SYDNEY COVE, 7 SEPTEMBER 1790
Rachel had just had a bath — a long one in the tin bath by the fire in the kitchen. It was her first proper wash in weeks, with no worry about Nanberry or the Master coming back unexpectedly and seeing her.
Now her hair was nearly dry again. Her skin was so fresh she felt like singing.
She hummed an old song from home as she peered into the big pot, its outside blackened now from years of cooking over a fire. The stew was done — a haunch of kangaroo simmered all day to make it tender, flavoured with savory and sage, with carrots and potatoes from their own garden. A plum pudding hung from its cloth in the food safe, boiled early this morning before she’d put on the stew.
She had made cornbread the way Big Maggie said an American sailor had showed her, soaking last summer’s ground corn in boiling water till it was soft, then adding butter and an egg, and then baking it on the hearth. It was good to have eggs again, now the hens had started laying after winter. She fed them every morning, early, for if she fed them late in the afternoon the o’possum might steal their corn and cabbage stalks.
She sighed. The Surgeon was proud of his pet o’possum, but she was the one who had to clean up its droppings and its puddles under her bed. You couldn’t house-train an o’possum, it seemed, as you would a dog. It left its smell all over the house, a peculiar o’possum scent that you could catch a whiff of as soon as you came in the front door.
She supposed the Surgeon was used to strange smells from the hospital. But she’d had enough of stinks in her life. It annoyed her that her good clean house should smell like a stable. An o’possum under her bed and a black savage at her table. But it wasn’t her place to complain.
She glanced out the door. It was almost dark — far past the supper hour — but there was still no sign of the Surgeon. What could have happened? The colony had few candles and lanterns. No one went out after dark if they could help it, except thieves by moonlight. She pulled the pot off the fire and left it warming at the edge of the hearth, then sat turning the Surgeon’s cuffs again.
Rrrrraaaaaarrrk! The o’possum had scrambled up onto the windowsill. It stared at her impatiently, as though she should know that it always woke up at dusk and needed its breakfast.
Rachel put the shirt down and fetched its tin plate then filled it with cold potatoes. The o’possum foraged outside each night now, but still demanded food from its humans. Half the colony hungry, she thought, and potatoes so precious they hang a man for stealing them, and I’m feeding them to an o’possum.
Where was the Surgeon? And Nanberry, for that matter?
At least he didn’t act like a savage. In fact it was a wonder how well he spoke English. He did what he was told too, and his manners were fit for a king’s table.
Where were they?
It was growing darker. She put hot bricks in the Surgeon’s bed, hesitated, then put one in Nanberry’s bed too. Savage he might be, but he was still only a boy. Wherever they’d been, they’d be cold by the time they got back.
She’d twice put more wood on the fire by the time they arrived. She gasped when she saw the Surgeon’s face: grey with worry and tiredness. There was blood on his jacket. For a horrible moment she thought it was his.
Panic bit her. What would she do if anything happened to the Surgeon? Then she saw that he moved easily, with no sign of a wound. Wordlessly, she helped him out of his jacket and gave him a clean one off the peg.
‘Sit,’ she ordered, pushing a chair with a cushion nearer the fire and bringing a stool for his feet. Nanberry was clearly almost as exhausted. The boy looked like he had been crying. She pushed him into a chair too, then fetched their food and a small table to put it on.
She sat on a hard, twisted kitchen chair herself. She waited till they had eaten their stew, then refilled their bowls before she asked: ‘What happened?’
‘The Governor was speared this afternoon.’ The Surgeon’s words were short and clipped.
‘By a native?’ Many of the convicts had spears now, mostly stolen from native camps.
‘Yes.’
Rachel felt the world shake around her. The Governor was the rock on which the colony stood. ‘Is he …?’
‘Not dead. The wound is to his shoulder. Balmain and I removed it as soon as we got him back here. He will recover, I think, but he’s in great pain.’
The Surgeon shut his eyes for a moment. ‘If only we had some safe way to ease pain like that. I offered him laudanum, but he wouldn’t take it, said that he needs to be alert if there is more trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble? Will the savages attack?’
The Surgeon glanced at Nanberry. ‘Well, lad? What do you think will happen now?’
The boy’s face grew strangely blank, as though he was trying not to show what he felt. ‘I … I do not think they will attack.’
‘Did you see who threw the spear? Was it Bennelong?’
‘A man called Willemeeerin.’
‘Maybe the native was frightened,’ said the Surgeon.
Nanberry shook his head. ‘A warrior like Willemeeerin wouldn’t be frightened.’ The boy’s voice was soft now. ‘I think it was a punishment for the things the English have done.’
Rachel snorted. ‘What have we done then?’
The boy’s voice was even softer. ‘You’ve taken the land, taken the fish and game. Made the water dirty.’
‘It’s called a town, that’s what it is. Even if you heathen don’t know any better.’
‘I am not a heathen.’ The boy looked as though he might cry again. ‘I listen to Reverend Johnson. I dress in trousers. I’m not like Bennelong. I’m not!’
‘No one said you were.’ She looked at the boy’s face, then patted his hand. It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how young he was. ‘Don’t you mind. You’re a grand lad and don’t you forget it. Now you run up and wash and get into bed.’
She waited till she heard the boy’s footsteps overhead, and the crash as the o’possum leapt to another branch outside, before she said, ‘How bad is it really?’
‘As I said.’ His voice was infinitely weary. ‘The Governor’s in great pain. But with good care he will live.’
‘He’ll have the best care in the world,’ she said gently. ‘Do you think there will be more attacks from the natives?’
He stared into the flames. ‘The Governor has ordered that no native be killed in retaliation.’ He shrugged. ‘We couldn’t survive an outright war with them. There are too many of them, despite the smallpox, and too few of us. Only one of the muskets even fired today. The natives could kill us all in an hour, if they only knew it.’
He bent his head, looking unutterably weary. ‘I must go back and see how the Governor is faring, then to the hospital. I have been gone from it all day.’
‘You need rest,’ she said.
‘How can I rest, Miss Turner? There is work to do.’
‘A few hours’ sleep. You’ll work better later if you stop now.’
He smiled at her, briefly. ‘Perhaps you are right. Just a few hours’ rest.’
‘Why do you do it?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Spend so much time, all your strength, caring for others? The other surgeons spend most of their time on their farms. But if you’re not at the hospital you’re on some expedition for the Governor.’
‘He needs men he can trust,’ said the Surgeon. ‘There are few enough of them.’
‘And he can trust you. We all trust you. But why? Why not take time — just a little time — for yourself?’
‘I sketch my birds —’
‘By firelight, for men of science to see. That’s not for yourself.’
He was silent. At last he said, ‘It is my duty, I suppose. It gives me pleasure to do my duty. To help my fellow man, to do the best I can. Does that seem so very idiotic?’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘To me it seems the most admirable of all things. Now you go up to bed too. No writing in your book tonight.’
‘I am not a child,’ he said mildly.
‘I know. But sometimes you need care nevertheless.’
He smiled at her, then trudged wearily up the stairs.