Rations were now issued weekly. How difficult that was! To stay resolute and not wolf down the lot within two days. So very little, especially now they were working. Thanks to Lieutenant Furzer’s abject gratitude they now had good kettles and pots, even if there was not much to put in them.
The hut was finished down to a double layer of saplings for its walls, one lot vertical, the other horizontal, with enough slender slats in the roof to support densely interwoven palm fronds. They were fairly dry even in hard rain, though when the wind rose to a gale it penetrated the spaces between the lattice; to keep it out they covered the outside walls with palm fronds. It had no windows and but one door facing the sandstone boulder. Humble it might be, but it was still a great deal better than the Alexander prison. The smell was of a clean, pungent resin rather than a sickening mixture of oil of tar and decomposition, and the floor was a carpet of soft dead leaves. The group was, besides, unfettered and relatively free from supervision. The marines had their work cut out in keeping an eye on the known rogues, so those who never gave trouble were left to their own devices apart from regular checks to make sure they were at their places of work.
Richard’s place of work was a small, open bark shelter near the series of sawpits being dug behind the marines’ tents, not an easy business with bedrock six inches down. The pits had to be excavated by stone-splitting wedges and picks.
Though the saws had not yet come to light (unloading was a painfully slow business), the axes and hatchets were piling up faster than Richard could put edges on them.
“I could use help, sir,” he said to Major Ross within a day of commencing work. “Give me two men now and by the time the saws need attention I will have one man ready to deal with the axes and hatchets.”
“I see your reasons, dozens of ’em. But why two men?”
“Because there have already been arguments over ownership and I have not the facilities to keep a list. Better than a list would be a lettered helper to gouge the owner’s name on the helve of every axe and hatchet. When the saws come to light, he could do the same to them. ’Twould end in saving marine time, sir.”
The cold pale eyes crinkled up at their corners, though the mouth did not smile. “Aye, Morgan, ye do indeed have a head. I suppose ye know whom ye want?”
“Aye, sir. Two of my own men. Connelly for the lettering and Edmunds to learn to sharpen.”
“I have not yet located your tool box.”
Richard’s grief was genuine. “A pity,” he sighed. “I had some grand tools.”
“Do not despair, I will go on looking.”
February wore on with thunderstorms, an occasional cool sea change and a great deal of stifling, humid weather which always ended in a pile of black clouds in southern or northwestern sky. The southern tempests brought those blessed cool snaps in their wake, whereas the northwestern ones produced hail the size of eggs and continued sultriness.
Save for different kinds of rats and millions of ants, beetles, centipedes, spiders and other inimical insects, life forms anchored to the ground seemed rare. In contrast to the sky and trees, both full of thousands upon thousands of birds, most of them spectacularly beautiful. Of parrots there were more sorts than imagination dreamed existed—huge white ones with striking sulphur-yellow crests, grey ones with cyclamen breasts, black ones, rainbow-hued ones, tiny speckled chartreuse ones, red-and-blue ones, green ones, and dozens more besides. A big brown kingfisher bird killed snakes by breaking their backs on a tree branch, and laughed maniacally; one large ground bird had a tail like a Greek lyre and strutted in the manner of a peacock; there were reports from those who walked in the Governor’s train on his explorations of black swans; eagles had wing spans of up to nine feet, and competed with hawks and falcons for prey. Minute finches and wrens, cheeky and vivid, darted about fearlessly. The whole bird kingdom was gorgeously painted—and vocal to the point of distraction. Some birds sang more exquisitely than any nightingale, some screeched raucously, some chimed like silver bells—and one, a huge black raven, owned the most soul-chilling, desolate cry any Englishman had ever heard. Alas, the saddest fact about these myriads of birds was that none was worth eating.
Though some animal animals had been seen, like a fat, thickly furred waddler which burrowed, the one animal everybody yearned to see was a kangaroo. To no avail, if camp bound. Kangaroos never appeared within the precincts; they were obviously shy and timid. Not so the enormous tree-climbing lizards. They stalked through the camp as if men were beneath contempt, and rivaled the hungriest convict or thirstiest marine when it came to ransacking an officer’s marquee. One of the things was fully fourteen feet long and justifiably inspired the same terror an alligator would have.
“I wonder what to call it?” asked Richard of Taffy Edmunds when it strolled past their bark shelter, wicked head snaking.
“I think I would call it ‘sir,’ ” said Taffy.
The axes and hatchets kept coming to have new edges put on them, and by the end of February the saws started coming as well. The western sawpits had started working and a series of eastern ones was being dug under the same difficulty—bedrock. A new obstacle reared its head; the trees, felled and trimmed and put above the pit, were virtually impossible to saw into even the most mediocre of planks. The wood was not only sappy, it was as hard as iron. The sawyers, all convicts, labored so terribly that the Governor was obliged to give them extra rations and malt, else they collapsed. That irritated the marine privates, who forgot that they received butter, flour and rum in addition to the same rations of bread and salt meat as the convicts; they started to keep a ledger of grievances versus convict “privileges.” Only Major Ross and ruthless discipline kept them under control, but ruthless discipline meant more floggings—than the convicts, they whined.
The worst aspect of Richard’s life was the saws themselves. Only 175 hand saws and 20 pit saws had been sent, and all 20 of the pit saws were rip saws designed to rip the wood down its grain. No pit saw could cut across the grain of wood like this. Which meant that every tree had to be felled by an axe and segmented by an axe. Both kinds of saw were supposed to be of the best steel, but they were not. Months and months at sea had rusted them and there was no butter of antimony on any list for any ship.
25 hand saws and 5 pit saws had gone with Lieutenant Philip Gidley King to Norfolk Island when Supply sailed for that remote place halfway through February to establish a separate settlement there, turn the native flax into canvas and the huge pine trees Captain Cook had reported into ship’s masts.
“Sir, it is almost impossible,” said Richard to Major Ross. “I have made my own emery paper and removed the grosser rust, but the saws are not sleek enough. Whale oil is wondrous protective, but we have none. The oils we do have congeal to glue the moment heat builds up inside the cut. I need some substance like whale oil or butter of antimony. The saws are besides of such poor steel that, sawing timber as hard as this, I am terrified of break-ages. We have fifteen pit saws, which means no more than fourteen pits—I will always be working on one saw because this timber ruins the teeth. But most importantly, sir, I need a rust remover.”
Ross looked grimmer than ever; he had heard the same story from the sawyers. “Then we will have to look for a local substance,” he said. “Surgeon Bowes Smyth is an inquisitive sort of fellow, always tapping trees and boiling roots or leaves for curatives, resins and probably the elixir of life. Give me one of the very rusty hand saws and I will ask him to experiment.”
