Command

CHAPTER 14

THE BAD BLOOD between the convicts and the new men was getting worse. Willis, whom Renzi had hired to act as wrangler, was big and swaggering, with a foul mouth. The other was a laconic Portuguese seaman who, for some reason, had put himself out for hire as a farm labourer. Probably it was the money, Renzi mused wryly—it was costing four shillings a day for him and five for Willis, a shocking sum compared to rates in England but it was the only way he could see to get the work done.

Still, they were making progress of a kind. The land to the north had been cleared and hoed a good half-way back. Renzi had watched as the men sowed the seed, scattering the corn grains with wide, sweeping gestures just as he had seen done on the ancient fields of Wiltshire. It was the obvious crop: whatever else, the colony would always need bread.

That had been over a month ago, and now to his intense delight tiny needles of green were emerging. He threw himself into the work with renewed energy: half of the land for corn, half for root vegetables—out of consideration for his neighbour, not turnips.

He laboured on, happy in the knowledge that while he worked his crop was steadily growing, maturing. In effect, this was his future wealth buried until he saw fit to draw upon his account. The metaphor pleased him and he went back to his hut for a mattock to help the others with the clearing.

Angry shouts and barking carried up from the working party. It would be Willis, setting off Tranter again. Flannery would then cleverly needle the big man and the cycle would go on and on. Renzi stumped back down to the group, who continued squabbling as if he was not there.

The dog's witless barking made him see red: he had been forced to buy the cur when their attempts to fence in the growing shoots against the nightly raids of hungry kangaroos had failed—the animals had simply bounded over the barrier. Now if he wanted to preserve anything of his precious green shoots he had to put up with the dog's din during the night.

"Shut your cursed noise!" he bawled at the men.

"It's Flannery agen," spat Willis, rolling up his sleeves theatrically. "He don't do as he's bin told!"

Flannery threw down his hoe in front of Willis. "Orl right, me ol' bully-cock, what's it t' be then?"

Renzi ground his teeth. "If I see you two rogues brawling once more I'll—I'll . . ." But what was there to do? He calmed himself. "Now, Flannery, you and Tranter go—"

"Ye're bein' robbed," Flannery interjected, his eyes fixed on Willis.

"What do you mean?" Renzi asked uneasily.

"Willis 'n' the dago, they're takin' y'r silver."

"Explain!"

Flannery's cynical smile had the chill of truth about it and Renzi braced himself. "They knows that ain't corn!" He kicked at the painfully weeded dirt, then yanked out a green tuft. "See? It's some kinda grass, is all! You've been gulled. They knew it weren't corn all along, jus' played along t' take y'r coin!"

Renzi took the straggly tussock; he had no real idea what sprouting corn looked like. "And you knew of this?" he challenged Flannery, as he let it drop to the ground.

"You're th' chief, roight enough, Mr Renzi. We does what ye say, an' wi' no opinions," the man said.

Straightening, Renzi stared at the untidy acres of thin green. He had been living in a fool's paradise but what should he do now? He had to think.

His first reaction of hot anger was overcome with a sharp dose of cold logic. In this situation the obvious course was to bring the malefactors to justice. But would this not expose him to scorn and laughter in the colony where he was seeking acceptance and advance in society?

He got rid of the two hired men but retained the convicts— they were not costing him anything except the inevitable rum. However, his means were being eroded at a startling rate; it was time to take stock. The one thing that he would never contemplate was tamely submitting to fate and quitting. He was still master of his land, he had living quarters, wide acres of cultivated land and, for what it was worth, the two convicts. He would find more corn, and seed it himself, then see this difficult time through to a successful conclusion.

And had it not been the doughty sea hero Sir Francis Drake who had said, so long ago, "There must be a beginning of any great matter but it is the continuing of the same to the end until it be thoroughly finished that yieldeth the true glory"?

Renzi took heart at the strong words and sat down to plan. The first thing was to secure the corn. This was only obtainable in Sydney Town so there was no alternative but to make the journey.

For several months now he had not seen any fellow human being beyond his rough-mouthed workers and the plebeian couple on the next selection, and he found himself looking forward to the trip. He would dress decently, his chest of gentlemanly wear unopened since arrival, and there was a growing list of articles to buy that were trifling in themselves but which would go far in easing life on his farm estate.

The Parramatta coach jolted and ground grittily to a stop and Renzi descended thankfully. Stretching after the journey, he surveyed the scene. Merely seeing other people in the road buoyed his spirits and the feel of the fine clothes next to his skin was sensual and uplifting. He strode off down the road.

Renzi slowed his pace as he came to the bridge over the stream: he had been told that there were shopping establishments along the foreshore and he reviewed the list in his mind. Besides the corn, only one thing could be considered necessary—indeed, vital—but he had no idea where he might go for it.

Ahead, he saw a gentlewoman, a handsome female followed by a maid. She glanced his way, her strong features appraising. Renzi lifted his hat and swept down in a bow. "Dear madam, I would be infinitely obliged should you assist me in one particular dear to my heart. Do you know of a library at all, a subscription library, perhaps, for the gentlefolk of this town?"

She paused, her glance flashing to his elegant morning coat that had left a London tailor's not nine months before. "A library? I fear there is no such in New South Wales. The people are generally of quite another sort." Looking at him directly, she said, "Sir, you must be a stranger to these parts, but I do confess, I cannot recollect the news of the arrival of someone of quality . . ."

Renzi smiled and bowed again. "Madame, Mr Nicholas Renzi of—of Wiltshire."

Offering her gloved hand the lady responded, "And I, sir, am Mrs Elizabeth MacArthur. My husband is of the military and we have interests on the land. Pray walk with me for a space, sir, we seldom see interesting strangers. The sun is so obliging today, don't you think?"

"By all means, Mrs MacArthur," Renzi replied with feeling. The last time he had held intelligent converse seemed an impossible age ago.

"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 heartbreaking of all, his books were torn and scattered in every direction.

Trembling with emotion, he tried to take in the pitiful scene. A lump in his throat grew until it threatened to choke him.

CHAPTER 15

"SO KIND OF YOU TO COME at this notice, Mr Kydd," Governor King said importantly. "Do sit—I have a matter of some gravity to discuss with you, touching as it does on the security of our colony."

Kydd was mystified. There had been wild rumours about the French, at the moment lying peacefully across the harbour and about to sail soon, but this would scarcely concern him.

"Do I understand it to be the case that you will be returning to England shortly?" King asked.

"Aye, sir—just one or two matters still in hand that should not delay me long."

"Then we can count ourselves fortunate, Mr Kydd, for there is a service of some urgency that you, sir, are uniquely suited to perform for us." King steepled his fingers and held Kydd's eyes. "The French and we are now at peace. Yet this does not mean there is no danger to be apprehended from that quarter—they are in need of an overseas empire for their trade concerns, and are active in that object.

"And now, sir, that which I expressly warned their lordships about is come to pass. Colonel Paterson informs me that he overheard Commodore Baudin's officers speaking in warm terms over dinner of their intention to effect a plantation of their people in the island of Van Diemen's Land, 500 miles to our south, now it is proven to be a separate land mass from New Holland." He paused. "I need not trouble to detail to an officer of the Royal Navy the severe strategical consequences of the French maintaining a species of fortress there!"

Kydd nodded gravely. Van Diemen's Land had no settlements of any kind by any nation, and therefore stood as an empty wilderness awaiting the first to claim it. To lose the territory would be a catastrophic blow and its consequences could not be greater for this distant outpost of England. "Sir, does not th' government know of this as a possibility?"

"They have been informed," King said heavily, "and will, no doubt, respond in time. However, to wait for most of a year for a reply is not a course open to me. I would be judged harshly by the future, sir, were I to sit passively by while the territory is expropriated by others. Therefore my duty is clear: I intend to plant a colony of our own in Van Diemen's Land, with or without instructions and support from England."

"Sir. " Surely he was not being asked—

"It is essential that we act as speedily as we are able, but even so, to prepare in depth for a descent that is permanent will take time. The French are sailing: we need to act now to forestall them, not wait cravenly. It has always been my conviction that M'sieur Baudin, being a principled gentleman given right of free passage as a scientifical, would not think to violate its terms, but he has a master in Paris who would not hesitate.

"This is at the least a serious reconnaissance for the most propitious place for a first French colony, and at the worst . . ." King paused significantly. "I do believe they intend to move very soon on Van Diemen's Land and by landing a small party thereby establish a claim."

With a growing apprehension Kydd heard King out. His sympathy was all with the man who was making positive, vital decisions in total isolation. The stakes were clear: this was the reality of the clash of empires at first hand, the striving of nations that would end in this vast land speaking one language or quite another, an allegiance to Crown or to revolution. It was a situation in which a false move by either could result in misunderstanding, even war.

"Mr Kydd, I have no vessels of force I can send to persuade the French from their course, not even one King's ship. Therefore I must proceed by other means."

He went to his desk and pulled out several large sheets of paper. "These are Commander Flinders's notes of his recent explorations. You see they are not yet made up into a sea chart but they will be adequate for our purposes."

"Sir, ye haven't said—"

"My plan is to dispatch two vessels south—one to the west of Van Diemen's Land and the other to the east. They are to find the French and by any means dissuade them from their intentions."

"Er, dissuade, sir?"

King's eyes went opaque. "You will understand now how pleased I am that at these times there is an officer of renown and discernment at present here in New South Wales. Mr Kydd, it is not within my powers to appoint you to a naval command but as governor I may make you master into a colonial government vessel. Should you accept, you will have my full support in any action you deem necessary upon a meeting with the French. Will you consider serving your country thus?"

"Of course, sir," Kydd said instantly. How else could he respond?

"Thank you, sir. You have no idea how this eases my mind in these very unusual times. Shall we get down to detail?

"Lieutenant Robbins will take the westerly search in Cumberland and yourself the easterly in Suffolk. I apprehend that the most likely places for the French will be Port Dalrymple in the north or somewhere in the Derwent to the south. This is not to discount the possibility that they will consider an initial landing on the large northward islands, therefore I am requiring that Lieutenant Robbins will go to the west, including King Island, while you will take the easterly half. Is this clear?"

"Sir. Th' Suffolk—what sort o' vessel is she?"

King looked apologetic. "The same as Cumberland, an armed schooner, country-built here in Sydney Town. Very handy craft, we use 'em for every task. Forty tons, square sail on fore and main, I should think well suited for your use."

Forty tons! A sixth the size of little Teazer —but then he recalled that Flinders's famous circumnavigation of Van Diemen's Land had been in a like-sized vessel.

"Well, Mr Boyd, let's be about th' storing," Kydd said briskly to the mate. Suffolk was indeed tiny—and so was her crew: just eight seamen and Boyd. Six of the eight were convicts on ticket-of-leave, but to Kydd's eye they seemed diligent and competent enough.

There was little more to be done than store for a three-week voyage; clearly the schooner was to be employed because she was available. Bobbing to a single buoy off the jumble of structures that was the shipyard, she was heaved in to the little jetty and a chain of men set to loading.

It was a commonplace sight, yet this plain-looking craft was shortly to leave the colony for regions of the south that had been unknown to man just six months previously, and on a mission contending for dominance with a foreign power.

Kydd's written orders had just arrived, with what could be gleaned from the maps and observations of explorers down the years: from the Cook of thirty years ago through to the recent discoveries of Flinders. And it would be Thomas Kydd, former wigmaker of Guildford, who would navigate in those same nameless waters.

Lost in reverie he did not notice at first the familiar figure on the jetty. "Nicholas! Ahoy there—step aboard. Ye're very welcome!" Remembering his friend's vow of separation Kydd wondered what Renzi was doing there, then noticed, with concern, the sun-darkened complexion, the worn clothing, the deep lines in his face.

Renzi made his way up the gangplank. "Mr Kydd—Thomas," he said, but did not offer to shake hands. Kydd's heart tightened. Something was wrong. He remembered the doctor's words in Guildford about a tendency to depression after the fever, leading some to suicide.

"Why, Mr Renzi—Nicholas. Is there aught I c'n do for ye?" He kept his tone as neutral as he could.

"There is, sir. I have a request of you," Renzi said awkwardly.

"Name it!"

Renzi looked away quickly, and when he turned back, his face was unnaturally set. He fumbled for words. "Er, you will know that the colonial government sets great store by the securing of a staple, a sure source of income for the colony as would allow it to stand alone."

"Aye, but you would know more o' this, Nicholas," Kydd said warmly, trying to encourage his friend to relax a little.

As if following a set speech Renzi continued, in the same tone, "And being consonant with my diversifying of agrarian interests it occurred to me that an opportunity exists to combine the two with advantage. In fine, it would oblige me exceedingly should I be able to investigate the seal fisheries of Bass Strait at the first hand with a view to an investment."

Kydd was taken by surprise. "Er, is it—" "I will be plain. Do you see your way clear to providing me passage south to learn of the fisheries? You may be assured of any payments involved," he added, with a trace of pathetic defiance.

There was no room in Suffolk for any passenger—and in any case, as far as Kydd knew, he would not be touching at any lawless seal-catching islands. "Dear friend, d' ye understand that there's nothing I'd like more, but m' hands are tied. This is t' be a government voyage o' grave importance an' these concerns must come first."

"I—have heard. All New South Wales knows of what is being planned. It so happens that yours is the only vessel this six weeks that is venturing south," Renzie said coldly, then added, "It might be said, however, that my mission falls not far short of it in importance for the longer term of this colony."

"Nicholas. If it's known as I've taken advantage o' my position as master to offer passage to a friend . . ." He stopped. For some reason of his own Renzi needed desperately to reach the sealers; he had to help and he racked his brain for a solution. "Mr Renzi, it gives me th' greatest pleasure t' offer ye th' post of official interpreter to the Suffolk mission. The wages are, er, a penny a day an' all found." Faultless French would be indispensable when it came to the delicacies of a confrontation—and, damn it, they had to water the vessel, why not at a sealers' island?

"That will not be necessary," Renzi said stiffly. "You may rely upon my duty, should it come to a meeting with the French."

"Ye shall berth in my cabin," Kydd said. It was all of eight feet long and five broad but they could take turns in dossing down. "Shall we have y' baggage?"

Suffolk left Sydney Cove in a fine north-westerly, the schooner leaning to the wind before rounding Pinchgut Island for the run down to the harbour entrance, careful to leave the ugly boiling of white water that was the Sow and Pigs reef well to starboard.

The first deep-sea swell lifted their deck as they shaped course to pass between the Heads, the open ocean spreading in a vast expanse ahead, the vivid blue of the sea and the vaulting white of the cheerful clouds washing away the memory of the dross and dirt of the land.

Safely out to sea the tiller went down and Suffolk headed southward. She was plain but sturdily crafted, and took the seas on her bow with a willingness that resulted in a lively pitch and roll. Kydd let Boyd conn the vessel; he guessed that the other man was the usual master of Suffolk.

He had last crossed these seas in Totnes Castle but shortly they would reach Bass Strait. Its very existence had been unknown to him then: he had brought his ship south about Van Diemen's Land, through the high seas and gales of the Southern Ocean. Now he was to enter largely uncharted waters; if they were shipwrecked they might lie undiscovered for years—it would be prudent to consult again the notes and charts he had brought.

The tiny cabin was not occupied: Renzi was standing by the foremast looking shoreward. On impulse Kydd came up to him but his light words died before they were spoken: Renzi had shown no sign that he was recognised. Kydd left quietly.

They reached thirty-nine degrees south in a streaming northeasterly and it was time: instead of continuing south past the mass of Van Diemen's Land Suffolk angled south-westerly directly into the strait, heading as fast as she could for a point just half-way along the remote north coast, Port Dalrymple, so recently surveyed by Flinders.

If the French were to be anywhere this was the most likely place. Reputed to be the finest sea sanctuary for five hundred miles, with a capacious river longer and wider by far than the Thames at London, it would make an excellent place for a settlement.

However, a hundred and fifty miles of rock-and-island-strewn sea lay ahead and all that Kydd had was a chart of generalities compounded from those who had hazarded their ships there, and the tracks of the few explorers who had been this way. Anything out of sight of their line of advance would not appear on a chart. Only the most strict vigilance of the lookouts would preserve Suffolk.

The north-easterly, however, veered into the east and freshened; the schooner plunged and bucketed in seas that had turned gun-metal grey and Kydd's anxieties increased. If the winds veered much further towards the south they would be headed, and he had no wish to be tacking about in the darkness of these waters.

Late in the afternoon an irregular stretch of land was sighted: it had to be Van Diemen's Land. Kydd's reckoning placed it close to their goal but caution made him order a seaman forward with a lead line. When soundings were fifteen fathoms he let go anchor and waited out the night.

In the morning it was simply a matter of deciding whether their destination was up coast or down but Kydd quickly spotted the bluff and the sandy beach leading along to a low finger of land that Flinders's notes indicated was the entrance to Port Dalrymple. They passed by slowly offshore and confirmed the broad opening before turning to make their approach.

Baudin's Geographe, or Naturaliste, was probably snugly at anchor inside, her company busily occupied in building a fort, perhaps laying out the settlement ready for the settlers to come. A confrontation would be worse than useless, vastly outnumbered as they would be, and he would be lucky to avoid an international embarrassment.

He was in possession of letters from the governor of the colony of New South Wales indicating that His Majesty considered that the Act of Possession of the First Fleet at Botany Bay in 1788 was binding in the case of Van Diemen's Land, and that he would regard any infringement of sovereignty as an unfriendly act.

It was a thin pretence: the separation of Van Diemen's Land into a distinct land mass invalidated any claim that included it. What Kydd planned was a bluff: he would sail in innocently and display much surprise at the French landing. Had they not heard of the British settlement at the other end of the island in the south? That their claim had been preceded by an act of colonisation some time before? With luck, this would buy time.

With the biggest ensign aboard fluttering at the main the Colonial Armed Schooner Suffolk bore down on the low rocky point, marked "Low Head" on the chart, the entry point for Port Dalrymple. A sweeping curve of sandy beach came into view but Kydd had eyes only for the wicked reefs that Flinders had been so at pains to fix, especially the dreaded Yellow Rock.

The water was visibly shallowing and the dark writhing of bull kelp below the surface was a menacing token of the undersea crags to which it clung; the betraying blackness fringed with white of a half-tide jumble of stones was another reef towards mid-channel but the notes sturdily promised safe passage if they kept to the Low Head side of Yellow Rock.

They passed beyond the low finger of land and a vista of the upper reaches of the river opened up—a remarkable view of a broad channel with deep-sea access, flanked by land so different from New South Wales. Kydd's glass was up instantly, searching for tall masts, sweeping the banks for any sign of habitation, flag poles, huts.

There was nothing, but this was only the start of miles of navigation into the interior at any point of which the French might have decided to make their settlement. Inside Low Head, a shallow but perfectly formed semi-circular beach beckoned and Kydd anchored both bow and stern, then had the boat readied. "Mr Boyd! I'm steppin' ashore t' see what I can. Give me a gun should ye sight anything." He went over to Renzi, who was sombrely watching the shoreline. "Nicholas, should y' desire t' stretch y'r legs . . ."

"Thank you, I do not," Renzi said distantly, and resumed his vigil.

Kydd took hold of his feelings. If the next few hours ended in grief it would be his name attached to the failure, his the blame for the consequences. Someone to share this, even just by sympathetic understanding . . .

"Shove off," he growled. There were two seamen at the oars, another in the bows. The boat stroked inshore until it crunched into pale sand in the centre of the beach. Kydd clambered over the thwarts and dropped over the bows. There was a musket in the boat but he was unarmed: he had no plans to stray far.

Bare dunes fringed the beach, behind them the dark green of vegetation. Leaving the men to stay by the boat he puffed to the top of one dune and looked down on a tangle of gnarled, papery-barked white trees and feathery casuarinas around the still, brown depths of an inland lagoon. There was no indication that man had set foot there before, no road, no track or anything other than the whispery quiet of a land as old as time.

He shivered and turned back to face the broad reaches of the river, and from his higher elevation raised his telescope and carefully quartered the scene. The far bank seemed flat and swampy with the blue of distant hills, and everywhere the dark green of continuous verdure right to the water's edge, so unlike the parched soils and stark landscapes of Port Jackson.

He wandered down and around the lagoon, tramping noisily through the undergrowth as he looked for signs. There might well be black people living near, Kydd reasoned, who could tell him if other Europeans were about. Or be fiercely hostile to any who trespassed on their land.

Nothing. And all around strange eucalypts, harsh grasses with the occasional ghostly pale dead gum tree and the haunting fragrance of oils released from crushed leaves.

He scrambled back; the tide water had receded but the seamen had kept the boat afloat. Kydd squelched out to it. There was nothing for it but to set out upstream.

In the beguiling peace of the placid waterway Suffolk spread topsails and left the entrance astern. There was an ageless somnolence to the river. From the time of creation until just a year or two ago this land had never seen a white man; now Kydd's own track would be added to the few on the chart.

A near conical misty blue peak rose above the distant trees. Mount Direction. It was over twenty miles further on and had been recorded by Flinders as of more value than a compass, given the several local magnetic anomalies that had distracted him. Kydd seized on the sight for its human connection in the unknown wilderness.

The schooner sailed on. For a dozen miles they were able to steer a straight course. Then they followed a lazy bend to bring Mount Direction ahead once more for another eight or nine miles of easy sailing through country that, but for its untouched verdancy, might have been in Oxfordshire.

It was peaceful yet eerie, sailing in such a picturesque landscape—an unseen river shoal might bring their voyage to a lurching end, or the sight of a stockade and fort would herald the presence of the French. For nearly thirty miles they made their way until they reached the limits of Flinders's exploration: it was far enough. Kydd was not equipped as an explorer and the river had contracted considerably. Wherever else the French had gone, there was no sign of them in Port Dalrymple.

His orders were clear: the next most probable site for a French settlement was in the far south, at the other end of the island. Yet could they possibly be anywhere else in the north? Somewhere in the fifty-mile sprawl of the Furneaux Islands at the northeast tip of Van Diemen's Land? Robbins in the Cumberland was convinced that they would be found at King Island in the corresponding north-western tip.

Should he not at least take a look first before committing to the voyage south? The Furneaux group, however, made a perilous maze of islets and shoals, and any kind of inspection would take days. There had to be a quicker way of finding Baudin and his ships.

He had it. He would go to Renzi's sealers and ask them if they had seen the French. And there was a prime place to go— islands that lay directly athwart the passage through Bass Strait, between the continental mainland and the Furneaux group— Kent's group.

"Mr Renzi, I believe it t' be time to make visit to y'r sealers."

A tiny smile appeared. "Thank you, Mr Kydd."

Kydd laid course for the islands. According to the hand-drawn chart, there was clear water all the way. With time fleeting by he would chance a night passage. However, it would be cloudy and dark and their first warning of danger would be the gleam of white breakers in the murk. Suffolk turned her bowsprit northeast and sheeted in for a long beat.

Morning dawned on a tumbling waste of grey-green water and the irregular rounded summits of what appeared to be a double island. "Cap'n Kent's group," Kydd said definitively. It was not hard to recognise from the description: as they drew nearer, a deep-cleft channel became evident that completely separated a steep, hummocky island to the east from a smaller to the west.

The islands had been explored only the previous year and Kydd had just the pencilled remarks by the explorer, Murray of the Lady Nelson, on an earlier rudimentary map. He approached cautiously. Granite pillars tinged with the yellows and reds of lichens soared out of the sea at the entrance—a bare few hundred yards across and leading into the cleft passage.

A landing place was marked not far inside. They entered—and in one dizzying motion were gyrated broadside to their track, then round and back again in the grip of a current so fierce that miniature whirlpools formed and re-formed as they were swept along.

About to roar orders to hand sail, Kydd felt the wind die. The sails hung limp, an extraordinary thing with the sea wind's bluster only yards away out of the passage. Helpless, they whirled along as fast as a man could run. Kydd's order changed hastily to an anchoring, but as the readied bower splashed down, a blast of wind from the other direction bullied and blustered at them for long minutes until the lee gunwale was awash. The williwaw eased, and Suffolk swung to her anchor into the current while she snugged down to bare masts.

"A tide rip," Kydd said to Boyd. "I should have known it, th' passage running at such a parallel t' Bass Strait. Would've been helpful t' make mention o' this on the chart."

The boat was prepared, a mast stepped for the run in to the little cove. "Nicholas?" Kydd was cheered at the first sign of animation he had seen in his friend. Renzi looked about with interest as they curved towards the sandy beach at the head of the cove. A dark-timbered boat lay upside down in the dune grass.

Avoiding rounded red-stained rocks they hissed to a stop at the water's edge and clambered out. Immediately, the back of Kydd's throat was caught by the thick reek of a waft of blubber-oil smoke. A track beaten through the tussocky grass led past the upturned boat. Renzi took the lead energetically and they hurried forward.

Over the rise the track threaded through more dramatic granite pinnacles and suddenly opened into a rough clearing with half a dozen crude huts, constructed of driftwood and bark. In front of one a short man in a leather apron stiff with gore was stuffing chunks of seal flesh into a vast tryworks over a fire.

"Wha' do ye want?" he shrilled nervously. His appearance was the most squalid and dirty that Kydd had ever seen, his grey beard and whiskers sprouting unchecked, his eyes beady and suspicious. An Aboriginal woman emerged from the hut and stood goggling at the intruders.

Renzi seemed taken aback but stepped forward and offered a wicker bottle, which the man snatched greedily. "I'm here to enquire about the sealing trade, with a view to, er, investment," he said doubtfully.

The man hefted the bottle and shook it next to his ear before he answered. "You gov'ment?" he squeaked.

"No," Renzi said. "Nor Navy. I want to know directly about you sealers—what's the cost, what's the profit, what you have to do."

The man cocked his head to one side and cackled harshly. "Has ye got any vittles? Man gets tired o' seal an' penguin meat b'times."

"I'm sure I can find you something if my business is concluded satisfactorily," Renzi offered.

The man nodded. "What d'ye want t' know, then?" He took a long swig from the bottle, and then began. It was a brutally hard life: men were left alone with provisions on the impossibly remote islands of Bass Strait to hunt seals. A ship would return months or even years later to retrieve them, with their accumulated pelts and oil. Some were entirely on their own while others were joined by runaway convicts and drifters to become sealing gangs.

It was clearly extremely profitable: from nothing to hundreds of sealers, possibly more, in just the few years since discovery implied that an insatiable demand was driving a massive expansion of the industry.

Renzi lightened visibly at this but Kydd broke in impatiently: "M' friend—we need t' know—have ye b' chance heard anything o' the French? Two fair-size ships bound west'd? We think they want t' claim an' settle somewhere in Van Diemen's Land. Have ye heard tell at all?"

The man screwed up his face in concentration and replied, "Did see ships, but three on 'em."

"Three!"

"Two big an' a pawky sloop a week ago. Could be y' French, but me eyes ain't as they was."

It was doubtful but Kydd persevered: "Was they t' the north or south o' this island?" If they had taken the north side they were probably on their way through the strait—Robbins and Cumberland would find them. To the south would imply that they were somewhere along the northern coast where Suffolk had been. And if the wretched man was mistaken or lying . . . the French might even now be dropping down the east coast of Van Diemen's Land to make their landings in the far south—in the Derwent.

"Ah, now, I can't rightly remember. North, was it?"

"Thank ye," Kydd said. The man could tell them little more. "Now, Nicholas, if you've hoisted aboard enough o' the sealing profession . . ."

Renzi hesitated. "Dear fellow, if it were at all possible to remain an hour or two more, it would gratify my curiosity infinitely to observe the procedures to be followed in . . . acquiring the pelts."

"Y' wants t' see?" The man's gap-toothed smile widened as he looked pointedly at the bottle. At Renzi's understanding nod, he chortled. "Come wi' me."

The trail led to a ridged summit overlooking a wide slab of rock, slimed with droppings and inclined down to the sea. The area was nearly covered with seals, pale fur seals and their darker-skinned pups lying in the weak sun, suckling, flopping up from the water's edge or squabbling with each other. Seabirds wheeled above, their cries piercing the din of squealing and barking.

"We waits f'r low tide—more room ter move." They watched as other sealers hefting clubs and lances appeared and crouched out of sight of the seals.

A sudden hoarse animal cry was quickly taken up by others. The gang of sealers had got to their feet and were racing in from both sides along the edge of the water, cutting off the seals from their escape. When the two lines of men met they turned in and set to the slaughter.

The ungainly animals had no chance: wildly swinging clubs smashed skulls in a gleeful orgy of killing. Terrified beasts squealed and tried to flounder away, but were overtaken and mercilessly dispatched. In a very short time the foreshore was aswim with blood from a hundred corpses.

The last of the seals herded far up from the sanctuary of the sea suffered a similar fate. In a pathetic gesture of defiance one male seal turned on his killers to defend the females but it only served to make his attacker miss his stroke and the creature screamed in the pain of splintered bones. In disgust the sealer moved on from a damaged pelt, leaving the animal to thrash about in its final agony.

It had taken just minutes. Now the frantic pace slowed as the butchery began. Each piteous body was deprived of its skin, leaving an unrecognisable bloody mass; blubber was peeled away and carried off to the tryworks while an occasional long-drawn-out shriek came from an animal incompletely killed, whose skin was torn from it while still alive.

A charnel house of blood, bones and viscera on the rock slab waited to be washed off by the next tide but of the life that was there before there was nothing left.

The silence on the summit above was broken by the sealer. "We takes th' skins an' salts 'em down. Wan' t' see 'em? We got more'n two thousan' skins an' three hunnerd barrels of oil ready," he said proudly. "China market takes all we c'n get."

Before nightfall Suffolk was stretching south past the bleak fastness of Furneaux Island with the intention of reaching Banks Strait by dawn; on board there was little conversation and Renzi slipped below, his face pale and stricken.

In the morning a backing north-easterly met the strong east-going tidal stream and an unpleasant toppling sea kept the decks wet, the motion uncomfortable. However, the same conditions meant that the many half-tide rocks and islets were betrayed by sullen breaking seas in flurries of white round a jagged dark menace.

Black Reef was laid well to starboard by noon and, easing away southward in accordance with orders, the little vessel began the run to the opposite end of Van Diemen's Land. Now clear of the rock-strewn Bass Strait and into open water it was plain sailing with no fear of peril. All square sail was set with the favourable northerly and the schooner seethed along; Kydd sent the men to their meals and Boyd went below for a rest.

It was pleasurable sailing; the northerly still had the warmth of the continent and the seas were moderate, the ship well found and willing. Kydd missed the precision and bluff certainties of the Navy but that was now in the fast-receding past. In a short while he would be on his way back to England and his promised merchant ship—and who knew? His naval service in command might be attractive to the prestigious East India Company in the grand routes to India and beyond, and with his experience in the commercial sphere mounting, he might well be offered . . .

His thoughts turned to Renzi. He had changed, now so unlike his previous elegant self. Gone was the noble poise and sureness of touch, the quiet logic informing a character of calm self-possession. In its place was a brittle defensiveness, a pathetic pretence at what should have been a natural instinct—the station of well-born gentleman. Whatever had happened since he put down roots in New South Wales had affected him severely, and now this business with the sealers. Just what did it all mean?

Automatically Kydd glanced up at the rigging; the sails were all drawing well and trimmed to satisfaction, but his eyes were caught by the sight ahead of clouds in a peculiar regular formation. He had seen precursors to foul weather around the world— the Mediterranean tramontana, electrical storms off Africa and, indeed, howling gales in the North Atlantic; this seemed of no account, though, and he dismissed it from his mind.

He breathed deep of the clean sea air and found himself drawn to his family so far away, especially his sister Cecilia. Was there anything he could do for her? It would have been a sad blow to lose the position that had elevated her beyond expectation. Ironically, he mused, she had suffered from the same declaration of peace that had brought to an end his own treasured career.

Boyd came on deck, paused, sniffing the wind and reorienting to current conditions. He looked forward and stiffened in alarm, then hurried aft.

"Sir, we must get th' sail off her." The cloud had consolidated into a remarkable elongated roll that lay curiously suspended above the sea for miles across their track, not at all suggestive of danger.

"How so, Mr Boyd?" said Kydd, looking at the oddity. There had been nothing like this before the onset of any bad weather in his experience, but Boyd seemed disturbed by the sight.

"This is y'r Southerly Buster, Mr Kydd. 'Twill be a rare moil soon, sir. Wind c'n swing a whole sixteen points in a minute or so and catch ye flat aback."

Kydd was learning more about this strange southern world with its different stars in the heavens, and seasons turned on their head, but it would not do to defy the elements. "Very well, Mr Boyd, do what ye will t' get the barky in shape f'r it."

All square sail vanished, followed by the foresail, leaving Suffolk languidly rolling to a jib and close-reefed main. The line of cloud advanced and distant hanging curtains of white on the grey told Kydd that this was a species of line squall—but it was closing at a disturbing rate.

"We'll rig hand lines," he ordered. These were secured along the deck for safety; Suffolk was not so big that she could withstand a sudden roll when the squall hit.

The quality of light altered as the cloud threw a dull pall over the seascape—and then it was upon them. The warm, reliable northerly transformed in an instant to a chill, streaming bluster and, as promised, it shifted around in bursts of spite until, in gusts of cold, driving rain, it stayed steady in the south.

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.

He set a strict compass course according to the chart and stood by it as they plunged on, his uneasiness increasing as the stern coastlines faded into the twilight. "Another light!" he snapped— he could barely see the binnacle—but before the lanthorn arrived he saw something that touched his being with the eerie chill of the supernatural. Attuned to the angle of the waves and the steady pressure of wind on his cheek, his seaman's senses told him that they were on the same course but the compass was calmly stepping away to the west. Five, ten, fifteen degrees away: should he put up the helm to counteract? Or hold whatever course the compass told?

"Ease t' starboard," Kydd muttered at last. It ruined his dead reckoning but he had to compromise between the two. The white of the helmsman's eyes flashed in the dimness as he looked anxiously between the compass and Kydd.

Unbelievably, it happened again—this time in the opposite direction. Five, ten degrees and more; frantic, Kydd tried mentally to compensate but, with a seaman's sixth sense, he knew that land was looming near. To shorten sail would be to lose the ability to react quickly, but to keep on a press of sail could end in shipwreck.

"Send a hand wi' a lead line forrard," he threw at Boyd.

A man stumbled to the bow and began the swing. He had just sung out the first sounding—eleven fathoms—when he stood rigid, his voice rising to a falsetto. "Breakers, f'r Chrissakes!" He pointed to larboard and a roiling white in the sea that, in the heightened atmosphere of the half-light, was cold with menace.

They could no longer bear for the Derwent. Kydd's thoughts skipped chaotically in his tiredness, clinging to scraps of reality.

He became aware of a long dark mass in the night, precipitous and bold, lying parallel to their course. Flogging his memory to bring the outline of the chart to mind, he could have sworn there was no headland facing them—an island? They were close enough to hear the sullen roar and thud of the seas that ended their onrush at its rocky foot. If an island, there had to be a lee at the end, before the coastline proper.

"Get that swab forrard t' work," he roared, in his anxiety, and to Boyd he snarled, "Stand by t' anchor—yes, to anchor, damn you!"

He glanced at the helm. "Steady, lad," he said to the frightened youngster. The island seemed to go on for ever until, quite suddenly, the dark bulk fell away. "Down y'r helm, now!" he barked, and cupped his hand to bawl, "Stan' by, forrard!"

As he had suspected the wind fell away to a confused gust-ing and the seas quieted. "Let go, forrard!" he shouted, and felt rather than heard the rush of cable over the deck. "Douse y'r fore 'n' main," he ordered the men at the brails, then sensed the schooner feel her anchor. He stared into the darkness for any clue as to where they were but saw nothing and simply thanked Providence that they were now snugly at anchor where but for a few yards they could have been yet another wreck on this desolate shore.

In the wan light of morning Kydd strained to see where they were. Suffolk was snubbing contentedly to her anchor on the northern end of a steep island, but not half a mile distant was a long, low beach that extended for miles in both directions. If they had continued past the island in the night they would have ended shattered and broken on a sandy shore.

The chart told the rest of the story. He had been right: apart from a small wedge-shaped island past Cape Raoul there was no other in Storm Bay. Therefore this had to be Betsey's Island, just at the mid-point between the two leads of Frederick Henry Bay and the Derwent.

"Let's be having ye," Kydd briskly told Boyd. "Hands t' unmoor ship."

It was a matter of less than an hour to win the three miles to the west, which placed them past the sloping face of Cape Direction and squarely in the spacious channel of the Derwent for the final leg. As with Port Dalrymple, Flinders had named a peak Mount Direction. Now ahead, it would show the eventual navigable head of the river, but what dominated all was the flat-topped bulk of a four-thousand-feet-high mountain: Mount Table, the chart said.

If there was to be a settlement then, sensibly, it would be at the foot of the great mountain. But the open bay before it was hidden from view round a point. They sailed on in trepidation: what would be the form of the French occupation? Huts, the streets laid out already, a tricolore floating out above soldiers drilling on a square?

There were no boats crisscrossing the calm waters but the ships had probably left some time before. They passed a smaller mountain, every man of Suffolk's crew on deck, staring forward. Then, suddenly, they were beyond the point and into the wide final bay beyond.

For a split second Kydd's mind was filled with dread in anticipation of what he would see but a hasty swing about by eye showed nothing to interrupt the smooth carpet of dark green vegetation spread out in every direction. His telescope went up rapidly to inspect every part of the shoreline.

And then it hit him. The French were not there! He had been to the two finest locations for a settlement in Van Diemen's Land and found them both unoccupied. It was beyond belief that any Frenchman in possession of the same geographic knowledge as himself would pass up the chance to plant his colony in the best setting available in favour of a lesser. The only reasonable conclusion was that they had made it in time. King's plan to forestall the French with a sub-colony could proceed. This new land would speak English and be a little piece of England at the far end of the earth, and generations to come would mark this year as the birth of their land.

Filled with awe and wonder at the implications, Kydd ordered Suffolk to the head of the cove where the Derwent entered, but it was not really necessary: the river narrowed quickly and could no longer take deep-sea vessels. Any settlement would be nestled under the great mountain. Their business in the south was now concluded and they could return to the civilisation of Port Jackson.

The voyage of return would be five hundred miles and more— it would be prudent to water before they set out. The nearest watering, however, was a complete unknown in this wilderness, but then Kydd remembered Adventure Bay at the far end of Van Diemen's Land. There, Captain Cook himself had stopped to water, as had Bligh and others.

Suffolk went about and left the fertile green coves of the Derwent astern, making her southing in several broad reaches. As they dropped down the river Renzi appeared from below and sat on the foredeck staring into nothing, a bent and lonely figure.

Storm Bay opened up; away over on the larboard bow would be Cape Raoul and the open sea but they kept in with the land to starboard until they reached the long island that had so figured in the logs and journals of famous explorers. Half-way along, a demilune bay all of seven miles across opened up—Adventure Bay.

Kydd could have reached for his chart and seen precisely where both Cook and Furneaux had watered, but he had no need: the position was clear in his mind. Bligh was then serving as master under Cook and had remembered the location when he needed to water Bounty on his way to Tahiti. He had last cast 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—ab initio—a kingdom of the soil, a fine achievement to—to . . ."

"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 her." His face distorted into a paroxysm of grief. He dropped hopelessly to his knees and broke into choking, tearing sobbing.

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?"

Renzi held still.

"I put it t' ye, if you set to it heart and hand, you'd make a better fist of explaining this ragabash existence than all th' philosophic gentlemen who've never passed beyond their own front door. Nicholas, this is y'r future. You shall write a book o' sorts that settles it f'r good an' all. This, dear chap," Kydd brought out all the feeling he could muster, "is an achievement as no one of the ordinary sort can lay claim to, and therefore must be worthy o' Cecilia's notice."

As with any brother, it was hard to conceive that his sister might be the one to evoke passion and turmoil in an otherwise admirable character but it had to be accepted. He waited apprehensively for a response.

Renzi drew himself up with a long, shuddering sigh. "Just so." He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and trumpeted into it. "But it would be more apposite—in view of my fortune in the matter of travel—to consider, perhaps, a more ethnical approach. Possibly a study of sorts, a comparing of the human experience— of a response if you will, of the multitude of the tribes of man to the onrush of civilisation, a Rousseau of our time if I were to be so bold. It would have to be in volumes and—"

"As I thought as well," Kydd said, in huge relief. "A great work. Worthy of a great mind." Then, as furtive as a thief in the night, an idea sprang into being, a wonderful, incredible idea. "Nicholas," he began innocently, "o' course you shall have passage back t' England in the Castle but what happens then? Shall ye not have y'r voyages an' adventures that will give you grist for y'r mill? It does cross m' mind—that is, if'n you're right about Gen'ral Buonaparte—that I'll get m' ship." He paused significantly. "Now, if that happens as ye say, then there'll be a need f'r the captain t' have one by him whom he might confide in, one as knows how th' world turns, c'n tell me why things are—an' can be a true friend."

Kydd hesitated, then went on, "So I'm offering—that whatever ship I'm in the post of captain's secretary will always be there for y'r convenience, y'r guarantee that you'll be able t' hoist in y'r ethnical experiences wherever we might cast anchor th' world over. Just a convenience, o' course, y'r right t' be aboard, we say."

The words tailed off. Renzi looked seaward, then slowly turned to Kydd with a half-smile. "It does seem that the conceit has some degree of merit. I'll think on it."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In many ways Command is a watershed book in the Thomas Kydd series. My hero has actually achieved the majesty of his own quarterdeck, and his life will never be the same again. It may seem an improbable transformation of a young perruquier of Guildford, press-ganged into His Majesty's Navy less than ten years before, but the historical record tells us that there were Thomas Kydds, not many admittedly, but enough to be tantalising to a writer's imagination. Yet we have so few records of their odysseys—how they must have felt, what impelled them to the top.

What actually triggered this series were some statistics that I came across. It seems that in the bitter French wars at the end of the eighteenth century, there were, out of the hundreds of thousands of seamen in the Navy over that time, 120, who by their own courage, resolution and brute tenacity made the awe-inspiring journey from common seaman at the fo'c'sle to King's officer on the quarterdeck. And of those 120, a total of 22 became captains of their own ship—and a miraculous 3, possibly 5, became admirals!

Some readers have asked if there was one of these men on whom I modelled Tom Kydd. The short answer is no, he is a composite of them all and a result of my author's imagination. But in him there are certainly elements of those like William Mitchell, a seaman who survived being flogged around the fleet for deserting his ship over a woman—500 lashes—and later became an admiral; Bowen of the Glorious First of June, and still others—in Victory at Trafalgar her famous signal lieutenant, Pascoe, hailed from before the mast and the first lieutenant, Quilliam, was a pressed man, who like Kydd was promoted from the lower deck at the Battle of Camperdown.

The great age of fighting sail was a time of huge contrasts and often very hard conditions, admittedly, but at least in the Royal Navy then it was conceivable for a young man of talent and ambition to rise far above his station. I do remember my feelings when I became an officer, having begun my sea career on the lower deck. And sometimes I idly wonder, had I lived back then, could I have been a Tom Kydd?

I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people I consulted in the process of writing this book. Space precludes mentioning them all but I would like to convey special thanks to Joseph Muscat of Malta, whose encyclopaedic knowledge of Mediterranean craft was invaluable when I was doing location research, and Captain Reuben Lanfranco, director of the Maritime Institute of Malta for his insights into his nation's sea heritage; also to my Australian researcher Josef Hextall, half-way across the planet, who provided me with engrossing and detailed material on the early days of Australia. As always, my appreciation of their efforts must go to literary agent Carole Blake, marine artist Geoff Hunt RSMA, editorial director Carolyn Mays and assistant editor Alex Bonham. Carolyn heads up a superb literary and creative team at Hodder Stoughton; my thanks to them all.

Last, I salute the contribution of my wife and literary partner, Kathy. Kydd and Renzi now seem so real to us both, and we look forward to bringing their adventures to you for many more books to come.

THE THOMAS KYDD SHIPMATES NETWORK

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