Nanberry (19 page)

W
OCCANMAHULYE
(F
ARM
C
OVE
, S
YDNEY
C
OVE
,
NOW THE
B
OTANIC
G
ARDENS
), F
EBRUARY
1795

He wore a crown of plaited reeds and a bracelet of reeds on his arm. His face was painted white; on his chest was a broad black stripe. The darkness was soft around him, the firelight very bright. He stood as still as possible, digging his toes into the ground so that he didn't cry out as the old man shoved the oyster shell up into his gum, back and forth, loosening his front tooth. The world was swaying when at last the man put down the shell.

Another man approached, his skin oiled and gleaming in the firelight. Behind them warriors chanted. Nanberry tried to make out the words. He still remembered everyday language, but these were ritual words, banished from his mind for many years.

The second man had a long bone in one hand, a stone in the other. He laid the point of the bone against Nanberry's tooth and tapped it with the stone, once, twice, three times, then suddenly a heavy blow.

Blood gushed into his mouth. He could feel the tooth lying on his tongue, the blood flowing down his throat. He fought to stay upright, not to show pain, not to vomit from the blood.

The old man reached into his mouth, then held up the tooth. It looked so long, far longer than any tooth did in a mouth. The old man sang as he raised the tooth aloft. Once more Nanberry tried to make out the words.

Then it was done. The song around him changed. A spear was put into his hand, a bark container of water held up to his mouth so he could wash away the blood.

He was a man.

Why, he thought, his knees trembling, almost beyond pain now, do I still feel empty?

He had lost this world when the Surgeon had rescued him, all those years ago. He was neither Cadigal nor English now, but only a small part of both. I am a ghost too, he thought. I walk upon the world but I have no meaning. Maybe I died when the sickness came, and only know it now. Even the pain in his mouth couldn't make him feel real.

Hands led him to a tree. He sat, his back to it. Someone handed him a cooked fish. He pressed it into the hole in his gum to stem the bleeding, feeling the blood slow to a seep in his mouth.

The dance continued around the firelight. Caruey, the only other Cadigal of his age Nanberry knew to have survived, and another young man stood as their teeth were loosened, then struck out.

Time flowed past him, dark as the blood from his mouth. It was another dance now, another song. Above them the moon rose, large and white. Like the waves, thought Nanberry. Nothing stops the waves or dulls the moon. We suffer here, but the waves still flow and the moon still shines, beautiful and unchanging.

A bat flickered past the fire. Somewhere wallabies would be drinking, o'possums nibbling at their leaves. What happened to the Surgeon's o'possum? he wondered. Rachel might know.

His sense of being an outsider began to ease. The men here accepted him. No matter what, he was a Cadigal warrior now. Perhaps next week he would hunt badagarang with them, learning how to use spears again, this time as a man. No more muskets for him now, but the power of the giant spear of a warrior. They would light the fires to bring the grass, to clear the undergrowth. They would watch the women sweep the droppings from the waterholes and do their duty to the land.

Being a warrior meant accepting your duty: to perform the rituals; to stand by your friends. If there were battles with the English, or against other clans, he knew which side he must be on.

But there would still always be a captain eager to have a sailor who knew the ropes and sails, who had faced the waves of the Cape and the terrifying calms of the doldrums. There was still an English house, with Rachel and her son.

He knew now that his room would still be there, his bed, the clothes he wore on land, no matter how far he travelled, on the sea or back into the bush. Nor would the Surgeon forget him, even if he was far away. One letter waited for him. There would be more.

Yes, he knew who he was now.

Slowly he began to relax into pain and weariness. There was beauty and belonging in this world. He had the bush. He had the sea. He had a home with Rachel, at least while no man claimed her.

That would have to be enough.

The chant changed once again. And now he understood every word, the child's language he had almost forgotten coming back to him.

He was Cadigal still. And he was English.

He smiled, despite the pain, his swelling mouth. He was Cadigal and English! He could see more in this land than any Englishman ever could, the way he had found birds for Father White. He could travel on giant ships and see the world, as no other Cadigal could do.

He was warrior and sailor.

It was tradition to take a new name after the yulang yirabadjang. But he would refuse, just as he had refused to take the name Andrew so long ago.

‘I am Nanberry Buckenau White!' He would wear his name with pride.

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, A
PRIL
1795

Nanberry had sailed away again, climbing up the ship's rigging as though he had done it all his life, with a new gap between his teeth and a tattoo of a ship on his arm.

She waved him off, down at the harbour, carrying Andrew in her arms. The baby held up his chubby hand to wave farewell to his foster brother as the ship's boat pulled out from the shore. Now she walked slowly back up the hill.

The house would feel empty. It had been so good to have someone to cook for, to look after while his mouth and face healed. Silly boy, to go and do a native trick like that. And that tattoo, something else men did just to show they could bear the pain. Let them bear a child and they'd know all about pain, with no need for knocking out teeth or needles and dye.

She smiled down at her son, peering over her shoulder at the harbour's bustle, then quickly wiped the smile away, looking down at the ground in case any man thought the smile was
encouragement. There was no protection for a woman in New South Wales, not from convicts or soldiers of the Rum Corps. The officers of the Rum Corps (not that anyone called them that when they could hear it) had come out at the same time as she had, to serve in the colony. But the only ones they had served were themselves. They did what they wanted, took what they wanted. They hanged anyone who tried to stop them. It was hard, living by herself, putting the bolts up on the doors and shutters at night in case some drunken soldiers tried to get in; making sure no light showed to let them think a woman might be inside.

Big Lon still worked the garden each day, growing the fresh vegetables and fruit the Surgeon believed to be so important to a child's health. He chopped their wood and brought them water, but he went back to the barracks each night. She couldn't see Big Lon protecting her and her son from anyone either.

But at least she had money — the rent from a land grant the Acting Governor had given the Surgeon. The tenant sent meat and milk once a week as well. Already sea chests had arrived for her. Each chest contained coins in a purse hidden in bolts of cloth for clothes and sheets — good sensible linen and flannel. There had been a toy horse for Andrew and a letter in each chest that took her a day to read, for she wouldn't ask anyone else to read her out something so private.

The chests and letters had come from the Cape. In a few months he'd reach England, and in another year perhaps they'd hear from him again, that he had reached port safely. He said that he was safe and well; he said to kiss the child from him; and he said he was hers, always affectionately. No word of love. But he was keeping his promise, caring for them. She was sure he always would.

But a woman needed more than linen and flannel, or even silk if it had ever occurred to him to send it. She'd had a silk scarf
once, the one that the Master had given her back in England, the one he had claimed she'd stolen. The one that had sent her here …

Yes, a woman needed more than silk. More than love, even. The Surgeon had been the first man to talk to her about why the birds flew north in winter, or how men got scurvy. Her world had been so small, survival and nothing else. He had opened a window to a wider life, but now it was shut again.

Yells floated across from the marketplace just up from the harbour. A crowd had grown, jeering men and toothless grinning women. She shuddered, and turned Andrew's face away, in case he caught sight of whatever they were watching. A flogging, perhaps, or a public hanging. The crowds loved sights like that.

She had just started down the track to the house when the breeze caught the words. ‘And what am I offered for this fine wench then? Six more years she got to serve. A bit o' feeding and she'll be good as new …'

Her skin grew cold. They were auctioning the women off the latest ship, the one that had brought her sea chest and letter. The Rum Corps officers had first pick, of course, inspecting the women as they lined up on deck, taking the youngest and plumpest and prettiest. The officers' friends could choose next, also paying nothing for the privilege. The other women were auctioned to whoever would pay the highest price.

‘No more'n that?' The auctioneer's voice was scornful. ‘Sold then, for a pint o' rum to the cove with the withered hand. And I bet she'll warm it up for you, eh? Now the next wench is a right good piece. Don't laugh now, me dearies. She may be tiny but she's a good worker, and freshly widowed, so she knows what to do, eh?' The crowd snickered.

‘The natives killed her husband just ten days ago and …' The woman let out a cry of anguish.

‘Maria!' Rachel whirled around and began to run, holding Andrew against her. Her arms ached but she didn't dare put him down.

How could Maria end up at the auction? A widow, the man had said. Maria was still a convict. If her husband had died the officers must have decided she was worth selling. Legal or not, there was no way to stop them …

Rachel struggled to get closer; the crowd was too thick. But she could see the auctioneer standing on the back of the cart and Maria next to him. She looked so small. She had always been tiny, but now her face was thin and pinched, with shadows under her eyes like they'd been smudged with charcoal. Yet even here she looked neat, her dress worn but well mended.

‘Just look at her! She can sew and clean, can't you, lovey? And she's a right good cook. She can sow yer barley and shuck yer corn, as well as keep you warm at nights.'

‘She ain't big enough to keep a man warm!' The man next to Rachel gave a gap-toothed grin, as though it was the wittiest thing he'd ever said. Which she supposed it might have been.

Maria stared blankly at the crowd. Her eyes were empty.

‘Ah, the little ones have more fire in them. You take it from one who knows.' The auctioneer gave a wink. ‘Whatever you pays for her you'll make back again. She could cook for a whole tavern. You could hire her out by day and have her back each night. Or hire her out all night too! Now, who'll start the bidding? You, sir?'

‘Threepence!'

The auctioneer snorted. Maria made no sign that she had even heard.

‘One pint o' rum!'

‘One pint! Do I have two?'

‘Two pints!' It was a young man with beefy arms and a rough tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm.

‘I'm offered two. Who'll make it three? Oh, for a taste of this young lady's pie. She'll scrub for you, cook for you, never mind the rest of it —'

‘Ten shillings!' Rachel had to yell over the noise. It was all she had. But she couldn't let Maria be sold like this. If only the Surgeon was here, she thought. He would never let this happen. But there was no one to help her now.

‘Ten shillings! Now that's more like it.' The auctioneer nodded to her. Rachel flushed, lowering her head, clutching Andrew to her. It was dangerous to be noticed, but impossible not to help.

She glanced up again. Maria peered around, showing the first signs of life. Rachel held up her hand briefly so she could see it. Maria bit her lip, hope washing across her face.

‘Ten shillings and sixpence!'

It was from a soldier, his red coat stained with sweat under the arms. He must have decided Maria could be sold for more, if someone was bidding that much for her.

Rachel tried to calculate. She could sell her spare dresses. ‘Twelve shillings.'

‘Twelve and sixpence.'

The soldier leered at her. All at once Rachel realised what he was doing.

He was determined to beat her bid. He had no intention of paying any money. He could bid any sum he wanted to. No one could force a member of the Rum Corps to pay their debts.

And there was no way she could bid more.

Maria knew it. Rachel saw her shoulders droop, and the same blank look descend on her face. Maria had another six years to serve. She was so small, so thin. If a man worked her hard could she last that long? There was no surety he would even let her go when her time was served. Many women were kept bound as long as the man they served wanted them. The courts were run
by the Rum Corps too. Impossible to expect justice there, especially for a woman.

‘A guinea!' It was a new voice, vaguely familiar. Rachel peered across the crowd. She knew that face! It was the ship's carpenter she had met years before, after church. What was his name again? Mr Moore. She flushed. He had seemed such a good man. Now he was bidding for a woman, like all the others.

‘Ten guineas!' the soldier bid again, his grin even wider. He lifted a stone jug from the ground and took a swig. The crowd roared with laughter, aware of the joke now. Ten guineas was an enormous sum, months of wages. Ten guineas for a woman like this — impossible, incredible. He may as well have bid a hundred pounds.

Rachel looked across at Mr Moore again. He frowned, staring at Maria on the cart.

‘Well, sir? Another bid?'

Mr Moore shook his head.

‘Sold then, to the officer over there.'

The crowd cheered. The auctioneer shoved Maria over to the edge of the cart. The soldier elbowed his way forward and lifted Maria down like a sack of potatoes. ‘There's nothing to her! I want me money back!'

The crowd shouted with laughter again. There would be no money paid, no money given back. It was a joke, a joke for all of them.

Except for Maria, thought Rachel. She tried to think what to do. One of the surgeons at the hospital might help her. They might even be able to get Maria assigned to someone else. Mrs Macarthur, maybe. If she told Mrs Macarthur how good Maria was with her needle she might want her as a maid. She'd be safe there, at least …

There was no sign of Maria now, nor of the soldier or Mr Moore. The crowd was too thick. Nor was there any point pleading with the soldier, not drunk as he was.

Andrew began to whimper, afraid of all the noise. She soothed him automatically, patting his back as she held him against her shoulder. She began to walk away, back towards the house, planning her next move …

‘Mistress Turner!'

She looked back. Mr Moore strode down the road, carrying a ragged bundle under one arm. The other hand held Maria's. He let the hand go as Rachel ran to her, hugged her. ‘I was so afraid for you! I'm sorry, so sorry, I had no idea. I offered all I could …'

Maria said nothing, but clung to her, Andrew squashed between them. He struggled to get down. Rachel lowered him, his hand held tight in hers, then looked at Mr Moore. She had forgotten how big he was, his shoulders straining at his jacket. ‘Sir …' She didn't know what else to say. How did he come to have Maria here, when the soldier outbid him?

His lips narrowed. ‘The ruffian back there was glad enough to take a guinea once he'd had his fun.'

‘So you bought her?'

‘A man does not buy another life, Mistress Turner. All men are equal in the sight of God. But it seems your friend has been assigned to me now, yes.' He bowed, first to Rachel and then to Maria. ‘I think it best if she stays with you.'

She had to thank him, but still she could find no words. Maria was shaking as though she would collapse at any moment. Andrew fidgeted, pulling at her hand, eager for his dinner. And any moment the crowd might find them here and gather for further fun.

She curtseyed quickly, then put her arm around Maria. She bent to pick up Andrew, but Mr Moore had already picked him up. She waited for the boy to put out his arms to her, but instead he laughed as Mr Moore hoisted him onto his broad shoulders. ‘I will see you to your door.'

She curtseyed again, as best she could while still holding
Maria. The way to their house had never seemed so long. She took the key from the pocket of her apron, and unlocked the door — the Surgeon had paid for a lock the year before — and ushered Maria inside.

Should she ask him in? She flushed. Would he require … payment … for his favour? But he had already lifted Andrew down.

‘Thank you —' she began.

He bowed. ‘I am glad I could be of service.'

She hurried in to Maria as he strode back up the street.