The door opened, but instead of a footman Mrs Macquarie herself hurried in, her hair somewhat disordered. Stephen rose, bowed and smiled, yet with a certain reserve: he did not know whether she had been told about his encounter with Lowe before she wrote to him. Her amiable smile and her apology for being late reassured him, and a moment’s reflection told him that she (again like Diana) had spent many years in India, where white officers, overfed, too hot, too absolute, fought so often that a mere wound was scarcely noticed.
She listened attentively to what he had to say and then asked ‘Are they pretty?’
‘Not at all, ma’am,’ said Stephen. ‘They are small-eyed, dull black, thin and graceless. But on the other hand they seem to me quite good-hearted children, attached to one another and to their friends, and remarkably gifted linguists at least. They already speak a most creditable English, one version for before the mast, another for the quarterdeck.’
‘And you do not think of taking them home?’
‘They were born almost on the equator itself, and I can hardly find it in my heart to carry them by way of the Horn to islands so damp and cold and foggy as ours. If I could find them a home here, I should happily maintain and endow them.’
‘Perhaps if I could see them it would be easier for us to find a solution. Would you have time to bring them tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Certainly ma’am,’ said Stephen, rising, ‘and I am infinitely obliged to you for your kindness.’
He walked down the lawn to the gate and the kangaroo came across at its awkward four-legged pace, sat up, looked into his face and uttered a very faint bleat. But Stephen had nothing for it and as the kangaroo declined his caress they parted company, the animal watching him until he reached the gate.
He asked the rigid sentry the way to Riley’s hotel: no reply but increased rigidity and an uneasy look, until the lodge-keeper came out and said ‘If he was to answer, sir, if he was to answer any but a soldier-officer, he would have a bloody
shirt tomorrow: ain’t that right, jock?’ Jock closed one eye, never moving his head, still less his person, and the lodge-keeper went on ‘Riley’s hotel, sir? Straight on, bear left, and it is just before the first brick house you come to.’
Stephen thanked him now and blessed him later, for his direction was exact; and although the walk had been sad enough, with its many convicts in their dirty prison clothes, some looking vacant, others wicked, others deep in settled melancholy, and its many soldiers, also in a state of harsh servitude but at least with the power of kicking the still more unfortunate, it was somewhat lightened by the friendly greeting of Colonel MacPherson and another officer of the Seventy-Third as they passed by, and much more so by the sight of Martin at their meeting-place, which could have been taken for a crossroads shebeen in the Bog of Allen but for the absence of rain or mud and the presence of three sorts of wild parrot on its sagging thatched roof and a large selection of tame ones in cages or on stands within doors. Martin was still standing by the funereal cockatoo, wrapping the finger it had bit with his handkerchief. ‘You buy your experience at a terrible price, I find,’ said Stephen, watching the blood soak through.
‘I should never have taken my hand away so quick,’ said Martin. ‘I startled him, poor bird.’
The poor bird ran its dry black tongue across the cutting edge of its bill and looked at him with a malignant eye, gauging the distance: another lunge was very nearly possible. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked, looking at his watch. ‘It is almost time.’
‘We must take something for the good of the house,’ said Stephen, sitting down by a tray of objects designed for visiting sailors: beautiful deep-green pitted emu’s eggs, Aboriginal stone axes, spears against the wall, and a flat, angled piece of wood like an indifferent circumflex accent some two feet across. ‘House,’ he called. ‘House, there. House. D’ye hear me now?’
House came, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Was there never a young woman to serve you, gentlemen?’ he cried, and when they shook their heads, ‘Upstairs with her soldier, for a thousand pound. What may I have the pleasure of bringing your honours?’
‘What have you that is long and cool?’ asked Stephen.
‘Well, Mister, there is the Parramatta river, long and cool in that canvas bucket by the cross-draught; and I am after drawing off a gallon of my own whiskey, a delicate drink if ever there was one. At this time of day the two mixed just so would make a long cool drink equal to the best champagne.’
‘Then be so good as to give us a pint of the one and a noggin of the other,’ said Stephen.
‘But before you go, pray tell me the use of this wooden implement, something between a scimitar and a sickle.’
‘That, sir, is an Aborigine’s. . . toy, as you might say, since they only use them for play.
They hold one end and throw it spinning like a Catherine-wheel and when it has gone fifty yards or so it rises up, curves and comes back to hand. There was an old Aboriginal that used to show it for a tot of rum, and that was his undoing.’
‘You throw it from you, and it comes back without rebounding?’ asked Martin, who could not easily follow the broad Munster accent.
‘You find it hard to believe, sir, I am sure; and so it is too if you have not seen it: but reflect, sir, you are in the Antipodes
–
you are standing upside down like a fly on the ceiling – we are all standing upside down; which is much stranger than black swans or sticks that fly back to your hand.’
When they had drunk their whiskey they walked on, and Martin said ‘He was quite right. In many ways this is the opposite of our world. I should say as different as Hades from Earth if it were not for the penetrating light. Do you not find the perpetual sound of chains, the omnipresence of ragged, dirty, cheerless men whom we must suppose criminal deeply depressing?’
‘I do: and if it were not for the prospect of getting out into the open country I should either paddle about this vast harbour in my skiff or stay aboard, classifying my collections and examining yours with a closer eye. But I think it is the eager cruelty of the oppressors that saddens me even more.’
They paused before crossing the rutted, dusty road to let two iron-gangs go by, one up, the other down, and as they
stood a drunk young woman lurched into them, her hair wild, her bosom bare; a handsome young woman, in spite of her blotched face. ‘Could they not see where they were going, the awkward buggers? God rot their . . .’ The convicts passed; they crossed the street; her abuse followed them, fouler than anything heard on the forecastle.
They walked in silence for some time and then Martin said ‘Here is Paulton’s house.’
Paulton himself it was who opened the door and made them welcome, a tall bony man with spectacles, small steel-rimmed thick spectacles, that did not appear to suit him, seeing that sometimes he peered through them, sometimes over the top. Very often he took them off and polished them with his handkerchief, a nervous gesture, one of many; indeed he was a nervous man entirely. But a sensible one, thought Stephen, and amiable.
‘May I offer you some tea?’ he asked after the ordinary preliminaries. ‘In this parching dusty weather I find that hot tea answers better than anything else.’
They made grateful murmurs, and presently an aged woman brought the tray. ‘How kind of you to come, sir,’ said Paulton, pouring him a cup. ‘Martin tells me you have written many a book.’
‘Only on medicine, sir, and a few aspects of natural philosophy.’
‘And may I ask, sir, whether you can compose at sea, or whether you wait for the peace and calm of a country retreat?’
‘I have written a good deal at sea,’ said Stephen, ‘but unless the weather is tolerably steady, so that the ink may be relied upon to stay in its well, I usually wait until I am ashore for any long, considered treatise or paper- for the peace and calm of a country retreat, as you say. Yet on the other hand I do not find that the turmoil of a ship prevents me reading: with a good clear candle in my lantern and balls of wax in my ears, I read with the utmost delight. The confinement of my cabin, the motion of my hanging cot, the distantly-heard orders and replies, the working of the ship – all these enhance my enjoyment.’