Pirate Boy of Sydney Town Read online

  ‘You are enjoying the roast mutton, Master Huntsmore,’ remarked Mrs Moore. ‘It must be a welcome change from ship’s fare.’

  Ben nodded. ‘You soon grow sick of ham and plum puddings and portable soup.’

  Mrs Moore laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know. I travelled down in the hold, not in a cabin.’

  Ben tried not to show his shock. This woman in a silk dress had been a convict! He saw Mrs Moore’s expression and realised she knew exactly what he was thinking.

  ‘This is a place of new beginnings, Master Huntsmore,’ she said quietly. ‘It has been for me and for my husband. He was a ship’s carpenter, and now he is the most prosperous businessman in the colony.’ She smiled at Mr Moore across the table, a smile of love, gratitude and pride.

  The second course was brought in: roast ducks garnished with oranges, a dish of fresh peas with butter, an apple pie, a blancmange and a currant jelly. The fresh food was good, but Mama would not have served such simple fare to a curate after church. But things were different here at the end of the world, where ex-convicts sat with gentlefolk at the dinner table, and even the seasons did not behave as they should.

  I won’t be here long, Ben consoled himself. Soon the Golden Girl would sail to meet the enemy. He glanced at his father, who was smiling at something Mrs Macquarie had said. This was not just an adventure, a way to quick riches. They were going to fight the enemy. And win.

  ‘How long do we stay in the colony, sir?’ Ben asked his father in a low voice as they walked back down the hill to the house where they were staying, two convict servants with flaming torches lighting the way before them, as well as for protection against thieves.

  It was strange to think that almost everyone in this small town was or had been a criminal back home, with only those who offended again in chains. But the streets were empty, apart from a wandering goat. All convicts had to be in their quarters by the last bell.

  ‘A month at least to repair and restock the ship and find the crew to man it. Captain Danvers will see to that. And after,’ his father shrugged, ‘that will depend on the winds. It will take us seventy days perhaps to ride the westerlies around the south to get back to the west of the continent.’

  Ben stared at him. ‘Around the world, sir? You can’t be serious. Why not just sail back the way we came?’

  Mr Huntsmore laughed. ‘You landlubber. The Roaring Forties blow westerly winds, which only get stronger as you go further south into the Fifties and Sixties. It is nigh on impossible to sail to the west around the bottom of this continent from here, at least in a ship as large as ours. We will be sailing far south, into iceberg country. But if we get the right winds, we shall do well enough.’

  What if we don’t? thought Ben. But he had learned that his father did not like the possibility of good luck to be questioned. Instead he asked, ‘Sir, how does one ship capture another?’ He knew ships fired cannons at each other in war, but that was to sink the enemy vessel, not to board them and take their cargo.

  His father glanced around, then lowered his voice. ‘We wait behind an island Danvers knows where passing ships can’t see us. It’s not much of a harbour, but there’s fresh water and it will do. We will have lookouts along the coast who will light signal fires as soon as they sight a ship. Captain Danvers is Navy trained. He’s taken four ships before in war. He wasn’t a captain then, but this time he’ll get a third of what we take, with another third divided between the crew. Danvers has the charts we need too — Dutch ones, found on a French ship — that show him the rocks, the winds and the currents. When the lookout alerts us to a ship, we will sail at night so we can get close without being seen. And then we fire.’

  ‘But won’t the Dutch merchantmen fire back?’

  Mr Huntsmore nodded as if he approved of the question. ‘English cannons have a longer reach than the Dutch and French ones. We aim for the sails, the decks, the captain’s and the crew’s quarters — enough to cripple the ship, but not sink her. And then we board,’ he grinned, ‘and take her.’

  ‘But what use is a crippled ship?’ Ben asked.

  ‘That’s why we’re carrying spare spars, sails and masts, lad. If we can, we’ll patch her up and take her back to England, or to Sydney Town to refit. If not, she and her crew are bound for Davy Jones’s locker.’ He shrugged again. ‘But by then we’ll have her riches aboard the Golden Girl.’ He stopped walking suddenly and put his hands on Ben’s shoulders. ‘I’m glad you’re with me, lad. I left you in your mother’s care too long. A man needs a son. And we’ll be fighting for your future. A grand one.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Adventure, Ben’s mind whispered. You will sail the oceans, see whales and mermaids, fight for treasure. He might even make his own fortune . . .

  His father was still looking at him. ‘Perhaps you should stay here till we return,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be dangerous, not just the fighting but facing the Southern Ocean against the wind. Much worse than the journey here, though not so long.’

  Stay here with Higgins, in this colony of mud? Miss the chance to be a hero?

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  His father clapped him on the back. ‘Good lad. You truly are my son.’

  Perhaps I am, thought Ben as they continued their walk down the muddy hill.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ben slept for the next two days, his body needing to adjust to a world that no longer swayed and wandered under his feet, and to regain the strength he’d lost to the fever. He woke only to eat from the trays Higgins brought him in bed, and then slept again.

  On the third day Ben awoke and suddenly found himself eager for life beyond his room. There was no bell pull to call a servant, but he found clothes that had been washed and pressed in a roughly made cupboard. He put them on and made his way down the narrow stairs.

  ‘You’re up, lovey!’ The maid of all work, Maggie Three-Tooth, looked like an old woman, though she was probably no more than thirty. Only young women were sent to the colony. ‘You go into the parlour and I’ll bring your breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ben. ‘Is my father there?’

  ‘Oh, no, lovey, he’s gone down to the docks already. Now you sit down and I’ll bring a couple of nice boiled cackleberries for you — the hens are laying even in this chill. I’ve soda bread fresh-made too.’

  Maggie Three-Tooth smelled of sweat and rum and her apron wasn’t clean, but her gap-toothed smile was friendly. She cooked plain stews and soda bread on the hearth, for the house had no oven, as well as spit roasts and boiled vegetables, Welsh rarebit and potato cakes. Higgins had carried all of them up on Ben’s trays over the past few days.

  The parlour was small, with rough wooden walls, a planked floor and a table that wobbled. Each chair wobbled too. Ben sat on the least wobbly one as Maggie carried in a tray.

  ‘Here you are, lovey, and look! Mr Higgins got some butter for us. Ain’t seen butter for an age. He’s a true wonder that man.’

  ‘Where is Higgins now?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Out marketing. The master gave him money.’

  Ben noticed Maggie’s brief displeasure that the money hadn’t been entrusted to her. He wondered how much of it would stay in Higgins’s pocket. Still, according to Mr Huntsmore, who had visited Ben briefly each evening, Higgins seemed to be managing the house surprisingly well. And Ben had seen for himself that the convict stood straighter now, his body quickly filling out. He’d also seen that Higgins hadn’t bothered to hide his amusement at the pampered boy who could stay abed so long.

  Ben had just finished the eggs and two slices of bread and butter — Maggie didn’t seem to know that breakfast required toast — when the door opened and Higgins grinned in at him, showing gaps amid his yellow teeth.

  ‘Mornin’, Master Sneezer,’ he said, his mocking tone not quite an insult.

  ‘Good morning, Higgins. Maggie said you’ve been marketing.’

  ‘That I have. And not just for the mutton you’ll be eatin’ for dinne
r.’ He tapped his nose.

  Ben thought of Maggie’s scent of rum. Higgins’s breath smelled of it too. ‘You’ve been drinking rum, haven’t you?’

  ‘And what if I have?’ Higgins’s grin grew wider. ‘Rum’s used like money here — your pa will’ve found out that already.’

  The servant’s accent Higgins had put on for Ben’s father was gone. Now the convict spoke in the same tone he’d used when Ben had first pulled him from the hold.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Ben.

  Higgins laughed. He grabbed a chair and sat on it, leaning back, all servitude vanished. ‘I told you, Sneezer lad. Me name’s ’iggins.’

  ‘You weren’t ever a footman.’

  ‘Well, no, but ain’t no need to tell your father that, eh? I were sent from the workhouse to be a boot boy, but I kept me eyes open. I know enough to play the lackey if I have to.’

  ‘Why don’t you pretend with me too?’ Ben asked.

  Higgins reached over and took an uneaten slice of soda bread and butter from Ben’s plate. He bit into it and chewed. ‘’Cause I like you, Sneezer. You remind me of the whippersnappers I was trainin’ back in Lunnon Town.’ He smiled, but there was iron behind it. ‘I know boys,’ he added softly. ‘I know you, lad.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you!’

  ‘You are, you know. So scared you might widdle in that nice suit of yours. But you needn’t worry, Sneezer lad. I ain’t ever goin’ to toby you.’ Higgins lost his smile. ‘I look out for my boys.’

  ‘I am not one of your boys!’

  ‘You are now. Not much you can do about it.’

  ‘I can tell my father!’

  Higgins sat back, grinning again. ‘Tell him what? Oh, dearie me, that I’m a criminal — a shuffler or a dimble-dambler? A thatch-gallows here in New South Wales who came in the hold of a convict ship? Your pa knows full well what I am. That’s why he lets me stay, see.’ He tapped his nose once more and looked at Ben shrewdly. ‘Your pa’s hirin’ crew, and a certain sort of crew, I heard. He’s lookin’ for soldiers gone bad, those who can use a cannon or a musket and wield a sword as well. Now what would a nice gentry cove want with cannons, eh, Sneezer lad?’

  Ben was silent.

  Higgins took another slice of Ben’s bread and spread it thickly with butter. ‘I want to make me fortune,’ he said softly. ‘Workin’ for your pa is goin’ to make it for me. And actin’ the servant on his ship will get me back to Lunnon Town as well. I got a nice nest egg waitin’ for me there, even if some varlet’s moved onto my territory. So I warn you, little paddle-pate, you keep your bone box shut. Play me wrong and one day, when you’re close to the rail, you’ll feel a shove, and you’ll be in the water and shark meat. And I’ll be on the other side of the ship, all innocent.’ He gazed at Ben, all pretence gone. ‘I’ll look out for you, Sneezer lad. That’s what pals do. But you got to look out for me too.’

  Ben pretended to concentrate on scraping out the last of his boiled egg. Higgins was right. He’d done nothing to make Mr Huntsmore dismiss him. He might even claim that the rum he’d bought had been used to trade for cheese or butter. But nor would Ben let himself be intimidated. He was the master here, not one of the sorry street urchins Higgins had terrified. And soon he was going to face the King’s enemies.

  He pushed his plate away and stood. ‘I’m going down to the harbour to help my father. And if you — or Maggie — are drunk tonight, you’ll be dismissed.’

  Higgins smiled up at him. ‘Yes, master.’

  It was easy to find the harbour, stretched blue below him. It was even easier to find the wharf as every road seemed to head that way. Most of the dwellings Ben passed were huts with sagging walls and rotting roofs, but here and there were substantial cottages of logs, plaster or even stone, with long neat orchards and tethered goats gazing hopefully at vegetable gardens. And untethered goats too. Ben stepped aside to let a mean-eyed animal trot past him on the muddy road, confident that its horns would let it go wherever it wanted.

  ‘Warder! Clean fresh warder!’

  It took Ben a moment to realise the cry was ‘water’ and that the boy was selling the presumably fresh water from the buckets that dangled from a yoke over his shoulders.

  The huts gave way to taverns, some solid, others as squalid as the huts further up the hill. Men and a few women sprawled drunk against the walls. Most wore the dull garb of the convict: dun-coloured trousers or a shabby dress, colourless except for the stains.

  A gap-toothed woman leered at Ben from a doorway. ‘Fresh pies,’ she offered. ‘Genuine sheep.’

  One of the drunks said, ‘Genuine rat, more like.’

  The woman strode over and kicked him. Ben saw that her bare feet were caked with dirt. ‘The only rat near my place is you, Long Bill.’

  The man warded her off with a laugh. ‘Opossum then. Opossum pie, anyone?’

  Ben felt a hand sliding into his pocket and turned sharply. An urchin stared up at him, skinny, ragged and so filthy it was impossible to see the colour of his skin.

  ‘Spare a penny, mister?’

  ‘I don’t give to pickpockets.’

  The wheedling tone turned threatening. ‘Gimme your jacket then. Nice one, ain’t it?’

  Ben had learned fisticuffs as well as Greek and Latin from the rector. He could fight off one thin boy, but not the drunks around him. He glanced at the men, but they seemed intent on their tankards again.

  ‘You will not take my jacket,’ said Ben steadily, and he forced himself to continue towards the dock, alert for any footfall behind him.

  None came.

  The wharf was crowded, men circling a cart where an auctioneer called out prices.

  ‘One case workboots, best quality! What am I bid? Two pounds for boots like these? You won’t get a single pair for that. Ten pounds? Do I hear twenty? Forty? Eight barrels of rum? Now that’s more like it. Do I have nine barrels of rum? You’d rather pay in coin, sir? Sixty-five pounds? Sixty-four? Do I have a rise on sixty-four? Sold for sixty-four pounds to the gentleman in the hat. The next lot is another case of boots, men’s riding. Any of you officers want a true smart pair of boots? Here’s yer chance . . .’

  They were auctioning the goods that had not yet sold from the Golden Girl, Ben realised. He watched, the colony’s sun surprisingly hot and heavy on his neck, as lot after lot was sold. At last he moved into the shade.

  Then it was over. The crowd moved in a single tide away from the wharf. Ben spied his father, deep in conversation with the auctioneer and Captain Danvers. Mr Huntsmore broke off and strode towards him.

  ‘Ben! I hoped you’d be well enough to come down today.’ He grinned. ‘Excellent prices at this auction too — I estimate we’ll make more than five hundred pounds after commission. I’m about to negotiate with the chandler for the ship’s supplies — food, rope, sails and nails and such like that we might need. It’s time you learned about those things.’

  Ben nodded, and his father smiled and put an arm about his shoulders. ‘Good lad. We’ll have to make do, of course — salt mutton instead of salt beef. The ship’s biscuit here is mostly weevils, but Captain Danvers says that dried corn can be boiled up instead, and the mush is easier to eat than biscuit.’ Mr Huntsmore’s eyes were bright and excited. ‘She’ll be ready to sail within a month,’ he added softly. ‘And soon she’ll be a golden girl indeed.’

  The chandler’s shed smelled of rancid butter, stale biscuit and the omnipresent stink of rum. Mr Huntsmore had told Ben that the chandler, Mr Porter, boasted he’d been a ship’s quartermaster, fighting against the French. Now he sold whatever the convict transports and whaling ships that called into Sydney Town needed.

  ‘Best salt mutton,’ said Mr Porter.

  Mr Huntsmore poked at the lumps in the barrel of brine. ‘More fat than meat.’

  ‘Fat gives the men more energy.’

  ‘Goes off faster too. I’ll give you a quart of rum per barrel.’

  So Higgins was telling the truth, thought
Ben. Rum really was money here. He hadn’t realised that the Golden Girl had carried so much of the liquor. His father must have known its value.

  Mr Porter shook his head. ‘A quart for this good meat? Four quarts, and that’s a bargain.’

  ‘Two. And I won’t ask questions like how much goat or hopper meat is mixed up with the mutton.’

  Mr Porter laughed. ‘Two it is then. Now, the corn comes dried, parched or ground into meal. Parched corn has been cooked then dried — all it needs is soaking. Dried is cheaper, but you need more charcoal or wood to cook it.’

  Ben listened to them dicker about the price.

  ‘And for you and your lad, I’ve got the best hams in the colony,’ Mr Porter added, ‘as well as preserved fruits in honey. Better than lime juice against the scurvy.’

  ‘Four hams, thirty flasks of fruit,’ Mr Huntsmore said. ‘And you can deliver the rope and sailcloth by the end of the week?’

  ‘I can. And the stores will be ready for you by the end of the fortnight.’

  ‘Excellent. Ten per cent of the price when the rope and sails are delivered, full price on delivery. Feel free to inspect the rum before then.’

  Mr Porter grinned. ‘I will, sir. And on delivery too. No watered rum gets past me.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would. Come, Ben, it’s time we —’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ interrupted Ben, ‘but the sailors will get scurvy living on salt mutton and corn mush.’ Especially as they were now facing a longer journey than even the voyage here, with no ports to stop at.

  His father shrugged. ‘Sailors always get scurvy.’

  ‘But they’d be stronger if they didn’t,’ said Ben quietly.

  Mr Huntsmore looked at him thoughtfully. ‘What do you suggest? If you’re going to say plum puddings, you can think again.’