anchor in this pretty bay as recently as 1792. The French were known to have followed Bligh, and Flinders had called here on his epic circumnavigation.
Kydd gazed at the sweep of land, then out to sea: at this point they were at the furthest extremity of Terra Australis. Any further would lead directly into the Great Southern Ocean; the long, heaving waves he saw now had last met land at Cape Horn and, touching New Zealand on the way, were bound there once again. In truth, this place was the uttermost finality of the world.
If he stepped ashore now, he would be the only civilised being alive in the whole of the remote wilderness of Van Diemen's Land. The thought grew sharper but instead of wonder it led to an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of a degree of isolation from humanity that beat in on his senses and made urgent the need to set course back to the world of men.
Kydd gave an involuntary shiver and then became aware of Renzi. The man was visibly near breaking. 'T- Thomas,' he said, in a hollow voice, 'if you would, might we—walk together?'
There was no need to explain: Renzi was asking for privacy to talk to his friend at last. 'O' course, Nicholas,' Kydd replied, with as much warmth as he could, and set the schooner to anchor as Captain Cook had, in the shelter of Fluted Cape, where a placid freshwater creek could be seen issuing down to the beach.
'Clear away th' boat,' Kydd told Boyd, and they were rowed to the broad beach. 'Carry on wi' the watering, if y' please,' Kydd said, and he and Renzi were left alone to trudge along the beach. Nothing was said. As they paced, Renzi kept his eyes fixed on the hard-packed, discoloured sand, the hissing of their footsteps and harsh cries of unknown birds the only sounds. The dense, dark-green forest came right down to the water's edge but a broad clearing began to open up, the result of some long-ago wild-fire.
'Shall we . . . ?' Sensing Renzi's unspoken need to be out of sight of the others Kydd steered them off the beach and into the desolate place.
Away from the sea a sighing silence settled about them, the occasional snapping of undergrowth and their laboured breathing seeming curiously overloud. The terrain was coarse and undulating with blackened and fallen tree boles and they were soon out of sight of the ship; then, over a small rise, the woodland began again, even more densely than before.
Renzi came to a stop. His face had the pallor of death and his eyes were wells of misery. Kydd waited apprehensively. 'Dear fellow,' Renzi began, in a dreadful caricature of his usual way of opening a philosophical discussion, 'you—will know I am a man of reason,' he coughed twice and continued hoarsely, 'and I have to tell you now, my friend, that I am—betrayed by my own logic.' His voice broke on the last words, tears brimming.
'Why? How c'n this be?' Kydd said softly. Renzi looked directly at him and Kydd was appalled by what he saw in his face.
'As I lay on my fever bed things were made plain to me. I shall not bore you with details—but I became aware that, for all the advantages of birth and intellect, my life is a waste. I can point to not a single achievement. Not one! Nothing!'
He covered his face and his shoulders began shaking. Kydd was shocked: this was worse than he had supposed and made little sense. 'Why, Nicholas, t' win the quarterdeck is an achievement that any might think—'
'No! There are coxcombs strutting the deck who owe it all to the accident of good breeding. This is no matter for pride. But you are a naval officer so above your station in life by right of striving and courage. You are now the captain of a ship! That is what any might call an achievement.'
Renzi's chest heaved with emotion. 'We will be at war with the French in months—with their arrogant posturing, there is nothing surer. You will be given a King's ship and go on to win renown and honour. That is equally sure.' Irritably he waved aside Kydd's protestations. 'This is your nature and your achieving, and you must glory in it. But I—I do not have the fire in my blood that you have. I am contemplative and take my joy in the fruits of the intellect, in the purity of creation, in—in—' He broke off with muffled sobs. Then, with an effort, he rallied. 'It seemed the logical course, to leave the old world and enter the new where I might wrest from nature—
'To what, Nicholas?' Kydd asked quietly.
'To lay before Cecilia.'
Defiantly Renzi looked up at Kydd, his hands working. 'Cecilia . . . who, I own before you this day, is dearer to me than I can possibly say to you. One whom I would dishonour were I to press my suit without I have achieved something worthy of her attention. And—and—I have failed! I have failed
It was as if the world had turned upside down for Kydd to see Renzi, who had been so calm and staunch by his side through perils and adventures beyond counting, brought so low. Kydd's heart went out to the tortured soul who was his friend but what could he do? Tentatively, his hand reached out—then his arm went to the shoulder until he was holding Renzi's shaking body as the racking sobs took him. Renzi did not resist and Kydd held him until the storm had passed.
'All—all is t-to hell and ruin in Marayong, and so I w-wanted to see if the sealing industry would answer instead, b-but when I saw the slaughter I thought that if Cecilia knew of it how she would d-despise any fortune won from the blood and lives of i-innocent animals and—and therefore I have n-nothing left to me!'
Cruel sobs shook his gaunt frame again and Kydd knew that the last months must have been a living hell for his friend. What Renzi needed now was the will to live, a future, hope that things could be different.
'Then you are free, brother,' Kydd tried brightly.
Renzi raised his head. 'Wh-what did you say?'
'Forgive me talkin' wry, I was never a taut hand wi' words, but do ye not think that fate is a-calling you t' tack about, make an offing fr'm what was?'
'Thomas, p-please—'
'Nicholas, you've tasted life t' the full, been t' places others c'n only dream on. You have a rare enough headpiece as can tangle with any—is it not th' time to give a steer to the rest of us? Can ye not bring order t' the cosmos and tell we mortals how it will be with us?'
He lowered his voice. 'Dear friend, can ye not remember those night watches? I can, an' now I admit before ye that those yarns on the fo'c'sle I hold precious in m' memory. Your destiny is never to be a slave o' the soil—can ye not see it in you that a pen suits afore a plough?'
