"Get that swab forrard t' work," he roared, in his anxiety, and to Boyd he snarled, "Stand by t' anchor—yes, to anchor, damn you!"
He glanced at the helm. "Steady, lad," he said to the frightened youngster. The island seemed to go on for ever until, quite suddenly, the dark bulk fell away. "Down y'r helm, now!" he barked, and cupped his hand to bawl, "Stan' by, forrard!"
As he had suspected the wind fell away to a confused gust-ing and the seas quieted. "Let go, forrard!" he shouted, and felt rather than heard the rush of cable over the deck. "Douse y'r fore 'n' main," he ordered the men at the brails, then sensed the schooner feel her anchor. He stared into the darkness for any clue as to where they were but saw nothing and simply thanked Providence that they were now snugly at anchor where but for a few yards they could have been yet another wreck on this desolate shore.
In the wan light of morning Kydd strained to see where they were. Suffolk was snubbing contentedly to her anchor on the northern end of a steep island, but not half a mile distant was a long, low beach that extended for miles in both directions. If they had continued past the island in the night they would have ended shattered and broken on a sandy shore.
The chart told the rest of the story. He had been right: apart from a small wedge-shaped island past Cape Raoul there was no other in Storm Bay. Therefore this had to be Betsey's Island, just at the mid-point between the two leads of Frederick Henry Bay and the Derwent.
"Let's be having ye," Kydd briskly told Boyd. "Hands t' unmoor ship."
It was a matter of less than an hour to win the three miles to the west, which placed them past the sloping face of Cape Direction and squarely in the spacious channel of the Derwent for the final leg. As with Port Dalrymple, Flinders had named a peak Mount Direction. Now ahead, it would show the eventual navigable head of the river, but what dominated all was the flat-topped bulk of a four-thousand-feet-high mountain: Mount Table, the chart said.
If there was to be a settlement then, sensibly, it would be at the foot of the great mountain. But the open bay before it was hidden from view round a point. They sailed on in trepidation: what would be the form of the French occupation? Huts, the streets laid out already, a tricolore floating out above soldiers drilling on a square?
There were no boats crisscrossing the calm waters but the ships had probably left some time before. They passed a smaller mountain, every man of Suffolk's crew on deck, staring forward. Then, suddenly, they were beyond the point and into the wide final bay beyond.
For a split second Kydd's mind was filled with dread in anticipation of what he would see but a hasty swing about by eye showed nothing to interrupt the smooth carpet of dark green vegetation spread out in every direction. His telescope went up rapidly to inspect every part of the shoreline.
And then it hit him. The French were not there! He had been to the two finest locations for a settlement in Van Diemen's Land and found them both unoccupied. It was beyond belief that any Frenchman in possession of the same geographic knowledge as himself would pass up the chance to plant his colony in the best setting available in favour of a lesser. The only reasonable conclusion was that they had made it in time. King's plan to forestall the French with a sub-colony could proceed. This new land would speak English and be a little piece of England at the far end of the earth, and generations to come would mark this year as the birth of their land.
Filled with awe and wonder at the implications, Kydd ordered Suffolk to the head of the cove where the Derwent entered, but it was not really necessary: the river narrowed quickly and could no longer take deep-sea vessels. Any settlement would be nestled under the great mountain. Their business in the south was now concluded and they could return to the civilisation of Port Jackson.
The voyage of return would be five hundred miles and more— it would be prudent to water before they set out. The nearest watering, however, was a complete unknown in this wilderness, but then Kydd remembered Adventure Bay at the far end of Van Diemen's Land. There, Captain Cook himself had stopped to water, as had Bligh and others.
Suffolk went about and left the fertile green coves of the Derwent astern, making her southing in several broad reaches. As they dropped down the river Renzi appeared from below and sat on the foredeck staring into nothing, a bent and lonely figure.
Storm Bay opened up; away over on the larboard bow would be Cape Raoul and the open sea but they kept in with the land to starboard until they reached the long island that had so figured in the logs and journals of famous explorers. Half-way along, a demilune bay all of seven miles across opened up—Adventure Bay.
Kydd could have reached for his chart and seen precisely where both Cook and Furneaux had watered, but he had no need: the position was clear in his mind. Bligh was then serving as master under Cook and had remembered the location when he needed to water Bounty on his way to Tahiti. He had last cast anchor in this pretty bay as recently as 1792. The French were known to have followed Bligh, and Flinders had called here on his epic circumnavigation.
Kydd gazed at the sweep of land, then out to sea: at this point they were at the furthest extremity of Terra Australis. Any further would lead directly into the Great Southern Ocean; the long, heaving waves he saw now had last met land at Cape Horn and, touching New Zealand on the way, were bound there once again. In truth, this place was the uttermost finality of the world.
If he stepped ashore now, he would be the only civilised being alive in the whole of the remote wilderness of Van Diemen's Land. The thought grew sharper but instead of wonder it led to an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of a degree of isolation from humanity that beat in on his senses and made urgent the need to set course back to the world of men.
Kydd gave an involuntary shiver and then became aware of Renzi. The man was visibly near breaking. "T-Thomas," he said, in a hollow voice, "if you would, might we—walk together?"
There was no need to explain: Renzi was asking for privacy to talk to his friend at last. "O' course, Nicholas," Kydd replied, with as much warmth as he could, and set the schooner to anchor as Captain Cook had, in the shelter of Fluted Cape, where a placid freshwater creek could be seen issuing down to the beach.
"Clear away th' boat," Kydd told Boyd, and they were rowed to the broad beach. "Carry on wi' the watering, if y' please," Kydd said, and he and Renzi were left alone to trudge along the beach. Nothing was said. As they paced, Renzi kept his eyes fixed on the hard-packed, discoloured sand, the hissing of their footsteps and harsh cries of unknown birds the only sounds. The dense, dark-green forest came right down to the water's edge but a broad clearing began to open up, the result of some long-ago wild-fire.
"Shall we . . . ?" Sensing Renzi's unspoken need to be out of sight of the others Kydd steered them off the beach and into the desolate place.
Away from the sea a sighing silence settled about them, the occasional snapping of undergrowth and their laboured breathing seeming curiously overloud. The terrain was coarse and undulating with blackened and fallen tree boles and they were soon out of sight of the ship; then, over a small rise, the woodland began again, even more densely than before.
Renzi came to a stop. His face had the pallor of death and his eyes were wells of misery. Kydd waited apprehensively. "Dear fellow," Renzi began, in a dreadful caricature of his usual way of opening a philosophical discussion, "you—will know I am a man of reason," he coughed twice and continued hoarsely, "and I have to tell you now, my friend, that I am—betrayed by my own logic." His voice broke on the last words, tears brimming.
"Why? How c'n this be?" Kydd said softly. Renzi looked directly at him and Kydd was appalled by what he saw in his face.