that he looked a fine figure, as did his wife. Rebecca was costumed in a fine day dress and a bonnet with a profusion of flowers; but her apparel, even to a casual glance, had seen better days, as had the wearer of them. The bon had long deserted the ton.
Still, they stood upright and seemingly self-possessed as the detachment of native police in their kepis, dark coats with silver buttons and shining boots trotted behind Sir George’s bughi, which (newer and better equipped than the governor himself, not to mention his carriage) approached them. Sir George, clad in a dark frock coat and with his head bare, though beside him rested a wide-brimmed planter’s straw hat, held the reins loosely and kept his eyes fixed ahead. Beside him was the heavily draped figure of Mrs Fraser. As her face was completely veiled, it was impossible to see the direction of her gaze; but a slim spectator, clad in the whitest of flimsy white, had no doubt that Amelia’s eyes were on her. Lucy fluttered a hand in loss, and drooped like a daisy under a warm breeze as the vehicle passed. Now she let her glance linger on the native police troop, headed by a solitary white man whose stout figure bounced in a somewhat ungainly fashion on his mount, though the fierce florid face with its sweeping salt-and-pepper moustache was enough to quell any criticism. He was an old soldier from the ranks who had fought at Waterloo in the infantry, and had come to his position only after a lifetime of active service.
Sergeant Barron was as proud of his native recruits as he had been of his regiment. As he came abreast of the governor he shouted out: ‘Eyes right!’ The black policemen obeyed the command in perfect unison. The governor grunted in appreciation and then waited for the eight heavily laden drays to roll past. Each was driven by a police trooper who had tethered his horse behind. The line was long, but eventually it cleared the town and headed for a gap in the escarpment which led up to the flat inland plateau.
The expedition was to have had an early start, but punctuality was not part of colonial life. In fact, once, some time ago, the clocks had all run down and they had been without time until the next ship arrived. Time was flexible and, what with one thing or another, it was noon by the time the expedition had assembled. Then there was a wait for the governor to arrive, and after that they had passed in review and trundled from the town along a rough rutted track which was considered a high road. This meandered through the coastal plain and then up a rise leading to the pass onto the flat inland plateau. At the head of the pass, Sir George stood up in the bughi and held up his hand to halt the line of vehicles behind him. He cast his eyes about, examining the country and finding not much to observe. The land was flat and featureless, the melancholy rutted track disappearing into the eastern horizon.
He motioned the column forward then sat with a thump and shook the reins. They proceeded along the track and continued on until, as the sun was sinking, he decided it was the appropriate time to camp. He summoned the commander of the police to him and gave the necessary order. It was then that Sergeant Barron came into his element, shouting at some of his men to unharness and unsaddle the horses, then hobble them before turning them loose to forage for what grass there was. The remainder he ordered to set up camp, pitching the tents in a single row, at the head of which was his own and a short distance away those of the two civilians. By that time the mess had been set up and the native cook had his fire blazing while he prepared the food.
Sergeant Barron, when he had everything as he liked it, well ordered and spick and span, strode to where Sir George was sitting in his canvas folding chair, removed his kepi and lowered his voice to a rough growl as he said: ‘Would have liked to have got a bit further along, but the late start kiboshed it. Tomorrow, up at the crack of dawn and on the road by sun up. With that, we’ll make the waterhole; at least, so Monaitch assures me and what he says agrees with Bailey’s chart.’
‘Ah, yes, the Bailey expedition guide,’ Sir George replied. ‘I must have a word with him. I have heard that he is a convert.’
‘He is and it’s to the good and to the bad. Ready to obey a command, but his Jesus that and his Jesus this gets a mite overbearing, if you get my meaning.’
Sergeant Barron was about to add more to this effect, when he stopped, for his listener’s face had turned purple. Sir George’s voice shrilled as he retorted: ‘No, Sergeant, the meaning I get is good news indeed. In my time I have been a lay preacher, and the Word of God is not to be despised, nor are those who open themselves to our Lord and Master, Jesus, the very Son of God who came down to save each and all of us.’
‘Well, I’ll add my amen to all that, sir. I’ll send him along directly after we have eaten. Perhaps you can share a hymn or two,’ Barron replied, with a carefully neutral expression to which the knight could not take exception. The police sergeant turned to go, then looked over his shoulder and said: ‘Take it you’re prepared to eat police grub. Got one of my boys trained in what you might call the culinary arts. His food is basic, but filling. I’ll send over a plate for you and the lady.’
Sir George nodded, falling into the romantic past of his previous journeys, and when the plate of salt pork and beans was placed before him he ate with a gusto he had not felt for some time. He had invited Mrs Fraser to share his humble repast but did not notice that she merely pushed her food about on the plate, then fed it to her canine companion before excusing herself and going into her tent. She emerged with her drawing pad and quickly sketched the camp scene. There in the foreground sat Sir George in his canvas collapsible chair.
‘Ah, the first record,’ he said, eyeing the sketch, and then suggested that she might do another in a little while when he was communicating with the native constables. He wanted it when the sun was setting and long shadows streaking across the campsite. ‘Put in a tree or two, for I see that there is none that will give me the effect I desire.’ She nodded to this and, when the time came, followed him to Sergeant Barron who shouted as they approached: ‘Monaitch, on the double!’
A native clad in ragged shirt and canvas trousers ran towards them.
‘Civilian black, sir. Not one of mine at all and not eligible for a police issue of clothing,’ the police sergeant explained. Then, angry at such raggedness and shabbiness, he growled: ‘If the blighter put in a day or two’s work, what with everyone off to the diggings, he might dress like a king. Get them to ride or shoot all right, but an honest day’s labour, not on your nelly.’
‘All right, Sergeant, that will be enough.’ Sir George scowled as he added: ‘And he is working now, as my guide, and what’s more he is a Christian and when the occasion arises, I myself shall clothe him.’
‘Very good,’ Barron replied, his face carefully blank.
Monaitch stood before Sir George clutching a Bible. Proudly, he held it out towards the knight. ‘I carry Word of God,’ he intoned. ‘I cannot read, for he who was about to teach me was murdered by those who refused to accept Jesus as their Lord and Saviour. Fools, for they are perdition bound. Please, read me chapter and verse, for I hear you are Christian man. Good Christian man, yes? How uplifting, yes, a holy journey, undertaken in furtherance of His work.’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Sir George, who once had been called Father by the remnants of a savage people he had instructed in the arts of civilisation and the true religion. He sought to summon up his reserves of piety, but those quaint years of being a father to savages who had ill repaid his efforts were long gone and he had other concerns to pursue now, even though he was ostensibly on a mission of mercy. The old image he now tried to invoke was for Mrs Fraser and her ready sketch pad.
‘I will preach to all of them,’ he declared, turning to her. ‘It will be a good picture, the light dawning in their dusky faces as I exhort them to forgo their cruel savagery.’
‘They’ve already done that. Good boys now, the lot of them,’ Sergeant Barron commented, defending his men.
‘But
