’
The young man blinked. He didn’t understand. Nanberry switched to Cadigal. ‘Who are you?’
‘Balloonderry,’ said the young man around a mouthful of pain.
Nanberry looked at the wound. ‘That is bad. But my father can make it better.’
‘Your father?’
‘My father is Surgeon White. I’m Nanberry White. Come on.’
He turned back towards the hospital. The young man — Balloonderry — didn’t move. ‘Why don’t you come?’
Balloonderry nodded towards the hospital huts. ‘There are bad people there. They’ll steal my axe. They tried to tie me up before, when I went to comfort my sister.’
‘My father won’t let them do that now.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘He is my father,’ said Nanberry simply. ‘How did you get the axe?’ he asked curiously. English axes were prized around the harbour.
‘My sister gave it to me. Booroong.’
So this was Booroong’s brother. That explained the trousers and the good afternoon. He would be of the Bunamattogul people then, like her, from Parramatta. Booroong still lived with Mrs Johnson but Nanberry thought she wasn’t happy there.
‘You are under my protection,’ said Nanberry grandly. Then he added cautiously, ‘Brother.’ He waited to see how Balloonderry would react. It was a big thing to offer brotherhood. And Balloonderry was older than him too. But he had been without friends so long …
Balloonderry considered, the blood still dripping from his hand onto the tussocks. At last he said, ‘I am Nanberry Balloonderry.’
Nanberry grinned. ‘I am Balloonderry Nanberry. Balloonderry Nanberry White,’ he corrected. ‘Come on. I’ll look after your axe.’
This time Balloonderry followed him.
‘So,’ said the Surgeon. ‘You’ve found a friend.’ He sounded approving. Nanberry hadn’t been sure how his father would react to a native friend. Because Balloonderry was native, despite the trousers.
‘Let’s have a look at that.’ The Surgeon stretched out the wounded hand. ‘Axe slipped? I’ve seen a lot of wounds like this. You sharpen a bit more than you’re used to, then wham. Lucky it’s a clean cut.’ He picked up his needle and thread. Nanberry translated and then murmured reassurance as Balloonderry looked wide-eyed at the needle.
But he bore the stitching without flinching or crying out. Nanberry was proud of his friend. Balloonderry would make a fine warrior … He shut his mind to that.
‘There,’ said the Surgeon. He poured alcohol over the wound, then washed the blood off his hands in the bowl. �
��Keep it clean and dry, young man. Come back here if it gets red or puffs up or you start shivering.’
Nanberry translated again.
‘I will do that.’ Balloonderry’s voice was firm, the colour coming back to his cheeks now the ordeal was over. He stared with interest at the hospital hut, the surgical implements in Father White’s brown bag, the bottles of alcohol, lavender oil, rose oil, eucalyptus oil and laudanum, the pliers for pulling out teeth, the tweezers, the irons, the amputation case with its bone saw and short and long knives; he pointed at the jar of leeches.
‘Why? You can’t eat leeches.’
Nanberry translated.
Father White beamed. ‘That’s my leech kit. There’s the salt to make them vomit the blood once they have sucked it out. You need your leeches hungry.’
Once more Nanberry translated. Balloonderry laughed. ‘You roll leeches off. You don’t put them on.’
‘You put them on bruises, or to bring fever down,’ said Nanberry. He had learnt that much from Father White. ‘And that is the cup and knife set for taking blood. That is good when there is a fever too. The English know many such things.’
‘If they know so much why do so many of them die? You need to learn the proper ways to treat fevers. Our ways.’
But your ways couldn’t cure the smallpox, thought Nanberry.
The Surgeon still looked at them indulgently. ‘Off with you now. I have a rotten tooth to extract. Trust me, you don’t want to be here for that. And be careful with the axe,’ he added.
‘Father White, may I take Balloonderry back to the house to eat corn?’ Nanberry wasn’t sure what the Surgeon would say. When he was with his first family all visitors were welcomed and fed, as long as they hadn’t come to steal women or cause trouble. Yet he had never seen a visitor fed at the Surgeon’s house. Perhaps only the Governor allowed people who weren’t his family to eat at his house.
But the Surgeon smiled. ‘That’s a fine idea. You can teach your friend some more English. The Governor wants more of the natives to be friends of the colony.’
So they don’t spear him again, or other English, thought Nanberry. But Balloonderry wouldn’t be the colony’s friend. He would be mine. ‘Thank you, Father!’
‘Funny lad,’ said the Surgeon, ruffling Nanberry’s hair and embarrassing him, though Nanberry tried not to show it. ‘Of course you may have friends to tea. Now you’d better let the porter bring the next patient in.’
It was good to be away from the hospital again. Nanberry could see that Balloonderry was glad to leave too. ‘Come on. Our house has …’ He paused. There was no word in Cadigal for sacks. ‘… lots and lots of corn. Rachel will boil it and put butter and salt on it. Rachel is …’ There was no word for servant either. Or prisoner or pet, he thought. ‘Rachel cooks.’
Balloonderry hesitated. ‘If I go with you will they tie me up?’
‘Of course not.’ Nanberry thrust away the memory of Bennelong and Colbee in chains. ‘They don’t do that now. My father was your friend just now.’
Still Balloonderry hung back. ‘Tomorrow maybe.’
Nanberry grinned. ‘Tomorrow then. I will teach you English,’ he added eagerly. ‘I will show you the English manners. You can wear one of my shirts and —’
Balloonderry laughed. ‘Why would I want to learn English?’
‘Because … because the English are important.’
‘The English are gunin bada.’ Balloonderry used a rude expression.
‘But Father White stitched up your hand! You use an English axe!’
‘The axe is a good axe. But the English are still gunin bada.’ For the first time Balloonderry looked at Nanberry sternly. ‘The English are weak. A storm could blow them away! You should be learning how to be a warrior. Can you use a spear? A fire stick? How can you know what needs to be done if you’re not with your people?’
‘These are my people,’ said Nanberry quietly.
‘Then how can you be a warrior?’
‘I don’t need to be a warrior.’
Balloonderry stared at him. Nanberry thought he saw pity on his new friend’s face. At last he said, ‘I won’t come to eat corn.’ He used the English word. He considered a moment then added, ‘But you are still my brother.’ Balloonderry began to walk off, holding the axe in his good hand. As he rounded the rocks he turned. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. Then he was gone.
Chapter 35
NANBERRY
SYDNEY COVE, NOVEMBER 1790
Nanberry looked at his image in Father White’s mirror, and grinned. He was going to dine at the Governor’s house, with important people. Rachel had mended his jacket, and let down the hem of his trousers again. Now he looked important too.
His hair was held back in a queue, tied with a black ribbon, just like his adoptive father’s. He wore one of Father White’s hats, with strips of blanket sewn inside to make it fit.
The Surgeon placed his own hat on his head. The hat was stained and the rim was tattered, but no gentleman would go out — especially not to dinner with the Governor — without his hat. ‘You’re ready to go, lad?’
Nanberry nodded.
Rachel handed them their bread rolls, each neatly wrapped in a napkin. Governor Phillip’s shooter made sure his master had meat for himself and his guests, and there’d be fruit and vegetables from his garden. But Phillip had handed his own supply of wheat to the common stores. The ration was down to a pound of flour a week now — only enough for a small bread roll per person every day. Guests had to bring their own bread to dinner.
The sun was setting behind the mountains in a red haze of distant bushfire smoke. Dingoes howled up above the Tank Stream.
Nanberry shivered. The dingoes had been feasting for months on the dead from the convict ships, scattering the bones. One woman swore she had swung up a skull still wearing shreds of hair with her bucket of well water.
How many ghosts whispered around the colony now?
Most of the English were thin and weak, just as Balloonderry had said. Their huts stank, and so did they.
But the Governor’s house is all that is good, all that is truly English, thought Nanberry, with its solid roof and white stucco front, freshly painted with limewash every few weeks. In a colony of mud, it gleamed.
He trod up the shell-lined path with Father White, trying not to think what Sydney Cove had looked like when it had still been Warrane: a place of ferns and cabbage trees and clear water, and mussels in the mud flats where the stream ran into the sea.
A manservant opened the door. He took their hats and hung them on hooks on the wall, then ushered them into a big white-painted room, with curtains drawn against real glass windows, that strange stuff that was hard but you could see through. Nanberry would have liked to touch the glass. But instead he stood next to Father White, who talked to Mrs Macarthur about a new bird he had discovered the day before, a kingfisher with a bright blue tuft of feathers.
Mrs Macarthur did not seem interested in birds, or in talking to Nanberry either. But he could have stared at her for hours. He had never seen a woman with skin so pink and white, or a dress that shone like that and made crinkling noises when its folds moved. Her hair shone, piled up on her head, and her hands were the smoothest he had ever seen.
‘Dinner is served.’ It was the manservant again. The Governor offered Mrs Macarthur his arm, the good one that hadn’t been hurt.
Nanberry walked next to Father White, then took his place in the middle of the table, the Governor at one end, Mrs Macarthur at the other. Each guest put his or her bread roll on their side plate — except for Mrs Macarthur, whose plate had a roll already. She smiled her thanks to the Governor.
Candles flickered in their silver candlesticks. The Governor still had candles. The servants began to bring in the dishes.
Nanberry stared. One of the servants was a native. The Governor’s policy of giving gifts to the local people, instead of chaining them up, was working. More were living in the town now, though
he hadn’t seen Balloonderry again. Now it seemed one was living with the Governor.
But as a servant, thought Nanberry. I am Surgeon White’s son. The servant’s face was swollen where a tooth had been knocked out at his recent yulang yirabadjang, his initiation.
Suddenly Nanberry recognised him, despite the swollen face. It was Yemmerrawane, a Cadigal, like him. Yemmerrawane and the older boys had shown him how to trap small birds with dried fig sap, how to tell the difference between a snake track and the trail of a wallaby tail, how to blow air into badagarang guts to make a ball.
Nanberry hadn’t even known that Yemmerrawane had survived the smallpox. Bennelong had said that only two other Cadigal still lived. But a few others, too, it seemed had survived when their families died from the plague.
How many more of the boys I played with are alive? wondered Nanberry.
Now Yemmerrawane wore the dark clothes of an English servant, and was laying the dish of asparagus among the plates of boiled potatoes and carrots. He didn’t seem to notice Nanberry but stood back against the wall with the white servants, while the guests were helped to meat — a giant saddle of mutton carved by the Governor; and slices of chicken from Father White, his hands working with all the dexterity he might use to take off a wounded man’s leg.
Nanberry spread butter on part of his roll, as Father White had shown him, and ate as the talk flowed around him. The chicken was good, but not as good as Rachel’s roast young rooster with thyme stuffing. Mrs Johnson was on one side of him; another officer he didn’t know was on the other. Neither spoke to him.
Mrs Macarthur put her knife and fork together on her plate to show that she had finished eating. Nanberry signalled to Yemmerrawane. The young warrior bent close to him.
‘Take Mrs Macarthur’s plate away,’ Nanberry whispered to him helpfully, assuming that Yemmerrawane would not know English manners. ‘The knife and fork together is a sign the English use to tell their servants when to take the plate.’
Nanberry Page 12
