Command (33 page)

Alone in a deck-chair on the other side was the
Castle
’s other settler and passenger. Kydd had been repelled at every approach: at the very time he so needed a friend, his closest had withdrawn from his company. He knew better than to try to press his attention, even though the book Renzi held had not advanced a single page.

The crew seemed to know what was expected of them and, for the most part, kept out of his way. They were few compared to the manning of a warship where the serving of guns required so many more—and had a different relationship with a ship’s master: they had signed articles for a single voyage with specified duties and wages.

In the afternoon the female convicts took the deck. Prison-pale and ragged they blinked in the sunlight, tried to comb their hair and make themselves presentable.

Kydd called all the officers to his cabin. When they were

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assembled he opened forcefully: “Now we’re at sea I want th’

people to be out on the upper decks as much as possible. How do we do this?” He looked at Cuzens, then at the others, but saw only incomprehension and veiled irritation. Not waiting for a reply he went on, “An’ why do they need t’ be in Newgate irons the whole time? Strike ’em off, if y’ please.”

There was a confused murmuring and Cuzens said darkly,

“Guard commander makes them kind o’ decisions, Mr Kydd.”

“An’ I’m in charge o’ the guards. If they needs fetters we use leg-cuffs an’ a chain—what th’ Army calls a bazzel.”

“You ain’t seen a mutiny, then?” the young third mate said, with a sneer.

Kydd held a retort in check:
he
would certainly never forget the bloody Nore mutiny. “With guns on th’ afterdeck charged with grape and ball, each o’ you with pistols an’ swords and the crew with muskets—an’ you’re still a-feared?” He let his contempt show and the murmuring faded. “I mean to—”

“Ven we get th’ vimmin?” the close-faced Dane spat. At first Kydd thought he had misheard.

“He means, when d’ we get our rights an’ all?” Cuzens came in forcefully.

He was quickly supported by the third mate. “No sense in makin’ the cuntkins wait!” he chortled.

Kydd exploded. “The women? Ye’re asking me f’r—” He could not continue. That the law required degradation and misery he could not question; that he was the agent of it was wounding to a degree, but where was the humanity and natural kindliness that any soul, however taken in sin, might expect from a fellow-creature? What right did these men think they had to prey on any more helpless than they?

All his frustrations and pent-up feeling boiled up. “Get out!

All o’ you!” he shouted hoarsely. “Now! G’ damn ye!” He stood up suddenly, sending his chair crashing to the floor.

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Then he slumped, trembling with anger but trying for composure. It was not only the base demands they were making but the whole sordid business of penal servitude that was sapping his humanity. Yet if he was to return to claim a proper master’s berth his only chance was to deal with it and make a success of the voyage. If
only
Renzi would—

A soft tap at the door broke through his bleak thoughts.

Mowlett entered carrying a large phial. “As doctor, Mr Kydd, I prescribe a medicinal draught, to be taken at once,” he said firmly.

The sharp tang of neat whisky enveloped Kydd. He took a stiff pull and felt its fire—it steadied him and he looked sharply at Mowlett. “Thank ’ee, Doctor.”

“Would you object if I speak my mind?” Mowlett said quietly.

“If ye must,” Kydd said, bristling. “But I’ll have y’ know I won’t have any seaman aboard the
Castle
makin’ play f’r a female convict.”

“Please understand, I know your position and honour you for it.” Mowlett had dropped all trace of banter and spoke with sincerity. “However, for all our sakes a small piece of advice I would offer.

“These ’Bay ships have been plying the route now for above a dozen years and I dare to say are proficient in the art. They have necessarily developed practices to deal with conditions that many might find . . . remarkable. For instance, in the matter of females mixing promiscuous with the crew.” He held up an admonishing finger. “No doubt you have not given it overmuch thought, dismissing it as a moral scandal, but there are elements of practicality that you should perhaps consider.”

Kydd glowered but allowed Mowlett to continue. “Putting aside the obvious fact that, it being the custom in the past, you will be setting the entire crew to defiance should you stand in their way, you will not be amazed to learn that most of your felonious

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ladies are no strangers to the arts of Venus and will in fact warm to the opportunities on offer to take up with a protector.”

At Kydd’s expression Mowlett hastened to add, “Yes, a protector. Has it crossed your mind how much common theft, sneaking, bullying, lonely hardship must be suffered out of your sight below? In any case, Mr Captain, whether you like it or not the consorting will happen.”

Kydd could think of no immediate response and he fell back on the larger issue: “Y’r transportation is a vile thing, Doctor.

The suffering, the misery!”

“Perhaps, but reflect—they have now a chance. If you ask it of them they must inevitably reply that what you provide is infinitely better than the hangman would serve.

“But to return to your women. I would venture to say that, whatever you are able to do, the consorting will take place privily. Animal spirits will ensure this—is it not better to regulate than condemn?”

Kydd stared down moodily.

“Those more uncharitable than I would perhaps be tempted to point out a certain degree of what might be considered hypocrisy in you, Mr Kydd,” he added meaningfully.

“Hypocrisy?”

“Why, of course! Or has the Navy changed its spots so completely that the sight of women flocking aboard a wooden wall of old England coming into port is no longer to be seen? Or that these same have put out for some harmless recreation with the honest tars?”

“They have a choice!” Kydd snapped.

“Quite so—therefore do you allow
your
ladies their choice, should they desire, Mr Kydd.”

“I shall think on it.” Kydd fidgeted with his sleeve. “No one t’

take up with any without they agree,” he said finally, “and they shall tell me so ’emselves in private.”

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“An eminently practical solution.”

“An’ we’ll get windsails rigged, a bit o’ fresh air in that stink-pit. Yes, an’ have ’em up in the sun—without irons, except they deserve it. At least we can do something f’r the poor brutes.”

He looked Mowlett directly in the eyes. “You mentioned th’

Navy. We might take some lesson from there. Let’s see. We’ll have two watches of convicts to take the deck b’ turns, an’ each morning we’ll have a fine scrub-down.

“Each mess o’ six will have a senior hand who’ll take charge an’ see all’s squared away. An’ a petty officer o’ the deck who’ll take charge o’ them. We’ll give ’em something useful t’ do in the day—men to seaming canvas with the sailmaker, females to . . .

Well, a parcel o’ women can always find things t’ do.”

Renzi stood by the weather main shrouds, now so worn with use, and gazed forward to where the cry of the lookout indicated land would soon be in sight. New South Wales. The other side of the globe, as far as it was possible to be from England—any further and they would be on their way back again. Four and a half months of wearisome sailing—it seemed like a lifetime. The banality of the other settler family, the ever-present sight of the shuffling condemned, the absence of anyone with any pretence at education . . . Without the solace of his books he would not have survived this far.

“I see it!” squealed the settlers’ vapid daughter, rushing to the barrier. Convicts soon crowded forward anxious to catch their first glimpse of an unguessable fate, but Renzi stood back, a half-smile marking his detachment from the excitement of landfall as he contemplated the events that had led to this moment.

The fever that had carried him ashore to the Lazaretto had nearly killed him: he had little recollection of the twilight of existence there, only the later swirling chaos and screeching nightmares as he had struggled to lay hold on life.

Then Cecilia.

It had been she who had watched over him as his consciousness emerged from its horrors, had been there when every token
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of life itself was so precious, her voice of compelling tranquillity, soft, comforting, his assurance of life.

He had begun to mend: still Cecilia sat by him, reading softly, responding to his feverish babbling, her dear image now coming into focus with a smile so indescribably sweet—and for him alone. For her sake he had concentrated on getting better—until the melancholia had come.

Black and dour, the spreading hopelessness bore down on him, at times with such weight that he had found it necessary to turn to the wall so she would not see the tears coursing. Long days of trying to draw on his pitiful resources of strength, scrabbling for the will to live, to go on.

And after the endless hours of depression came realism, his past life stripped of its vanities and dalliances, foolish notions, pretences; he could see himself as he had never done before and despised the revelation—one born with the immense advantages of privilege, including an education of the first order and opportunities of travel, and what had he done with it?

His sea experience on the lower deck had been a self-imposed exile for the expiation of what he considered a family sin.

As a result of his father’s enforcement of enclosure of common lands, a young tenant farmer had committed suicide in despair.

Renzi should not have gone on to the quarterdeck—that had been an indulgence. Could he return to his ancestral home to resume as eldest son? He had dealt with that question at the walls of Acre when he decided to disavow his father. There was nothing more to be said. And what of his King’s commission? This was avoiding the issue. He had none of the fire and ambition of sea officers like Kydd; for Renzi the sea was an agreeable diversion—and therefore a waste.

What was left? There was nothing he could point to as his own achievement. For the world, it was as if he had never been.

It had been a cruel insight to be thrust on him at his lowest

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ebb but if he was to live with himself it had to be faced. Most importantly, he recognised that his feelings for Cecilia had deepened and flowered and there was now little doubt that he would never love another as he did her. But his detachment, logic, which before had served so well to control and divert the power of his emotions, now turned on him and exacted a price.
If
he cared for Cecilia to such a degree, was it honourable to expect her to join herself to one with neither achievements to his name nor any prospects?

It was not. Obedience to logic was the only course for a rational man and therefore he would act upon it. He would remove himself from Cecilia’s life for her sake. But logic also said that, should he, in the fullness of time, find himself able to point to a notable achievement wrought by himself alone, then he might approach her—if she was still in a position to hear him.

In the long hours that he had lain awake he had made his plans. As soon as his strength allowed he would silently withdraw from her kindnesses and make his own way as a settler in the raw new world of Terra Australis. By his own wits and hard labours he would carve out a farming estate from the untouched wilderness, create an Arcadia where none had been before, truly an achievement to be proud of. And then . . . Cecilia.

The colonial government was generous to the free settler. It seemed that not only would the land be provided for nothing but that convict labour would be assigned to him, indeed tools, grain and other necessaries to any who was sincere in their wish to settle on the land. Admittedly he knew little of tillage but had seen much of the way the tenant farmers of Eskdale Hall had gone about their seasonal round. As a precaution, however, he had invested heavily in books on the art of farming, including the latest from Coke of Holkham whose methods were fast becoming legendary. Even the passage out was provided for; and thus he had carefully severed all connections with his old life and
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committed wholeheartedly to the new, boarding
Totnes Castle
in Deptford—to be confronted by, of all those from his past, Thomas Kydd.

He had resolved to cut all ties to his previous existence until he was in a position to return with his noble mission accomplished: Kydd was of that past and both logically and practically he should withdraw from his company as part of his resolve.

It had been hard, especially when he had seen what the voyage was costing his friend, but then he had witnessed Kydd lever himself above the sordid details and, by force of will, impose his own order on the situation. Now they must go their separate ways, find their own destinies at the opposite ends of the earth.

The coast firmed out of blue-grey anonymity: dark woods, stern headlands—not a single sign that man was present on the unknown continent. Conversations stilled as they neared; the land dipped lower until it revealed a widening inlet.

“Botany Bay, lads,” one of the seamen called. It was a name to conjure with, but no ship had called there with prisoners since the early days. Their final destination was a dozen miles north.

Totnes Castle
lay to the south-easterly and within hours had made landfall at the majestic entrance to a harbour, Port Jackson.