In a fever of anticipation Renzi arrived at Parramatta with all his worldly possessions, rounded up a cart and horse, and very soon found himself with two blank-faced convicts standing ready; one Patrick Flannery, obtaining goods by deception to the value of seven shillings, respited at the gallows and now two years into his seven-year exile, and Neb Tranter, aggravated common assault and well into his fourteen-year term.
"My name is Renzi, and I am to be your master." There was little reaction and he was uncomfortably aware that they were staring glassily over his shoulder with heavy patience. "Should you perform your tasks to satisfaction there is nothing to fear from me."
Flannery swivelled his gaze to him and raised his eyebrows. "An' nothin' to fear from us, sorr!" he said slowly, in an Irish brogue.
"Very well. We shall be started. This very day we shall be on our way to break the earth near Marayong for a new farming estate."
"This is t' be yourn, sorr?" Flannery asked innocently.
He nodded proudly.
"Ah, well, then, Mr Rancid, we'll break our backs f'r ye, so we will."
With his convicts aboard in the back of the cart, Renzi whipped the horse into motion and swung it in the direction of his land. Neither the sniggering of bystanders nor the childish waving of his convicts at them was going to affect his enjoyment of the moment.
As the miles passed and they neared their destination Renzi allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably. Perhaps it was time now to bestow a name on the estate: in this new land so completely free of historical encumbrances he was able to choose anything he liked—Arcadia intra Australis suggested itself, or possibly something with a more subtle classical ring that would impress by its depths and cunning allusion to a hero in an Elysium of his own creation.
Surprised, he saw they had arrived at the board on the tree. "Er, here is, er, my land," he said.
The two convicts dropped to the ground. "Thank 'ee kindly, sorr," Flannery said, with an exaggerated tug on his forelock and a sly smile at Tranter.
"Do we unload, Mr Rancy?" Tranter asked, his eye roving disapprovingly over the virgin bush. He was older, his large frame now largely desiccated but for a respectable grog belly.
"Of course we—" snapped Renzi, then stopped. At the very least the undergrowth had to be cleared first. The tools were all in the ox-wagon, which had set out well before them but they had not passed it on the way. "No—not yet," he muttered, and tried to think.
The two grunted and stood back, arms folded, eyes to a glassy stare again.
"We wait for the wagon—it should be here soon," he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.
A flurry of subdued pattering on leaves began, then dripped and took strength from the cold southerly that now blustered about, soaking the ground and their clothes.
"What now?" said Flannery, in a surly tone.
Renzi could think of no easy answer. In the ox-wagon there were tents and tarpaulins; here there were books by the caseload and attire suitable for a gentleman of the land. How long would that pox-ridden wagon take to heave itself into sight?
"I know whut I'm a-goin' to do," said Flannery. "Hafter you, Mr Tranter."
"No, Mr Flannery, 'pon m' honour! After y'self." Then the two dived as one to the only dry spot for miles—underneath the cart, which was still yoked to its patient, dripping horse.
Obstinately Renzi held out for as long as he could, until the heavy wet cold reached his skin. Then he crawled under with the two convicts, avoiding their eyes.
"Mr Flannery?" grunted Tranter. "Yez knows what Marayong is famous fer?"
"What's that, then, Mr Tranter?"
"Why, snakes, o' course! This weather they firkles about, lookin' for the heat o' bodies t' ease the cold. Shouldn't wonder if'n there's some roun' here," he said, looking about doubtfully.
"Have a care, then, Mr Tranter—they's deathly in New South Wales, one nip an' it's all over wi' ye!"
Renzi ground his teeth—nothing could be done until the ox-wagon came up and the delay would cost him another day's extortionate hire of the cart and horse. At least, he thought wryly, he had the last word: if he was to lay a complaint of conduct against the convicts they would be incarcerated in cells instead of having the relative freedom of the outside world.
Later the next morning, with the wagon arrived and the tents finally pitched, tarpaulins over his stores, Renzi felt better. In fact, much better: he had Flannery and Tranter down range hacking trees to form an initial clearing with instructions to preserve the boles for use in constructing living-huts. It was time to step out his floor plan. It was to be a modest three rooms, with perhaps out-houses later—the details could wait.
With a light heart he went to see how the two labourers were progressing. "What are you fellows up to?" he demanded, seeing one lying at his ease on his back chewing a twig and the other picking morosely at the ground. "You can see how much work we have to do."
"Aye, don't we have a lot o' work indeed?" Flannery said. "An' all with this'n." He held out his mattock. The flat part was a curl of bright steel where it had bent hopelessly.
Renzi took it: cheap, gimcrack metal. Either the government stores had been cheated or he had. He rounded on the other. "On your feet, sir! If your duties are not to your liking you may certainly take it up with Superintendent Beasley."
Tranter did not stir. "I'm wore out," he said sullenly, flicking away his twig.
Renzi held his temper. "Get a fire going, then, if you please. You shall be mess skinker for tonight, and we both desire you will have something hot for us at sundown." Irritably, he brushed away the flies that followed him without rest.
It was hard, disheartening work, felling the gums and manhandling the trunks up the slope to Renzi's clearing. By sundown there was nothing but a derisory pile of thin logs and a large, untidy heap of brushwood scraps. But a fire spread an acrid smoke that deterred the flies and in the gathering blue dusk Renzi pulled out his collapsible card table with a chair and collapsed wearily.
It seemed churlish to sit while others must stand, so he found other "chairs" and the three laid out their meal—flour and water pancakes with boiled pulses. "Lillie-pie an' pease," Tranter grunted defensively. Renzi thought longingly of his precious few bottles of Old World claret hidden away—this was the most special of occasions but to sacrifice . . . Later, perhaps, he decided, and helped himself to another scoop of half-cooked pottage.
That night in his tent, distracted by the wavering drone of a mosquito seeking his flesh and the menace in the unknown scuffles and squeals in the dark bush outside, Renzi nevertheless felt exalted by the experience of finally setting foot in his future. But, he wondered apprehensively, what would the next day bring?
An hour or so after midnight, as he lay sleepless, it started to rain again.
It took a week just to clear the lower part of his land. Renzi had decided, with a little advice from Mr Coke, to turn this over to grain as being the more apposite to the soil type as best as he could recognise it.
The hardest had been the grubbing up of tree-stumps, which fought back with a fiendish tenacity; every single one cost sweat and labour out of all proportion to the tiny area of bare ground won. Aching in every bone, Renzi slaved on, day by back-breaking day.
His hut was finally built, with not three rooms but one—purely for convenience of time, of course, but even so it could be accounted home. The sides were chinked with mud and the roof of interleaved saplings was spread with the canvas of the tents as a temporary measure. An experiment with a fire at the centre was a disaster: the hut filled immediately with billowing smoke. The related domestics, therefore, would be placed firmly outside.
Against all the odds a landmark was reached. Renzi had not only constructed his first residence but was now ready to begin crop production. Eagerly he checked Coke again. First he had to plough: he intended to borrow an implement for the first year. Then it would be hoeing or harrowing—or did that come after seeding?