English passengers (32 page)

P
ORT
P
HILLIP
B
AY
was a curious sort of spot, being so wide we couldn’t even see the far shore, though it was every drop of it packed behind a little narrow bottleneck of an entrance. This was the very kind of spot you’d expect to find pilots loitering, and worse besides, and sure enough, as we passed between the headlands I saw a little house come into view, hidden nicely from the main ocean. More interesting even than the house, though, was the cutter. This had already spread its sails in the water just below, and was making good progress to a certain spot in the ocean where we’d shortly find ourselves. A handsomely stocked vessel she was, too, with a couple of cannon at her prow, six soldiers in prettiest red stood on her deck, and a uniformed Port Phillip Englishman besides, who, as soon as he was near enough, started wondering at the top of his voice if we might have a mind to heave to directly, so he could come aboard and tell us hello.

Well, I didn’t need any schooling to tell me who he was. A wonderful thing it was that a fellow could steer a vessel clear halfway around the planet, till he was clean underneath the barnacles and weeds of his own ship’s hull of four months before, and still he could catch himself just the same friendly greeting that he’d got on the other side. My only worry was that word might have been sent ahead of us from Cape Colony. I had thought of dropping those pieces of Maldon silver overboard, just to be safe, but it seemed a shame to fling good spending money into the ocean, so somehow they’d stayed all the while. It was too late now.

‘‘Your papers, Captain?’’ This was our invader, Mr. Robins, tidal waiter for the Colony of Victoria, and was said with all the charm I’d come to expect of Her Majesty’s servants, being no charm at all. A sullen child of a fellow he was—probably at his being posted on the edge of nowhere—and he scowled as if we’d sailed all the way from Man Island just to spoil his afternoon.

‘‘We’ve nothing in the hold except stores and ballast,’’ I told him. ‘‘The ship’s been chartered by these gentlemen for their expedition.’’ With this I pointed out the Reverend—beaming like your proper adventuring vicar—and Dr. Potter. I suppose I had noticed that tidal waiter Robins had the same high and snotty way of speaking as our passengers—I even wondered what trouble he’d got up to to get himself so banished—but still I never guessed how he’d change when he put a sight on some his own kind. Why, for once I was almost pleased to have those Englishmen aboard. Robins’ face lit up like a lamp and all at once he and the Reverend were chattering away nineteen to the dozen, discovering distant cousins that might be neighbours or recalling some wondrous fine fellow that they both of them knew hardly at all. Next they were having a fine old Englishman’s gossip—which Potter joined in as well— which was all fretting at the latest worries afflicting those poor Dukes and Princes who owned England. It was quite as if they’d all known each other for years.

‘‘Will you be wanting to have a look round the ship then?’’ I asked when they let off for a moment, as I thought it only wise to offer. Truly, I need hardly have bothered. Our invader, Mr. Robins, troubled himself with the briefest of glances down one of the hatches, then returned to his feast of chatter. Finally, when he’d glutted himself fit to burst, he bid a reluctant farewell to his new friends, called away his six soldiers and let us be. That was just the kind of customs inspection I could grow to like.

He left us with a pilot, which was as well, too, as the chart I’d got cheap in Cape Colony had not a town or settlement marked. I could only suppose there’d been still nothing here when it was drawn, two dozen years before. When we finally came in sight of Melbourne, a couple of days later, I was surprised at the size of the place, seeing as it had only just happened. A great spread of a town it was, smearing all across that flat nothingness like some mighty spillage, with a few church
spires and such poking up for grandeur. Why, it looked several times larger than Peel City, which struck me as hardly fair, seeing as Peel had been sitting there quiet and patient beside St. Patrick’s Isle for as long as anyone knew. On the other hand, it was a good sign for us. If there was jink enough to build a whole city from nothing in hardly a moment, then we should get a fine old price for our certain cargo.

It was only as we got near that I noticed the ships. Scores of them there were, lining the sides of the little river harbour to rot, and a sad little mystery they made too with their peeling paint and their ropes and shrouds hanging slack. As it turned out, though, there was a kind of grim promise even here. While our passengers moaned themselves over the wrecked ship we were moored to—off to catch those lodging-house tub baths that they were always fussing about—I saw there was some old article on the shore, piling barrels onto a cart. It was him I asked what had caused the vessels to be abandoned.

‘‘Gold,’’ he cackled. ‘‘Or dreams of gold.’’ He told how the crews, and even their officers, had all jumped ship and run away to the diggings to try and make their fortunes. ‘‘That was at the height of the madness, mind, when half the town was gone. Why, it got so that grand folks couldn’t find themselves servants, and were down to cooking their dinners and washing their own underclothes. They didn’t like that much, neither.’’

‘‘Is gold still being found?’’ asked Brew.

The old fellow shrugged. ‘‘The diggings are long claimed, but that’s not to say there mightn’t be another strike somewhere else. There’s rumours all the time.’’

I gave a nod to Brew—a licking-my-lips, jink-coloured nod—and he nodded back just the same. A land of gold. Why, I was even pleased now that Cape Colony had been a useless, cheating free port, as it meant we had the goods still to sell. Here we might catch gold enough for seven cargoes.

First, though, we had chores to do.
A new port is new work,
as the man says, and this Melbourne was no exception. I set the crew hauling up empty water casks from the hold, to keep them busy and stop them moaning about money to spend ashore, and I busied myself with the harbour paperwork, which, of course, brought another little visit from
the customs. Fortunately this proved as harmless as the other had been, being a big fat slug of a body named Bowles, who seemed mostly made of beard, black and thick, that grew all up his face, almost to his eyes, so he looked as if he was hiding in a black hedge. Bowles hardly troubled us except to ask about our being Manx—which I could hardly deny—and if we had bought anything at Cape Colony, which I had no need to go telling stories about, seeing as we never had anyway. That done, he left us be, nice as nip. All in all I was beginning to like these Victoria revenue boys, and reckoned they should some of them be sent back to England, to tell that Captain Clarke and his friends how to behave.

It was not long after we saw the back of Bowles that we had another visitor. A little stob of a fellow he was, with too much smile in him. It’s usual enough to have some harbour cheat climb onto your deck, offering flea-filled rooms or a choice bargain of liquor and females, and I hardly troubled myself as he clambered aboard. ‘‘Harry Fields.’’ He held out a hand that was surprisingly large compared to the rest of him, as if it was where all his growing had gone. ‘‘Just arrived, are you? From the Cape, I’ll wager.’’

‘‘What if we are?’’

My suspicion seemed almost to please him. ‘‘I arrange purchases. If you’ve anything to sell, I’m your man.’’

‘‘What kind of anything?’’

A scrinched, knowing sort of look came over him. ‘‘Who could say?’’

Well, here was a thing. The fact was we needed a buyer of the right kind. Till now I’d been planning on asking about the town for Port Phillip Manxmen—which was always a hope, Manxmen being brave travellers—just in case somebody’s cousin was here in Melbourne, and could set us on the right road. That would take time, though, while there was no guarantee there’d be even one. This little fellow Fields would be taking a risk, for sure, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just what we needed. I glanced at Brew and he glanced at me. Now, one of the handy things about being a Manxman is that you never need to trouble yourself about being overheard if you’ve something quiet to say. While your Englishman must go through a whole bother of stepping out of the room or whispering like a plotter, your Manxman can simply chatter away in his own sweet tongue, safe in knowledge that there’s hardly a
soul on earth besides other Manxmen will understand a word. Irishmen and Highlander Scotsmen can catch some, to be true, but even they’ll have trouble, while to your Englishman it’s as clear as purest Chinese. So Brew and I never troubled to lower our voices, but discussed the body clean over his own head.

‘‘He looks like a rotten cheating sleetch,’’ I said, giving the fellow a smile, which he returned happily enough.

‘‘Mind you, isn’t that just the sort of fellow we’re looking for?’’ answered Brew.

‘‘He could be scrutineering for the customs.’’

Brew shrugged. ‘‘That’s danger whoever we find.’’

This was true enough. All in all I decided this Fields was worth spying on, at the very least. ‘‘It’s soon yet to be knowing if we’ve anything to sell, seeing as we’re just arrived,’’ I told him, ‘‘but is there somewhere we can find you, if we have a change of mind?’’

He seemed content enough with that, did little Harry Fields, and gave us the name of a tavern where he spent his evenings. As he scuttled away, I called over Kinvig—who seemed the proper choice for blending into crowds, being such a little mhinyag himself—and sent him following.

Later that afternoon Brew and myself set off ourselves, and so we put our first sight on an Australian town. Tiring it was, too, that Melbourne, with its long straight streets and a faint smell of madness in the air, being the sort of place that drains all the soo out of a man and leaves him feeling thirsty and brittle for a fight. A patchy sort of place it was, almost as if its gold had dropped from the sky in tiny showers, drenching one spot but leaving another dry as bones. Here there’d be a building tall as Castle Rushen, all made from finest stone, cut so neat it made a body feel scruffy just to walk past. Next along there’d be just an old fence covered with peeling placards, or a mighty pile of rubbish stinking in the sun. One district we strayed into—though not for long—had missed the gold entirely, being all shacks made from packing cases and calico, or even just coloured paper, so you could see clear through at whoever was inside—usually some woman holding babies—who’d turn and give you a scowl for peeping.

The gold seemed as choosy with townspeople as it was with buildings. There were a good few lucky ones, diggers as I guessed they must
be, being wild-looking bodies with long hair and gold rings on every finger like knuckle-dusters. Judging by their chatter they came from most everywhere, and I heard Irish talk, American and all manner of European foreignness, and even some Chinamen with pigtails. The only ones I didn’t see were any Australian bluemen, which seemed quite a surprise, too. I’d have expected there’d be scores of the fellows, seeing as this was where they sprang from.

Waiting to catch a few drops of gold from the diggers were scarlet girls aplenty. These looked like they’d been doing well enough, some of them, lounging about as if it was their own town, and dressed so fine they might almost have been proper ladies except for their loitering, and their come-along glances. Why, they had the respectable females looking quite peeved. As darkness fell, I could see the proper ones creeping off home and leaving them to it, and all of a rush the town started tumbling into drink and shouting, as if it was hoping to forget itself till dawn. It was a rough sort of spot, no doubting, and I was glad enough when I finally set eyes on the tavern we sought—a huge palace of a thing with a wooden front three floors high—and saw Kinvig waiting at the corner just opposite.

‘‘I kept a sight on Fields all day,’’ he told us proudly.

‘‘And?’’

‘‘I didn’t see him chatter to anyone who looked like a uniform. Mostly he was in taverns and liquor shops. I tried to ask about him once, from some old fellow I’d seen him talking to, but all I got was growls and threats and ‘What’s it to you?’ ’’

That sounded right enough. ‘‘Did you find out if there are any Manxmen here?’’

‘‘There was a body thought he’d met some, though he wasn’t sure if they might’ve been Irishmen. Either way, he thought they’d gone off to the diggings.’’

That was hardly much use, the diggings being a proper journey away. I took a glance through the tavern window and caught a glimpse of Fields sat in a corner. He didn’t look like a customs pet. ‘‘All right. Let’s see what price he’s giving.’’

The answer, as it turned out, was a fine price indeed. Why, I could hardly believe my own ears. Fields said himself that there was a proper
thirst for good French brandy in the colony, the diggers having caught themselves expensive tastes, but still I had to strain myself not to give a mighty smile. This wasn’t pennies he was talking, but a shiny dazzle of jink, a great pouring of the stuff, and enough to quiet Ealisad from a year of sulks. It was all I could do to remember myself and push for some extra on top, which I got so easy that I could’ve kicked myself for not asking for more. Just a little more chatter and a glass or two of the local brew and it was all settled.

‘‘That was the road to go all right,’’ said Brew, as we stepped back into the noise of the street, grinning as if he’d found a bag of sovereigns in the dirt. ‘‘No doubting it.’’

I can’t say I thought any different. There’s something in the spirit of Manxmen, though, that doesn’t like too much delighting in a thing. ‘‘Though we’ve not seen a penny yet,’’ I warned him, ‘‘and, as the man says, there’s much between saying and doing.’’

Brew pulled himself up sharpish to match, giving himself a careful face. ‘‘Ah, that’s true enough. As the old fellow says, a green hill when far away, bare, bare when it is near.’’