'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.
'Oh,' Mrs MacArthur said faintly, as they moved on. 'Tell me, Mr Renzi, how do you mean to conduct the affairs of your estate? There are so few skilled stewards of the land to be had at this remove. Will your holdings be . . . extensive, do you think?' she added lightly.
'Not at the first, I shouldn't imagine.'
'Um, a substantial portion, perhaps . . . ten thousand acres?'
'Oh, not quite as much to begin with, I believe,' he answered uncomfortably.
'Then?'
'Perhaps—a hundred acres or so,' he said lamely.
'A hundred! Mr Renzi, what will you do with a hundred acres?'
'I'm seeding corn at the moment, and I thought later swedes or wurzels would answer.'
'S-swedes and . . .' She stopped and stared at him in amazement. 'I thought—dear Mr Renzi, forgive me. Do I understand that you have come all the way from England for a hundred acres of . . . ?' Her look softened and she touched his arm. 'I can only admire your faith in our country—but the land here is harsh and barren, the vegetation strange and noxious, the soil thin and parched and the seasons quite topsy-turvy. Men have tried to grow your corn and with so little success, and—and I fear your swedes will not find so ready a market.'
They walked on in a taut silence until she resumed sadly, 'One day this will be a fine land—but not for an age. It will be tamed by men of vision such as yourself, but not in grain or any other cropping. Our future will not be in whaling, trading or even coal. We need a commodity that can be shipped for long months without decay, that is difficult for the world to produce. In short we must have sheep, Mr Renzi. Merino sheep with the finest wool there is, but which demands so much open range. That will be our future.'
Slowly Renzi stripped off his finery and laid it in the chest, fighting the depression that had clamped down on him. He pulled on the threadbare workaday jacket and trousers, their stink of sweat almost unbearable. The canvas roof of the hut was now mildewed and in places hung in rotten strips; his treasured books were starting to fox and fade.
He went outside to speak to the convicts. At least within the hut was stored three bags of good seed-corn and he would have it in the ground as soon as he could get the lazy swabs to stir themselves.
Tranter was hacking morosely at the earth with his hoe while Flannery, in neat, economical and perfectly useless movements, tickled it. Renzi snapped at the pair with foul sea oaths and was rewarded with dull smiles and a marginal increase in energy.
Damn it, but he was going to win or die for Cecilia. For her sake he would see past the present setbacks, dreariness and hard labour into the time to come when his achievement was secure and he could proudly lay before her—
'Wha-?' There was a tremor of fear in Flannery's voice as he pointed down to the edge of the land. Renzi followed his direction. An Aborigine had suddenly appeared noiselessly out of the trees, and now stood still as a statue, watching them.
This was not one of the tame black men who hung about the town in rags but a quite different species. Naked, he was daubed with white clay in patterns and adorned with animal's teeth and a bone through his nose. He clutched a barbed spear near twice as long as himself.
'What's he want?' Tranter asked loudly, nervously lifting his hoe.
Two more Aborigines appeared silently and stood behind the first. 'They's coming f'r us!' yelled Flannery. 'I'm away, begob!' He dropped his hoe and ran back down the track. Tranter scrambled after him, leaving Renzi to face them alone.
The first Aborigine lifted his spear and shook it, uttering hoarse cries. The others joined in, noisy and menacing, stamping on the ground. Then they dropped to a crouch and began to advance over the clearing in short zig-zag dashes.
Renzi hurried to the hut and rummaged frantically until he found his cheap musket. They were closing with no doubt of their intentions: one threw his spear and it whistled past Renzi's ear, piercing the side of the hut. He raised the gun in an exaggerated flourish but they came on undeterred.
Renzi tried to think. The musket was supposedly loaded but the priming might have been damped by the rain. And even if it was ready with a live charge what should he do? Fire off his only shot to try to frighten them—or shoot into their bodies?
The first Aborigine was now yards away and snarling with the effort of bringing back his spear for a throw. Renzi took aim and fired. The heavy ball flung the man backwards; he flopped several times on the ground, mewling, then lay still. The others vanished as noiselessly as they had come.
Renzi hesitated, but only for a second: it was probable that they would be back. There was no time to be lost. Taking only his musket he ran down the track to the Caley cottage and explained breathlessly what had happened. A makeshift defence was mounted and they waited for an attack.
The hours passed and eventually Caley looked at Renzi and said pointedly, 'Don't hang about after a spearin', usually.'
'I'll go back,' Renzi replied. 'If they're still about I'll fire a shot.'
He tramped along the track to his property—and stopped rigid at the sight that met him. Where the hut had stood was now a ruin. His possessions were strewn about, the chest robbed of the clothing and, most
