Command

At Kydd's serious expression he intoned gravely to a properly respectful cat:

Then through the chiliad's triple maze they trace

Th' analogy that proves the magnet's place,

The wayward steel, to truth thus reconcil'd

No more th' attentive pilot's eye beguiled . . .

Flinders stood and selected one of his charts. 'See here,' he said, outlining the continent. 'Terra Australis, or 'Australia' as I've come to call it.' His voice dropped as he continued: 'From a hundred and twelve degrees east to a hundred and fifty-three— over forty degrees in width, the same distance as from Africa to the Caribbean, London to Muscovy. What must lie hidden within its inland immensity, awaiting a bold man's discovery?'

He laid down the chart carefully. 'You have not seen the half of its wonders here. There are penguins, giant crocodiles, nameless creatures of fantastical appearance whose only home is this land, and snakes of a size and deadliness that would match any. And territory of a wild beauty that speaks to the heart—and of all nations we are called to grow and populate it.'

Careening could not begin until another vessel had been completed, and the shipwrights resolutely refused to work on the lower strakes of Totnes Castle until then. It was a very different pace of life in the colony from England, for hurry had no place in a society where events were so few and far between.

Redfern was an agreeable companion but had medical duties, and would soon return to Norfolk Island, and society, even in this remoteness, made a distinction that placed the idle redcoats of the New South Wales Corps ahead of a mere merchant-vessel captain, especially of a convict ship.

In two weeks Commander Flinders in HMS Investigator had departed for the north; Kydd watched their progress out to sea from the lonely signal station atop the southern head of the harbour entrance, seeing her last communication with the colony and her sails bright against the steel-grey of the empty ocean diminishing in size as she stood well out to make her offing.

Back at the cottage he decided to write to Cecilia. There was possibly a chance that a returning ship would sail soon and take it to England; otherwise he would find himself carrying back his own letter to her. Still, it would occupy the time.

He stared out of the window to gather his thoughts, nibbling the end of his quill.

He supposed Renzi would have written to her before they left and explained his departure, but if he was in the same mood of disengagement from his old world then it was likely she would have had no word of his decision.

But what could he say when he himself had no idea of where Renzi was or how far along his path to attainment of whatever it was he yearned for? No doubt he could find Renzi but respect and reluctance to intrude prevented it. He would omit anything about him therefore.

What would seize Cecilia's interest and imagination, then, here in this wild and remote corner of the world? The wildlife, certainly: the curious whip bird, wonga pigeons and smaller folk like the white-footed rabbit rat. He had seen black swans, calm and serene—fine-tasting they were, too—as well as the big, bounding kangaroos and the unknown tribes of nocturnal creatures that could turn the night into a riot of unearthly sounds.

She would want to know about society: it would amuse her to see the earnest striving after fashion by the ladies when their only resources were six-month-old newspapers and the odd articles of dress brought in as ventures by visiting ships. And it was not so easy to explain how difficult it was to maintain a distance from the convicts when so many walked free about the town with a ticket-of-leave that enabled them to pursue a trade or even engage in business.

In fact, how could he convey the whole feel of a settlement established for the purpose of the removal of criminal elements far from society at a time when it was so clearly being altered and improved with permanent building and an inflow of free settlers?

There were other things: there was not a drop of beer—it did not last the voyage and there were no hops here for a brewery. Rum was the universal tipple, with wine only for the well-off.

Then there were the black people. Around Sydney Town, the Eora loitered on street corners with lobster claws in their bushy dark curls, their bodies smelling of rancid fat; some sprawled hopelessly drunk. Dark tales were still told about occasional spearings and the kidnap of white women, and one runaway convict had recently come staggering back with stories of bodies roasting on a fire.

There would certainly be many things to tell of when he re-turned—when he returned. For him there would be his promised ship, but for Cecilia . . . What could he say? Cecilia must now face her own future.

He dipped his pen and began to write.

The invitation came one morning as a blustering southerly rain squall eased. Kydd disliked the rain: it caused runnels of reddish water to cascade into the harbour from a thousand bare surfaces, making roads a squelching trial, and today he was due another wearisome argument with the shipyard.

It was an odd invitation; personally written, it was addressed to a Lieutenant Kydd and signed by a Philip Gidley King. Then it dawned on him. This was a letter from the august person of no less than the governor. Puzzled, he read on. With every amiable solicitude it apologised for the remissness in not earlier inviting a fellow sea officer to his table and hoped to remedy the omission that Friday evening at an informal affair with friends.

'M' dear William, what am I t' make of this?'

Redfern looked up from his journal and took the letter. 'Well, now. It does seem as if you have been recognised, old chap. This is Himself, of course, and you must know that, since the First Fleet, every governor has been a naval officer. He must be curious about you, my boy.'

'What sort o' man is he, then, as you'd hear it?'

'Sociable and affable—been here right from the start in 'eighty-eight at Botany Bay—and while you've been quilting the French he has done a service for New South Wales, in my opinion. It was in sad dilapidation before. The lobsterbacks held the whole place to ransom by trading in rum and the colony was going to rack and ruin. Now we have brick-built houses and roads, quite an achievement with no resources at hand.'

'Aye,' murmured Kydd. A useless penal colony at the ends of the earth would be all but forgotten by a country fighting for its life against a despotic revolution.

'And don't forget that as a naval officer he is a rare enough creature, and he faces not a few enemies. The traders are few in number but they want to run the port for their own ends and are wealthy and powerful. And he has the military: the marines were all sent back to the war and we're left with the sottish rogues in the New South Wales Corps. When you add in the big landowners, like MacArthur, who have their own conceiving of how they should be governed, you will know his task is no light one.'