Far From Botany Bay

by Rosa Jordan

  One afternoon they came to a great wide river backed by rolling green hills. Will wanted to spend some days there, for it offered fine shelter, and the land around did not seem quite so wild. But Mary insisted that they continue north. “Such a place is sure to have a settlement of savages about, and it might be a large one,” she reasoned. “We’ve got but the one musket. If they came at us in numbers, we couldn’t be certain of driving them off.”

  So they travelled on, and camped instead on a beautiful island to the north, with forested slopes rising up from a crystal clear lagoon. Small streams sent sweet water trickling musically over pebbles and cascading down rock faces covered in soft green moss. To Mary’s eyes this was the most enchanting place they had yet come to on their journey. As she stood silently absorbing its beauty, there was a moment when she failed to understand the compulsion, shared by all, to press on.

  That evening, as James laid the fire and he and Mary had their usual moment to exchange a few words in private, he said, “The aborigines around Botany Bay were peaceable enough. Have you reason to believe the ones here in the north are more like those who attacked us?”

  Mary glanced around. Although no one except Pip and the children were in sight, she lowered her voice. “Captain Smit told me what Captain Cook wrote of the area when he passed this way some twenty years back. By the last reading I took of our latitude, I believe that great river we passed two days ago may have been one where Captain Cook put in. He stayed a good long time to make repairs to his ship after it ran aground.

  According to his log, there were many natives in the area, and they were friendly.”

  “But you did not want to chance them treating us as well?”

  She gave him a wry, sideways smile. “I did not want to chance our men not treating them well. According to Captain Cook’s report, he and his men made friends with the locals by offering them gifts—not the hurting end of a musket.”

  James gave an admiring chuckle. “An amazing mind you have, Mary, that you can see the shoals of human character that lie just below the surface, which are as likely to threaten our progress as any hidden reef.”

  *

  By now Mary judged them to be coasting the most northern part of the continent, a region which her chart showed as Arnhem Land; so named, Smit had told her, after the ship of a Dutch captain who had discovered it a century before Cook’s voyage in these same waters. Days were stressful for, despite the translucent beauty of the water, coral shoals lay thickly beneath the surface, affording Mary hardly a moment in the day of looking away. And sailing by night to avoid the heat was far too dangerous.

  They had travelled some distance north from the river where Captain Cook’s ship had laid up for repairs, and well beyond the beautiful island where Mary’s imagination had teased her with the notion of remaining ever after; thus her eyes kept scanning the west, searching not for land but for a watery passage across the top of Arnhem Land.

  Finally there came the jubilant day when Mary’s quadrant calculations informed her that they had reached that latitude. Thus did they leave the Coral Sea and, sailing westward between many small islands, approach the Arafura Sea.

  The Arafura and Timor Seas

  Cape York to Timor

  The wind was with them and very fair that day, so that the men, although seated at the oars, were able to take their ease. Will motioned James to take his place, and came forward to look at the chart Mary had spread on the bow.

  “With luck, we should make Timor in a month,” Mary said, tracing what she believed to be their route between the islands that dotted these waters.

  “A thousand miles in a month?” Will asked sceptically.

  Charlotte, clinging to her father’s leg, said, “’Nother boat.” But neither of her parents heard her.

  “We have done at least two thousand already, in just eight weeks,” Mary pointed out.

  “’Nother boat,” Charlotte repeated, pulling hard at her father’s shirt, and pointing.

  Will glanced back, and gave a start. A war canoe as long as the cutter, but sleeker and with much more sail, was coming up on them fast.

  “For the lova—pull, mates! Pull for your life!” Will shouted.

  There was a stunned silence as each confirmed with a backward glance that his words were no mere figure of speech. Oars hit the water with force. Scrapper was the paddler nearest Will. Will pulled the boy from his seat and took the oar himself, for he was much the better rower.

  By then the great war canoe was close enough to see its occupants: a dozen naked war-painted men, spears aloft, relishing the impending slaughter—or so it seemed to Mary. She grabbed Charlotte up in her arms as if to flee, although of course there was no place to go. What should she do if they were taken? Dive overboard, choose drowning to butchery—or worse? The choices were so terrible that her mind could not compute the odds. She stared hard at the savagely-painted faces, trying to judge the men to whom they belonged.

  Scrapper made a dive past Mary’s legs to where her things were stored in the bow, and rose up with the musket in hand. As he stuffed it with powder and shot, the gap between the two boats continued to narrow.

  Mary could now clearly see the face of an old chief, sitting in regal fashion, surrounded by his warriors. He smiled broadly, perhaps for the same reason his warriors smiled. But little Charlotte could not know that. Secure in her mother’s arms, she smiled brightly back at him, and waved her tiny hand.

  Scrapper took aim, and yelled, “Hey, you bastards! Here’s a bellyful of—”

  “Wait!” Mary shouted. For in the same instant she sensed a change in the intent of their pursuers.

  Scrapper appealed to Will who, on the foremost oar, was rowing for all he was worth. “Whose bloody musket is it anyway?”

  “Mine,” Mary said. Her hand closed on the barrel of the gun. “Give it to me.”

  Reluctantly he relinquished the gun, perhaps because by then it was obvious to him too that the gap between the boats was widening. The war canoe had given up the chase.

  Mary put Charlotte down and, with both hands free, rolled the oilcloth back around the gun and replaced it in the bow.

  Will, likewise gauging the danger to be past, rose and motioned to Scrapper to retake his place at the oar. Then he and Mary stood in the bow together, neither meeting the other’s eyes as they watched the war canoe recede into the distance.

  Later, remembering Charlotte’s smile and wave to the old chief, Mary would always believe that the innocent childish act had saved their lives. The children overall had been less trouble on the trip than she had anticipated. Except for the week of stormy seas, and the one to follow when they had nearly died, and an incident when a jellyfish brushed Charlotte’s arm and left her wailing for hours, the children had been hardly any trouble at all.

  Emanuel was always within easy reach, in Mary’s arms or tucked into the bow of the boat. When the weather was good and the sea calm, Charlotte would clamber between the rowers to the back of the boat, where whichever two men were not at the oars would be resting. Next to Will she favoured Bados, who had found a bit of bamboo on one of their stops, carved a little flute for her, and taught her to play simple tunes. Charlotte also liked to sing, and learned the words to most of the shanties which Matey led. He knew many from his days as a mariner on sailing ships, and adapted them to the rhythm of their rowing.

  Once, when they were camped on a small island, Will came upon Charlotte bellowing out words in no way fit to come from the mouth of a child. He chuckled behind his hand, but scolded Mary for allowing it, and said she ought to serve up a punishment that would prevent the little girl from ever using such foul language again. Mary agreed to talk to Charlotte, but said that if any punishment was to be meted out, it belonged to Matey for singing songs with lyrics a child ought not be learning. Will did speak to Matey about
it, and thereafter, Matey limited himself to songs appropriate to a ship that was homeward bound, and not likely to land a child in trouble for learning. For uncouth as Matey was, he had no desire to see the little girl grow up rough. He went so far as to explain to her that shanties belonged on the sea, and one never should sing them on land.

  Mary liked the shanties Matey led, for it helped the men to keep the rhythm of rowing, and created a sense of harmony among all aboard, whether at the oars or not. Bados, when he was rowing, joined in on the shanties in a deep rich baritone. But when the sail was up and the men were not at the oars, he occasionally turned to singing of a different type. Slow and mournful songs came from deep inside him and rolled out across the water. All up and down the boat, men, children, and Mary fell silent.

  The songs he sang created a sense of closeness, but of a very different quality from the physical rhythms called forth by Matey’s shanties. Bados’s songs bound them together in a mood of aching loneliness, even as their minds travelled to different places in an effort to claim, in memory at least, what it was they longed for, or had lost a long time ago.

  Once when Bados was singing such a song, Mary turned around to see Cox, on the most forward seat, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

  She touched his hand and said, “I’m sorry, Coxie,” although she had no idea what might have caused the tears.

  “She’s gonna perish there without me,” he choked. “Same as that other girl back in Londontown that I treated so bad, drinking up all my wages while she was dying of consumption, and brawling to boot, so fierce as to land me here on this far side of the world! Ah, Mary!” he agonised, “if I knew how to go back to my Florie, by God, I would do it.”

  Mary was amazed by the confession. She knew from a previous conversation that Cox felt bad about leaving Florie, but had no idea that he had grown so fond of her as all that. It occurred to her that whatever each person was missing, or wherever they would like to be at that moment, Cox was the only one who longed for something back in Botany Bay.

  During the first days of sailing across the Sea of Timor, there were frequent native sightings. In many places that seemed uninhabited they saw crocodiles, which precluded camping there. There were nights when, although land was at hand, the proximity of unfriendly natives and fearsome beasts put them so much on edge that they felt compelled to anchor offshore and sleep on the boat.

  However, by now all the men were skilled at the oars and in excellent physical condition. That, combined with favourable winds, made it a near certainty that they would reach Kupang within a couple of weeks. One day, as they were congratulating themselves on the success of their escape, James broached the subject of a story.

  “A story? What do you mean?” Cox asked.

  “We can’t just walk in and say, ‘Good day, Governor. We’re bolters from Botany Bay looking for passage on a ship back to civilisation,”’ James explained. “We must have a story.”

  “We’ll say we’re shipwreck survivors,” Matey said complacently.

  James turned to him. “What ship? Sailing under what flag?”

  “English, for sure,” Will laughed. “Seeing how we don’t speak nothing else.”

  “That much is certain,” James agreed. “But if one calls the ship by one name and one another, and we give different reports as to where she went down or who the captain was—you see what I mean?”

  “’Tis understood,” Mary said, speaking for all of them. “A story we must have. You lay it out, James, and we’ll learn it together so we don’t give ourselves away.”

  By Mary’s calculations they were within a week of Kupang when they came upon a small island with a fine little cove, waterfalls tumbling down a rock face, and no boats about to suggest human habitation. The cutter was again in need of caulking so, after exploring the island to confirm the absence of natives and crocodiles, they decided to spend a few days there, resting and repairing the boat.

  It proved a good choice. Both fish and game were plentiful, requiring no great effort to feed themselves. On what Will had decided would be their last night before pushing on, the men sprawled around the fire, their muscular, sun-darkened bodies relaxed and their bellies full of food. Bados picked up his flute as he always did of an evening, and began to play a tune. Mary moved a little away from the fire to bed down the children, because the music soothed them as it soothed her. Luke rose and added wood to the fire. It blazed up, lighting the faces around and adding warmth to the moment.

  “Ah, that feels good,” Cox sighed, holding his hands out to the fire.

  “Like to stay here a bit, I would,” Pip said wistfully.

  “Good island, this ‘un,” Matey agreed. “No bleedin’ blacks to creep up and cut your throat.”

  Bados laid his flute aside and stared moodily into the fire.

  “Like to get my hands on one that tries,” Scrapper boasted.

  Luke gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “You should’ve said so sooner. We could’ve let you loose on those big fellers back there in the war canoe.”

  “With a musket in me mitt, you better believe it!” Scrapper yapped.

  “A musket and no bleedin’ woman winkin’ her eyes at the cannibal bastards,” Matey carped.

  Will sprang to his feet and gave Matey a kick that sent him sprawling. “Mind your fucking mouth!” he snarled.

  Matey picked himself up, a grin on his face but with a look in his eyes that Mary had seen before. She dreaded what it might portend. Feigning an apologetic demeanour, Matey slapped Will on the back and said, “Ah, man, I meant no disrespect. Why, Miss Mary’s the best captain I ever knowed. Ain’t she, boys?”

  The others murmured agreement. Will looked around like an animal at bay, then drew back his fist and punched Matey square in the mouth. Matey went down again, but this time he came up with the nearest weapon to hand: Bados’s flute. He smashed it against Will’s face.

  In a flash, Bados was on Matey, choking to kill. Not until Mary’s hands grasped Bados’s wrists did the big West Indian seem to realise what he was doing. With a half-sob, he scooped up the broken flute and ran toward the beach.

  There was a stunned silence. Matey threw an arm around Will’s shoulder and made a show of concern for the bruise he had made on his cheek. “Sorry, Cap’n. Reckon I been too long without a bottle. Beginnin’ to wear on my nerves, it is.”

  “Ah, you’re just a wore-out old salt,” Will growled, choosing, for his own reasons, to minimise the incident by responding with an insult instead of his fists.

  The rest of the men glanced at one another and away, none wanting to add to the conflagration, or to be seen taking one side or another.

  Nor did Mary speak. She picked up the wooden bowls scattered about, placed them in the empty stew pot, and trudged off toward the surf to do the washing up. Pip, whose job that usually was, followed at a distance, perhaps understanding that she wanted to be alone and was only using the chore as a pretext for getting away from the men.

  If it was solitude Mary sought, she did not find it on the beach. There was Bados sitting on the sand, knees drawn up to his chin, sobbing. She knelt beside him and laid a hand on his arm. She wished she had the words to express what a solace his strong, silent presence, coupled with the music, had been from the start. She knew that his nightly melodies helped not only her and the children, but the men as well, to mitigate fear and loneliness each time they laid down to sleep in a strange and dangerous place. But as this had to do with emotions which she was unaccustomed to putting into words, she remained silent, hoping her hand on his arm would convey all that.

  Little by little his sobs quieted. At last he spoke. “I tell you Mary, I feel real bad. I vex before, but never so I want to kill a man. You leave me now. I don’t go with you no more.”

  “If you stay here, Bados, you’ll never get back to England. Nor to
the West Indies.”

  He took a breath and let it out in a long and hopeless sigh. “Day I left Barbados, everybody say how I be a free man now, I gonna make my fortune and buy all my family out of bondage. But my mama, she just look at me and say, ‘Son, you been a joy.’ She done seen the future and know I never coming back.” He paused, and added with sad finality, “I ain’t no fool, Mary. This fair island, it be the closest I ever get to home.”

  Mary recalled the island off the coast of Arnhem Land where she had briefly fantasised spending the rest of her life. She understood something of his attraction to this place, but now as then, she considered the practicality of such a course. “’Twould be impossible to stay alive here with nothing to start you out, Bados. Timor is but a few days further. Why not go on that far with us? Lay in some supplies and then come back.”

  Bados was silent, and she could tell he was considering her suggestion. His question showed that he recognised the sense of her suggestion, as well as its flaws. “How’d I find my way back?”

  “I’ll show you how to read the chart and use a compass. Once we arrive, we’ll not need them anymore. Nor the boat.”