Command

Things had changed radically. No longer bowling along before a soldier's wind Suffolk could no longer think of voyaging south; the savagery of the southerly blasts had rotated the vessel round and she scudded before the wind, headed for who knew where.

Over to larboard was the empty wilderness of Van Diemen's Land, and to starboard, the open sea leading to New Zealand and the South Seas. Kydd had neither the charts nor provisions and water for such a protracted deviation.

If, on the other hand, he sheeted in and made for the coast to larboard there was all the danger to be met on a rock-bound seaboard. But if he could find shelter to ride it out the situation would be saved. 'Down y'r helm an' we're running f'r the coast,' he yelled, and without waiting went to his cabin and pulled out his precious chart, bracing at the wild motion that had his tiny lamp swinging jerkily. It would be touch and go—there were but two possible havens: south of the Bay of Fires in the far north and the Freycinet Peninsula somewhere to his north- west.

The only alternative was being lost in the wastes of the South Pacific. But being at last reckoning only some twenty miles off the land there was still time and daylight to coast south until they found shelter.

On deck Kydd was grateful for the thick coat he had snatched before coming up: the temperature had plummeted since the squall hit. The rain came and went in miserable drifting curtains as they barrelled along through the seas rolling in abeam. In a short time they sighted the dark, uneven coastline of Van Diemen's Land. Cautiously Kydd eased Suffolk round and began to search.

He knew what he was looking for and by mid-afternoon had sighted it. A spine of serrated uplands, light-grey and naked above dark green woodlands on the lower slopes, a single large island at its finality. Again they leaned to the winds and thrashed past the island, seeing its tip enveloped in explosions of white from the surging waves until they had reached the great bay beyond.

They were still not safe: from early maps Kydd knew that he would need to sail deep into the south-facing bay, perhaps to its end before he could be sure of shelter from the malevolent southerly.

Suffolk rounded the island and raced up the bay before the wind once more, passing craggy ridges and squat headlands until a long glimmer of sand ahead warned of the head of the bay— but, praise be, the final rearing of dappled pink granite peaks provided a lee of a good two miles of calmer waters and, with infinite relief, Kydd gave orders that saw Suffolk's anchor plunge down and all motion come to a halt.

Renzi was sitting morosely in the cabin when Kydd went below to strip off his streaming oilskins. Worn and tired by the battering of the weather, Kydd threw his foul-weather gear outside and slumped on the edge of the bunk.

'Be obliged if ye'd shift out o' there, Nicholas, an' let me get t' my charts,' he mumbled, against the rattle of rain on the little skylight. Renzi seemed not to have heard. 'If ye would be s' good—' Kydd began heavily.

'I heard you the first time,' Renzi snapped, rising and squeezing past Kydd, who bent under his chair, fumbling for the tied bundle of charts and sailing directions.

'Why, thank 'ee,' Kydd said sarcastically, slapping the folio on to the bunk and spreading out the contents.

'My pleasure,' retorted Renzi venomously.

'Be buggered!' Kydd exploded. He saw the dark-circled eyes and sunken cheeks but he had no patience left for the strange petulance in Renzi. 'What ails ye, for God's sake, Nicholas? Have y' not a civil tongue for y' friends? What's wrong with ye?'

'Nothing! Nothing that can possibly be of concern to you.'

'Nothing t' concern me? What about Cecilia? Do y' write t' her the same as ye serve me?' Something about Renzi's manner caught his suspicion. 'Y' haven't written to her, have ye?' With rising anger he said, 'She knows y' here at th' end o' God's earth setting up t' be a—a gentleman o' the land, an' after all she's done f'r you y' won't even tell her how ye're faring?'

Suspicion sharpened at Renzi's stubborn silence. 'Ye never told her, did you?' he said in disgust. 'You jus' walked away leaving her t' wonder what's become o' you. That old soldier's yarn about needing t' cut y'self off fr'm the past! Why, ye're nothing better than—'

'Enough! Hold your tongue!' Renzi turned white. 'You don't know the half of it. This is my business and mine alone. You will not tax me with my faults and still less my decisions, which are answerable to me only. ' He continued thickly, his chest heaving, 'We are constrained to this vessel for the present time but I wish you to know that any conversation between us I consider to be unnecessary until we reach Port Jackson. Good day to you, sir!'

*  *  *

A cold dawn revealed a more settled sea state, the forceful wind still in the south. Time, however, was pressing: hard work at the diminutive windlass in flurries of rain brought in the anchor, and under fore and aft sail they left the steep and barren Freycinet peninsula astern, bucketing along uncomfortably in steep seas coming in on the bow.

There was little Kydd could do to plan for eventualities. It now seemed so obvious that any French settlement would be in the south: it would be easy to defend, furthest from the existing British colony and in a climate closest to Europe. But to dissuade them if this was the case . . . It was difficult to conceive of a more hopeless objective.

The ceaseless southerly now beat in; soaked by rain and spray from romping grey seas thumping and bursting on the larboard side, Kydd slitted his eyes and tried to make out their course ahead. He had allowed two points of the helm a-weather for leeway in the run down to Cape Pillar and prayed it would be enough—the note on the chart had promised an iron-bound coast and if they were to be embayed between two capes . . .

Then slightly off the bow to starboard a vision slowly appeared from out of the misty, drifting curtains of rain squalls. High and majestic, a mighty rampart of basalt, an uncountable number of vertical columns like devilish organ pipes nearly eight hundred feet high. It could only be Cape Raoul.

Thankful beyond measure, Kydd waited until they were past. Now all they had to do was turn north-west, enter Storm Bay and the Derwent. Suffolk made fine sailing, her schooner rig well suited to the close coastal task of a maid-of-all-work around the colony, but as they sailed on in the gathering murk of evening they were faced with a new danger. According to the chart Storm Bay forked into two inner leads, both to the north-west. One led to the sheltered calm of the Derwent, the other to the ever-shallowing snare of Frederick Henry Bay. But if in the gloom he erred too far to the westward he would come up against the other shore of Storm Bay.