With rising excitement Renzi reviewed his dispositions: the convicts would continue to advance the clearing up to the land boundary ready for whatever crop he decided should be there. So, meanwhile—first things first: a plough.
His nearest neighbour would be somewhere over to the east. He tidied himself up and, taking his pocket compass, set out from the known position of the board on the tree. There were no tracks but a confusing jumble of simple paths led through the grassy undergrowth. He tried to follow them—but merely flushed out a couple of kangaroos who made off rapidly.
Striking out by compass was the only reliable method and he set course for the north-east corner of the block. Over a slight rise he could see thin smoke spiralling above the trees. He hurried towards it and a small hut came into view, with a woman in a coarse dress working at a vegetable garden.
She looked up in dismay and ran inside. A man emerged, cradling a musket. "Stan' y'r ground, y' villain!" he roared.
"Renzi, Nicholas Renzi, and it would appear we are to be neighbours," he called, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.
"Come near, then, an' let's see summat of yer," the man said, still fingering his gun.
Some little time later Renzi was sitting at a rough table with a mug of tea. "Don't see nobody one end o' the month to t'other," the man said, after admitting to the name of Caley. "So, yer've got the north selection," he ruminated, rubbing his chin.
Renzi took in the hut; it was well lived-in but Spartan, of wattle daubed with clay and finished with a thin white limewash. The floors consisted of bare, hard-packed earth. There were only two rooms, the other patently a bedroom. "That's right, Mr Caley. It is my avowed intention to establish a farming estate in these parts and reside here myself."
Caley looked archly at his wife. Both were deeply touched by the sun, but she had aged beyond her years. "Ye'd be better throwing y'r money into th' sea—gets rid of it quicker," she said bitterly.
"Now, now, Ethel darlin', don't take on so." He turned to Renzi and explained: "We bin here three year come Michaelmas, an' things ain't improvin' for us. A hard life, Mr Renzi."
"What do you grow?"
"Thought t' be in turnips—everyone needs 'em if they has horses. But look." He gestured down the cleared space in front of the hut. The rows were populated only by sorry-looking stringy plants. "Supposed t' lift 'em in February, but no chance o' that with 'em lookin' so mean, like."
Should he offer his extensive library on horticulture and agricultural husbandry? Renzi pondered. Coke of Holkham would be sure to have a sturdy view on turnip production. Sensing that possibly they might not welcome advice from a newcomer, he changed tack. "I must say, your convict is not the most obliging of creatures. I've seen labourers on my—er, that is to say, some estates in England, who would quite put them to the blush in the article of diligence."
Mrs Caley snorted. "As you must expect! These're felons an' criminals, Mr Renzi, an' has no love f'r society. They're wastrels an' condemned by their nature, sir." She smoothed her hair primly. "Not a'tall like we free settlers, who try t' make something of the land."
Caley smiled sadly. "That's why we got rid o' ourn—cost thirty shillin' a month in rum afore they'd pick up a hoe."
"Sir, I'd be considerably obliged should you lend me your plough. If any hire is required I would be glad to—"
"Mr Renzi." Caley drew in his breath and let it out slowly. "We don't have ploughs. We uses only th' harrow an' a deal o' sweat," he said emphatically.
Renzi hastened to make his little hut before dark. Unseen animals scuttled away at his approach and a sudden clatter in the trees above startled him. When he reached the clearing, he saw that the convicts had allowed the fire in front of the hut to die to embers, and he cast about in the gloom for leaves and kindling, annoyed that they had neglected such an obvious duty before supper. The fire caught sullenly, with much dank smoke and spitting.
In the gathering dark he trudged down to their tent but as he approached, tripping on jagged stumps and loose branches, he heard loud snoring. He did not have the heart to wake them: clearly they had turned in early, weary after their day. He made his way back to the hut to scrape together some kind of repast.
Throwing aside the canvas entrance flap he went inside. By the fitful glare of the flames he could see that one neat stack of his possessions had been put to disorder. With a sinking heart he knew what he would find. He was right—every one of his precious half-dozen claret was gone.
CHAPTER 13
KYDD WATCHED RENZI DEPART Totnes Castle, then turned back to his ship. The last convicts filed down the gangway to the wharf and away to their final fate. The shouts of overseers and the clinking of fetters faded into the distance, and Kydd was glad. He had done his best: they were unquestionably in better shape than when they had been disgorged by their gaols in England, but their presence had made him feel tainted by the reek of penalty and hopeless misery.
He looked out over Sydney Cove. A thief-colony, there was no escape from its origins. On the muddy foreshore was a whipping post and beyond the point was Pinchgut Island, a hundred yards or so long with a gibbet in view at one end, the white of a skeleton visible through flapping rags.
Ironically, the ship now seemed empty and depressing without her human cargo; the stores had been landed and the officers' ventures spirited away. Now there was little for him to do but complete the paperwork that would mark a successful conclusion to the voyage.
With what crew were still sober tomorrow, the Totnes Castle would be warped out to lie at anchor. She would remain there until the little shipyard on the west side of the cove could take her in hand to remedy the hundred and one defects that needed attention before her return to England. With only a small number of skilled shipwrights and caulkers, and other vessels ahead of Kydd's, a time of weeks was being talked of. It was a depressing prospect.
It had wounded Kydd to see Renzi step over the side to his destiny without so much as a backward glance: they had shared so much. He wondered how his friend was relishing his new life wherever he was in the interior of this strange land. But this was what Renzi had chosen as a course in life, and Kydd would respect it.
After the long voyage, however, he was curious to experience the untrammelled space and new sights of land. In any case, when the Castle was careened across the harbour she would be uninhabitable: sooner or later he would have to find quarters ashore.
There was a bridge over the little rivulet at the head of the cove that led into the settlement proper. He stepped out along the wide street past the ship's chandlers and warehouses, standing back to allow the passage of two carts pulled by yoked convicts, thin and sunburned, their heads down.
Only one road of significance was evident, leading inland along the banks of the watercourse: in one direction the rocky foreshore of the western side, with its crazy jumble of hovels, more substantial structures and shipyards; in the other, a scatter of cottages, stone buildings, and in the distance over the low hills, a puzzling mass of regularly spaced dwellings.
Turning up the slope towards them he lost his footing and stumbled; reddish mud-holes were everywhere. Strangely haunting birdsong came from outlandish trees, and here and there a garden with alien plants caught his eye.
Closer, the dwellings turned out to be a convict barracks, complete with flogging triangle and chapel. Beyond, there were empty fields and the ever-present dark-green woodlands. It was time to return—Sydney had little to offer the weary traveller.