For the first time he understood what was impelling Renzi. What he had seen was beyond the dross of the everyday. He had known that New South Wales had a future, a splendid future, and the country would owe it to Renzi and his kind. Such sacrifice— and so typical of his high-born friend.
His eyes stung as he wondered where Renzi was at that moment.
CHAPTER 14
THE BAD BLOOD between the convicts and the new men was getting worse. Willis, whom Renzi had hired to act as wrangler, was big and swaggering, with a foul mouth. The other was a laconic Portuguese seaman who, for some reason, had put himself out for hire as a farm labourer. Probably it was the money, Renzi mused wryly—it was costing four shillings a day for him and five for Willis, a shocking sum compared to rates in England but it was the only way he could see to get the work done.
Still, they were making progress of a kind. The land to the north had been cleared and hoed a good half-way back. Renzi had watched as the men sowed the seed, scattering the corn grains with wide, sweeping gestures just as he had seen done on the ancient fields of Wiltshire. It was the obvious crop: whatever else, the colony would always need bread.
That had been over a month ago, and now to his intense delight tiny needles of green were emerging. He threw himself into the work with renewed energy: half of the land for corn, half for root vegetables—out of consideration for his neighbour, not turnips.
He laboured on, happy in the knowledge that while he worked his crop was steadily growing, maturing. In effect, this was his future wealth buried until he saw fit to draw upon his account. The metaphor pleased him and he went back to his hut for a mattock to help the others with the clearing.
Angry shouts and barking carried up from the working party. It would be Willis, setting off Tranter again. Flannery would then cleverly needle the big man and the cycle would go on and on. Renzi stumped back down to the group, who continued squabbling as if he was not there.
The dog's witless barking made him see red: he had been forced to buy the cur when their attempts to fence in the growing shoots against the nightly raids of hungry kangaroos had failed—the animals had simply bounded over the barrier. Now if he wanted to preserve anything of his precious green shoots he had to put up with the dog's din during the night.
"Shut your cursed noise!" he bawled at the men.
"It's Flannery agen," spat Willis, rolling up his sleeves theatrically. "He don't do as he's bin told!"
Flannery threw down his hoe in front of Willis. "Orl right, me ol' bully-cock, what's it t' be then?"
Renzi ground his teeth. "If I see you two rogues brawling once more I'll—I'll . . ." But what was there to do? He calmed himself. "Now, Flannery, you and Tranter go—"
"Ye're bein' robbed," Flannery interjected, his eyes fixed on Willis.
"What do you mean?" Renzi asked uneasily.
"Willis 'n' the dago, they're takin' y'r silver."
"Explain!"
Flannery's cynical smile had the chill of truth about it and Renzi braced himself. "They knows that ain't corn!" He kicked at the painfully weeded dirt, then yanked out a green tuft. "See? It's some kinda grass, is all! You've been gulled. They knew it weren't corn all along, jus' played along t' take y'r coin!"
Renzi took the straggly tussock; he had no real idea what sprouting corn looked like. "And you knew of this?" he challenged Flannery, as he let it drop to the ground.
"You're th' chief, roight enough, Mr Renzi. We does what ye say, an' wi' no opinions," the man said.
Straightening, Renzi stared at the untidy acres of thin green. He had been living in a fool's paradise but what should he do now? He had to think.
His first reaction of hot anger was overcome with a sharp dose of cold logic. In this situation the obvious course was to bring the malefactors to justice. But would this not expose him to scorn and laughter in the colony where he was seeking acceptance and advance in society?
He got rid of the two hired men but retained the convicts— they were not costing him anything except the inevitable rum. However, his means were being eroded at a startling rate; it was time to take stock. The one thing that he would never contemplate was tamely submitting to fate and quitting. He was still master of his land, he had living quarters, wide acres of cultivated land and, for what it was worth, the two convicts. He would find more corn, and seed it himself, then see this difficult time through to a successful conclusion.
And had it not been the doughty sea hero Sir Francis Drake who had said, so long ago, "There must be a beginning of any great matter but it is the continuing of the same to the end until it be thoroughly finished that yieldeth the true glory"?
Renzi took heart at the strong words and sat down to plan. The first thing was to secure the corn. This was only obtainable in Sydney Town so there was no alternative but to make the journey.
For several months now he had not seen any fellow human being beyond his rough-mouthed workers and the plebeian couple on the next selection, and he found himself looking forward to the trip. He would dress decently, his chest of gentlemanly wear unopened since arrival, and there was a growing list of articles to buy that were trifling in themselves but which would go far in easing life on his farm estate.
The Parramatta coach jolted and ground grittily to a stop and Renzi descended thankfully. Stretching after the journey, he surveyed the scene. Merely seeing other people in the road buoyed his spirits and the feel of the fine clothes next to his skin was sensual and uplifting. He strode off down the road.
Renzi slowed his pace as he came to the bridge over the stream: he had been told that there were shopping establishments along the foreshore and he reviewed the list in his mind. Besides the corn, only one thing could be considered necessary—indeed, vital—but he had no idea where he might go for it.
Ahead, he saw a gentlewoman, a handsome female followed by a maid. She glanced his way, her strong features appraising. Renzi lifted his hat and swept down in a bow. "Dear madam, I would be infinitely obliged should you assist me in one particular dear to my heart. Do you know of a library at all, a subscription library, perhaps, for the gentlefolk of this town?"
She paused, her glance flashing to his elegant morning coat that had left a London tailor's not nine months before. "A library? I fear there is no such in New South Wales. The people are generally of quite another sort." Looking at him directly, she said, "Sir, you must be a stranger to these parts, but I do confess, I cannot recollect the news of the arrival of someone of quality . . ."
Renzi smiled and bowed again. "Madame, Mr Nicholas Renzi of—of Wiltshire."
Offering her gloved hand the lady responded, "And I, sir, am Mrs Elizabeth MacArthur. My husband is of the military and we have interests on the land. Pray walk with me for a space, sir, we seldom see interesting strangers. The sun is so obliging today, don't you think?"
"By all means, Mrs MacArthur," Renzi replied with feeling. The last time he had held intelligent converse seemed an impossible age ago.
"A strange and beautiful land, Mr Renzi. And so distant from all else in this world. Would it be so impertinent of me to enquire what brought you all this way?"
Renzi hesitated. "I believe I am to establish an estate, of an agrarian nature of some size."
There was an immediate guardedness in her manner as she shot him a keen look. "Oh, then I find I must pray for your success, Mr Renzi. I do hope you are not constrained in the matter of capital," she continued carefully, watching him. "This is such an odious country at times."
"That is of no matter," Renzi said airily. "It is only by unremitting diligence in agricultural husbandry of the first order that will bring forth the fruit of the soil, as the celebrated Coke of Holkham does so truly inform us," he added.