by Jock Serong
Outside, the sun was high over the settlement, dappled in those places where trees remained. He watched the natives in the clusters of their endless conversation. This was what they did, he figured. They sat and they talked. Their tendrils of smoke were a fixture in the lanes and in the bush. In place of finery they wore string. Were they discussing the settlers, the growing predicament they represented? Or something else entirely, a thing they had been discussing since before anyone arrived? If that was so, how long had the discussion been going on? There was a great precipice, a gulf behind the arrival of the fleets: like trying to think of eternity but without the comfort of God’s presence.
He followed the path to Figge’s door, knocked and was called in by that voice of his, imperious, but textured like night-blue satin. To his surprise, the merchant was sitting up in the armchair, though still with an invalid’s air. He made no attempt to rise but offered his hand in greeting. The grip was firmer now.
‘You look well.’ Even as he smiled and said it, Grayling tried to understand why he felt worried that this man was regaining his strength. It should be unalloyed good news that a man who had staggered in from months in the bush was now recovering and would soon become a contributing member of the colony.
‘I have taken a short walk this morning,’ Figge smiled. The eyes, like lamps.
‘Excellent news, sir. Feel up to talking?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘I have spoken to Mr Clark about the longboat journey just now, and he has painted a very vivid picture for me—a spectacular misfortune, I must say.’ Grayling sat himself on the wooden chair and opened the folio he was carrying. He removed the sheets of paper on which he had made notes of Clark’s tale, and began to read them to the man in the armchair.
He tried to maintain a slow pace and watched Figge every time he reached the end of a paragraph, or turned a page. The silence was such that he expected at any moment to find him dozing, but the eyes continued to burn attentively.
Grayling was making small choices in the narrative, thinking about what he wanted to share with Figge and what he wanted to hear from him without prompting. The choices came at him like potholes in a road, often too late to be avoided. He reached the part of the story where Clark had explained to him about the midnight watch in the south-easter, the one taken by him and the boy and Figge. At the mention of it, Figge shuffled himself slightly higher in the chair and rested his elbows on its arms. He steepled his fingers in front of his chin, but again did not speak.
Instinctively, Grayling skipped over the reflections Clark had made about the hopelessness of his situation, about his career. He’d taken careful notes of the man’s words, but he saw no relevance in what Figge thought about such things. They were, after all, the survivors of a shipwreck and that was the matter at hand.
And then he had finished. Figge hadn’t moved, hadn’t commented. Grayling looked up from the pages and into those eyes, pushing against a reluctance to see them.
‘Sir, do you take issue with any of that?’
‘Take issue with it? Why would I do any such thing?’ He smiled generously. ‘No tea today?’
‘I’m afraid I rushed out. I can have some ordered and brought over if you would like.’
Figge waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’s fine. And enough of this “sir” business. You mustn’t address me so formally. We could be brothers, we’re so near in age.’ The tip of his tongue protruded just slightly, to probe at a crack in his lower lip. That way he had; that way of giving disjointed answers, out of sequence. Grayling was beginning to understand that it was deliberate: intended to unsettle.
‘Have you thought further about my offer?’
Grayling knew precisely what was meant by this, but chose to feint. ‘I’m sorry? Offer?’
‘To attend upon your wife. I can help, you know.’ The eyes, fixed on him.
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ Grayling hurried.
Figge’s eyes never left his, but the smile returned. ‘As you please,’ he purred. ‘And never mind the tea. It was more about drinking it with you. Joshua.’
13
Sleep had taken her far from the room and the bed and the known world, to a cold brook that slid over shifting gravel in a peculiar light, quietly dripping leaves, and she did not trust her feet to guide her. The light was like a taste or a smell and it would not leave her, even as the room reappeared and Joshua was standing there.
Rather than disturb her, he had made himself busy. She watched him light candles, revive the small fire that he’d set burning that morning. She willed herself back into the room and away from that cold sticking gloom, though she could not find the words to greet him. He found the plates of fish that had been delivered by a girl from the governor’s staff earlier in the day, some time when Charlotte was at odds with time. She knew she had been thrashing when the girl arrived; hair wild, the covers back and the nightdress bunched around her hips as she fought the choking grip of her delirium. She pleaded with her eyes that her body had been taken over, but it must only have made it worse. The girl had stood transfixed in horror, set the plates on the table and fled.
They were Charlotte’s own plates, the plain earthenware kind they wouldn’t serve to visitors. Had the Sydney Cove arrived safely, they might have been tempted to buy export china. The other officers’ wives would have elbowed each other in their rush. She stared at the plates and her thoughts cleared, as the sleep lifted like fog.
Sacrifices. Charlotte had never uttered a word about the material expectations she might have had as the wife of a naval officer. She walked her endless loops, down to the wharves, along the ridges and through the laneways that loosely defined the township. The talk of dangers, of a vengeful Pemulwuy out there somewhere, caused her no concern at all. Nor did she ever look homeward: this was a choice. She wore self-possession as reassurance for him: she wanted only his companionship. When he was not there to give it she walked, alone.
He placed his loose pile of notes down on the table and she watched him stare at it. She had thought this business of his, the shipwreck, would be straightforward. Nothing about it should cause him misgivings, yet he sighed as his eyes turned from the notes to her.
When the food was warm he poured two bowls and came to her. His pained expression upset her all over again. Every bright and memorable thing in her life here radiated from him.
‘Soup,’ he whispered. ‘Sit up.’
He waited for her to do so but she didn’t move.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m not for moving.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can’t. Just take the pillows and prop me up will you please?’
‘How long have you been like this?’ Joshua was horrified by the slump of her body, but she made a faint sound that she had intended to be a laugh.
‘Not long, dear boy. Excellency sent one of the maids over. She has attended to my—’ She looked down coyly, and gathered breath to speak again. ‘But no feeling, hmm…legs. Gone. Suppose we assume’s…not coming back.’
He ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp in helpless anger. ‘Did Ewing come by?’
‘Mm. Tried a poultice on my head this time.’ She rolled her head slightly so he could see the wad of bandages behind her ear.
‘He’s guessing, the fool! He’s just tossing coins now. What of the rash?’
‘Still there. Little redder, maybe. I do wish the man didn’t have to keep probing around down there.’
He reached in and slid an arm under her back, lifted her and placed two more pillows under her. She sensed his fingers tracing the knobs of her spine as he eased her down again. He seemed about to withdraw the arm but instead reached the other arm over her chest and held her tightly.
Every day for two weeks she had deteriorated steadily, and he’d made it clear he believed the land had done it. Some malignancy at the heart of it, something the natives had called down upon her, was one of his theories. Never since they were ch
ildren had she heard him pass cruel judgment on anyone. He was scrupulously fair by nature, but his judgment went haywire at the slightest threat to her.
He was clinging now, his arms uncomfortably tight around her, and she felt a tiny convulsion in him. He was trying not to cry, and he would not lift his head.
She ended his torment by speaking first. ‘So, come on. What have the men told you today?’ She waited while he gathered himself and sat upright.
‘Clark told me about the longboat journey, the second wreck.’
She dwelled on this, closed her eyes. ‘Seventeen on it, including these three men, Figge and Clark and the boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fourteen missing. Dear me.’
‘Not till later. All of the seventeen got off the boat alive. It’s the walk that’s odd.’
‘Some other side to this, isn’t there. Have you asked the boy?’
‘No. He’s a Bengali lad. Would never have had a day of formal tuition in his life. He might be able to name the topgallant yard and such…’ He wiped his eyes awkwardly with a sleeve. ‘But these people don’t speak the King’s English, darling.’
‘Very well. And you’re having to’—a yawn overtook her—‘compare the accounts of these two, Mr Figge and Mr Clark. Have they differed so far?’
‘Not in any profound sense. But—’
‘But what?’
‘It’s a small thing. Mr Clark told me about the three of them being on watch together on the longboat in the middle of the night. Everyone else asleep or at least not paying attention. Just the three of them out there in the dark, sitting up. Now Clark says the breeze got up, the sea got up, but he never put it more emphatically than that. He never said it was a storm, or that the swell became monstrous or anything of that sort. He just noted that the wind speed increased and that there was chop coming across them. And you’d say, I suppose, well, he’s a sailor, he’s bound to talk in those terms. But he’s not, you see: he’s a supercargo. A civilian, in charge of the goods on board, with no more seagoing experience than you have. And such a person, if the conditions had turned significantly, would speak of the terror. You see? Maybe an old hand would use terms like “chop” and “breeze” and the like, but not this man. If it was strong enough to capsize the longboat, wouldn’t he have described it more…dramatically? At any rate, he was vivid enough about the trials of the Sydney Cove.’
She had felt her eyes closing as he spoke, but they opened when the rhythm of his speech stopped. ‘What does it take to capsize a longboat?’
‘Well, this boat would be almost a small ketch. It’s not a dinghy. I don’t know, maybe thirty feet long? Not much of a keel, but they modified it to deal with heavy seas because they knew what they were in for.’
‘And if the seas weren’t enough to capsize it…’
‘Someone has intervened.’
They sat in silence a moment. He was holding her afloat in consciousness by talking; if he stopped, she feared the thread would break and she would slip somewhere beyond his reach.
‘I’d taken detailed notes when Clark was speaking. I read that part to Figge and he just sat there smiling. Smug: there might have been feathers in the corners of his mouth.’
‘Figge was at the helm,’ she said softly.
‘Yes.’
‘Could’ve struck something. A reef.’
‘They would have said so. Clark just says they flipped, and Figge, the helmsman, doesn’t say anything.’ He studied her face.
‘But how could it be in anyone’s interests to scuttle the longboat?’ She frowned and rubbed at her temple. Her shoulders tensed as a wave of pain passed through her.
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. It can’t be, can it? You have to assume they were all trying to attain Sydney in that longboat. But it just nags at me. Those men were found in circumstances that suggest serious discord. Yet the diary says nothing of it, and nor are they saying anything. I must go back and start reading through the diary with Mr Clark. If there’s a fault line, it will appear.’
Her face was turned towards him and she tried to maintain her smile but it faded slowly. She let the sleep take her. Even if it would mean the silent curling brook and the gloom, the faint glow of neither moon nor sun but something else. He was here now. The last she saw of his eyes they were locked on hers, filled with pain and concern.
14
It irks me to describe that night. It revealed clearly for the first time the inadequacies of Clark and the rest of my travelling companions.
In the early evening, so long and golden, we allowed the little sail to take us north-east, standing off against a mere breath of wind from the south-east. I don’t mind admitting I was in irritable humour: destined for Sydney, yes; but with all manner of hangers-on, and only my leverage over Clark to make advantage. Any chance of success hinged upon me walking into Sydney alone. And I could not be caving skulls. Not in these numbers.
The lascars were in agreeable mood, talking among themselves, adding power with the oars when the breeze dropped. Two of their number prepared food, tearing strips from the oily black birds we had collected on Preservation and handing them among us. The parts of the fowl that others wouldn’t touch made my share so much the greater.
In a cleared space in the bow, they brought out provisions that had survived the slow death of our ship: biscuit, salt pork and other morsels. But as we finished this light repast, I began to notice the change coming over the sky. Not the build-up of a storm, but an unmistakable altering of mood and a thin line of feathery cloud gathered on the eastern horizon. The light sickened in the west, until the very character of the sky had turned sour. The land out to port was near enough to look like sanctuary should the night turn ugly. Someone, some fool, spoke of this: we could land her and sleep on the coast.
We arranged ourselves into two-hour watches, three on, fourteen off. By these numbers, there would in theory be enough sleep, but it was hard for us to come by. Some of them tried to make space that would allow for slumber, arms tucked in their jackets, chins against chests, though they ended up slumped against each other like drunks. An optimistic few decided upon the well: curled down there like cats, till the first of the larger chops tipped seawater in and they found themselves aslosh in a puddle of muck. None had noticed the change in the weather.
To avoid unnecessary intercourse with these dullards, I reviewed my plans with eyes closed, tucked centrally near the stern, where the boat did not move about so much. The ship was where it should be, more or less. There is no ideal place to hide a hundred feet of busted-arse country trader. But I could scarce believe my luck in having led Hamilton to an island behind an island in a strait that no navigator has ever put on a chart. The ship and its wealth were safe for now. The thirty-two could not leave: I had imprisoned them without need of a single sentry. There was one way out, and so long as I was in the longboat, I controlled it.
Wet slapping commenced on the starboard stern. The sea was rising.
Clark, though. Clark appeared to have had a crisis of conscience. Unfortunate. He avoided my eyes and busied himself with the duties one would expect of a supercargo—how fortunate that no one expects any duties of a tea merchant. His complicity in our little endeavour was absolute: if he were to denounce me, I would as readily denounce him. And there was not a witness in the hemisphere to what I had done with dear old Figge: not even Clark knew. My identity, my credentials, were beyond question.
He’d seen what happened to Leisham. Now he understood the fog between things that go wrong and outcomes fully intended—and the potential that lies therein. So what were his options as I looked at him there? To stay true to the course, trusting that I would do what was necessary to further our scheme.
I knew then I must watch over him. And he knew, in the instants when his eyes darted helplessly to mine, that he could not waver.
I must have dozed, because next I knew there was a lascar tapping fearfully at my foot, waking me for my watch. No more than a bo
y, this one, smooth jaw and the blue-black hair thick and luxuriant. Like the others he had no coat, no shoes and no English. No sooner had he woken me than he compressed himself in the well and did not move again.
I watched as the bodies resumed their repose after the brief interruption of the watch change. The chief mate, Thompson, asleep at the foot of the mast where he affected to ply his little expertise as a seafarer. The carpenter, dumb brute that he was, snoring like he’d just rolled off a whore. Only one of the lascars remained alert: the one who was manservant to Clark.
And Clark was awake too. The wind was strengthening, the sail creaking against its stays as the wind put weight in it. In the darkness it receded upwards in a pregnant billow. Clark’s eyes down there, two lengths of a body away.
‘You’re awake then Clarkey,’ I said to him, and ‘Don’t call me Clarkey’ he muttered back, adding fuckin Sassenach for good measure.
‘They’re all asleep,’ I said to him. ‘Just you and your portable arse there.’ Nodding to the lascar boy he had.
‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘So?’
‘Just want you to know, Mr Clark,’ I said over the wind, ‘that this would be a poor time to have a change of heart. If that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Not thinking anything. Mind for yourself and I’ll do likewise.’
‘Look around you, Clarkey. All of ’em sleeping peacefully.’ The wind knocked the boat aheel as I said this. ‘None of ’em can come to Sydney. You understand?’ He looked pained. More than pained: like he’d eaten a hornet. Scares a man to hear another talk like that. The boat was twisting through diagonal seas now, lifting a little higher, falling a little deeper. ‘Fifteen souls, Clarkey. Lot of work. Will you take your share?’
I could see the horror in his face, the augur of complicity twisting in his gut. Greed I can understand. I can even respect it. But greed without a corresponding adoption of the moral burden? Well, no. That will never do. Clark must stain his conscience with as much or as little of this affair as I.
