English passengers (66 page)

In I climbed. I could see no light shining in from Potter’s end, so the hatch to the dining cabin must still be closed, which was something. Unless he’d guessed us, of course, and was waiting his moment. Whatever he was doing, we couldn’t afford being heard, that was sure, so I whispered to the boys to take themselves aft and pester him with all the noise they were able. Before long I could hear them shouting into his den, calling him names—which is a fine skill of Manxmen—and China and me started our little journey.

This wasn’t easy. We had to drop down to where it was narrower and more slanting so we’d not slip, and even then it was hard to feel a way ahead—our legs being all sort of twisted with the timbers—while all the time we were trying to keep from scraping the axe and the belaying pin, and so giving ourselves away. The further we went, the darker it got, and the stronger was the smell of brandy and tobacco. All around me I could hear the timbers creaking, to remind us that we were lodged in just a little slip of air, with seawater by the ton pressing in from both sides. I’d chosen the side that hadn’t been battered by the mast but it wouldn’t
make much difference, as if the timbers went the
Sincerity
would dive down quicker than porpoises. My other worry was that some bit of England might suddenly come smashing through the side, as our surprise. As we went, the sounds of the boys’ tauntings changed and changed again, growing louder and softer, harsher and muffled, as they found some different way to seep through the ship’s woodwork. Finally there was a loud bang that was answered with laughter and told me they must have riled Potter into wasting a bullet. It seemed they’d found the right names for him, then.

By then we’d finally reached the end. We wedged ourselves between the timbers like a proper pair of chimney sweeps, then prized our way upwards, till finally I felt the touch of the cable that sprang the trap. I could hear no sound apart from the shouting of the boys. If Potter had stumbled upon the entrance—as he well might have, squatting in my cabin for all these months—then he’d be ready as rabbits, but there was nothing to do but try. The hatch had never creaked before and I hoped it hadn’t got into bad habits. Gently as could be, I pulled up the cable, holding the catch to stop it clicking too loud. Jump it went and the hatch came loose. I waited a moment—for no reason at all, you know, except to put it off—and then, very gently, I pushed it upwards, holding its weight, so Queen Victoria swung over nice and gently.

Out I peered, quite dazzled by the light. There was Potter, or rather his back, crouched with all his guns behind a proper wall of his packing cases, as he stared away down the passage. That was a piece of luck. One of the boys must have just said something, as even while I looked he pointed his pistol and fired it off. That was more luck again. My ears were ringing like seven bells and his would be worse. Belaying pin ready, I was just about to pull myself up through the hatch when all of a sudden I felt myself tugged back. Would you believe it, that big gorm China Clucas was pushing me out of the way, so he could clamber up himself. For a bad moment I quite feared he meant to warn Potter—after all, he’d quite worshipped him for healing his pig gash—but no, I couldn’t have been more wrong. By the time I poked my head up through, Potter was twisting round—must have heard him coming—though he was too slow. I’m sure China didn’t mean to do for him, as he didn’t use the axe blade
but gave him a tap with the metal back of the handle. Then again there’s nothing to get a man’s rage going like admiration gone sour. He caught Potter on the head, just above his eye, making a strangest sound, like a barrel being staved. That was enough. Down went the doctor, all clattering guns and flying mess.

I pulled myself through the hatch and had a scratch of my chin. ‘‘That’s that then.’’

China looked sort of sheepish. ‘‘I didn’t mean to…’’

I shook my head. ‘‘Don’t you go troubling your conscience with that one, China. He’s not deserving.’’ I called out to the boys through the hole in the packing cases. ‘‘It’s all right now. We’re finished here.’’

Brew’s face peered down the stairway. ‘‘You’d best get back up here, Captain. We’re getting close to the land.’’

That was when I noticed a curious thing. There on my shelf just where I’d left it all those months before, was our same bag of gold that I’d got from Jed Grey for our brandy and tobacco. Potter had just left it. It looked like he’d never even troubled himself to open the thing and see what was inside. What a strange body he was. But then what was in his leather carrying case? It must be valuable, or he’d not have been clutching it so keen.

‘‘Hurry up, Captain.’’

China had cleared the packing boxes out of the doorway. I grabbed the gold, and the leather case, too, and hurried up towards the deck.

So we finally had our disaster at sea, and a curious one it was besides. Your traditional shipwreck is all noise and wind and bodies getting landed against rocks, but this was nothing like. The sea, which had been a little choppy before, was calming nicely, while there was even a bit of sunshine to warm our bones. We didn’t so much as founder on rocks as get wedged between two of them, the
Sincerity’s
timbers grinding and creaking something terrible, as the waves pushed at her once and again. Well, we didn’t wait for fortune to go changing her mind, but lowered a rope onto a big flat chunk of stone below, and dropped ourselves down fast as fright, all giving a hand to the two that were so gone with scurvy.

I hadn’t thought beyond these rocks. Why should I have? It was good, and better than good, that we’d not all been drowned after all.

Now we were actually here, though, panting and gasping on this miracle of solid ground, I could see all sorts of new troubles raising their nasty heads.

It was as well we hadn’t dawdled. Hardly had we sat down and caught our breath when there was a crunching sound, and the poor
Sincerity
gave a mighty shudder. The timbers that had been battered by the mast must have gone, crushed by those rocks, as all at once there was a wild sort of gurgling and she was sliding back down fast as could be. The contraband holds had no bulkheads, so they’d fill as quick as a sieve dropped in a well, and sure enough her poor battered hull slipped down so she was gone in hardly an instant. The foremast poked up above the water for a short while but soon even that was tilting to one side, and then disappeared. She’d gone down whole.

That was bad as well.

Here was a hard sort of moment. Saying goodbye to the
Sincerity,
the first and only vessel I’d ever owned. I’d still felt she was my ship even during all those months I was stuck below, with Potter playing captain and making a wreck of her. Why, she’d saved our lives, keeping us afloat just long enough. Not that that was all my thinking. There was also the little matter of what was still in her—or rather who—waiting to be found. I quite wished I hadn’t taken China Clucas along for that jaunt. Mind you, what else could we have done?

‘‘Is that the jink, then?’’ asked Brew, pointing at the leather case.

I’d clean forgotten about the thing. Mind you, it was a proper waste of time as it turned out. There I’d been, dragging it off the vessel like my life depended on it, and when I opened it up all I found was paper. Where was the use in that? From what I could see it was purest gibberish, too, being all about types and characteristics and other nonsense. I couldn’t think why Potter had been hanging on to it so.

China pointed at the sand dune behind us. ‘‘Someone’s coming.’’

Following his look, I saw two bodies on horseback riding towards us. Rescuers, that was all we needed. From their clothes they looked like farmers. They were good and shocked at our being so starved.

‘‘What on earth happened to you?’’

It was questions that would hang us and this was the first. ‘‘We’ve come from Tasmania. We ran out of food.’’

That was enough to quiet them, at least for now. ‘‘I’ll fetch the cart.’’ The only safe thing would be to get far away, and soon too, before it was too late. It might be salvagers, or scavengers, or just some Englishman with a curiosity. Any would do. After that it wouldn’t matter a spit that we’d been in the right. It’s never being
right
tha
t
matters, after all, it’s being
believed,
which is another animal entirely. One quick study of the ship would spring enough mysteries to put us in some Englishman’s court of law, being called smugglers and murderers. All the while bodies with letters after their names would be remembering what a fine respectable fellow Dr. Potter had been.

Wouldn’t that just be my luck, to spend all these months battling against the old scriss, and then, just when I thought I’d won, to be hanged by his own dead corpse.

I
FOUND MYSELF
in a plain sort of room, yellow evening sunlight shining on the bedclothes. A young woman I had never set eyes on before was looking at me, smiling as if I had made some joke, though I was sure I hardly could have.

‘‘Well, well, and good afternoon to you.’’

I felt dazed. ‘‘Where is this place?’’

‘‘Dad’s farm, of course.’’

‘‘Have I been here long?’’

‘‘Nearly two days.’’ She smiled again. ‘‘We have been curious. You looked as if you’d walked clean across the whole bush. Have you got a name?’’

‘‘Timothy Renshaw.’’

‘‘I’m Liz. Liz Sheppard.’’

Recollections were returning, though they seemed long ago, and not quite real. ‘‘I saw angels.’’

The smile dulled. ‘‘That’s right. Dad carves them. They’re all over the place.’’

It was another month before I heard the full truth about the angels. That morning Liz’s father was away getting stores and her brothers were out checking fences, while Liz and I took ourselves away to the barn. She’d let me unbutton the top of her dress, and loosen her corset, and though I could have done with more loosening still, it was sweet enough for now. I was just enjoying myself nicely, in fact, when her mood suddenly changed.

‘‘That’s enough,’’ she said crossly, pushing me back and hiding away those neat round breasts. ‘‘You’ve no right, really you’ve not.’’

I was quite put out. ‘‘What’s wrong? You were happy enough just now.’’

She threw me an accusing look. ‘‘You don’t care about me. I’m just some plaything for you.’’

Females have a way of growing serious at the very poorest time. ‘‘That’s not true,’’ I told her, though I dare say a good part of me was just hoping I might warm her into loosening herself once again. Instead she started crying.

‘‘I don’t know why I let you near me. You’ll only cause me hurt.’’ A look came into her eyes, almost hunted. ‘‘You’d never have looked at me if you’d known.’’

Here was something new. ‘‘Known what?’’

‘‘About Dad.’’ Her voice, which was usually strong and without concern, fell hushed. ‘‘He was a Port Arthur man. All he did was take some fellow’s bag at a coaching inn because he was hungry, and then hit back once when he shouldn’t, but that was enough. It was at Port Arthur he started his stone carving. He made sculptures for the governor’s wife’s garden.’’

I suppose I had begun to wonder. The previous Sunday I had finally been well enough to join them going to church—a little shed of a place with a tin roof—and I had seen the neighbours’ looks.

Now she was angry. ‘‘Go on, then. Run off and don’t come back. After all, you wouldn’t want to be seen walking with a convict’s daughter.’’

I kissed her, and then she kissed me back, hungry. After that she loosened nicely, till I had almost the whole story, and a handsome sight she made, too, lying back on the hay.

I’d already been helping a little on the farm by then, and that afternoon I saddled up the horse to check on the sheep down by the river, where Liz’s father said he’d seen a native wolf prowling. It was a fine day, the trees changing their colours for autumn, and it felt good to be riding across the land, a broad hat on my head for the sun and a cape on my shoulders in case it turned wet. There was something about this
place that made me feel alive, in a way I never had done back in London.

It was hard to think of Mr. Sheppard as a Port Arthur man. With his sloping shoulders and his shy, startled look he seemed quietness itself. So I had kissed a convict’s daughter. What would my mother say to that? It would hardly be the kind of news she would want to tell her society friends. Why, just thinking of Mother made me want to go back to the house there and then and loosen Liz again. It was none of their business what I did anymore. They had sent me here, and nearly killed me, too, so now everything was mine to decide. Why shouldn’t I stay? I liked the life well enough. The farm didn’t seem to make a great fortune, but the land wasn’t bad, and Liz’s family were able feed themselves without breaking their backs. Why, I even liked plants here. In London they had been just a chore that I had been pushed into studying, but here they were useful. The farm had several fields of wheat, as well as the kitchen garden, and a little apple orchard, too, while I had been able to give a few useful pieces of advice. And Liz? Even aside from the fact that she had nursed me back from death, she was a tempting-looking female, nicely curved, while she had shown me more affection than I’d ever received from my own relatives. Yes, I might even marry a convict’s daughter if I chose.