at him quietly from the gloom of the undergrowth. He liked the solitude and the serenity of the setting. After a time he decided to follow the ridgeline a little further, moving further away from the city and the harbour below. It took him to a well-worn animal pad leading down the spur, which he began to follow eagerly.
At first the track followed the ridgeline as it descended steeply; then the landscape flattened out and soon he was walking across a broad level plateau. When he came upon a larger track that crossed his path at right angles, bearing the impressions of wagon or sulky wheels, he decided to follow that for a while to see where it would lead him. The scrub had thinned out here on the plateau, and long grass grew along the verges of the narrow road. When Brennan looked back, he could see the ridge that overlooked the city and the harbour rising up behind him, its tall trees and craggy rocks stark against the deep blue sky.
After about an hour of strolling along the little road, his mind lost in the landscape’s beauty, Brennan was beginning to think that he had better retrace his steps. For himself he was not afraid to be out after dark, but Ede would become frantic if he were not home in time for supper. Just when he had decided to turn back, he came upon a little creek that curled around the base of a small hill like an apron, making the little knoll look almost like an island as it nestled in the folds of the watercourse. The road forded the creek, then climbed the rise to where Brennan could see a slab cottage set among a grove of wattle trees, with a large garden sprawling down the far side of the slope to the creek. A man wearing a huge conical hat like that of an oriental coolie was chipping away with a long-handled hoe between tall rows of tomato plants. Brennan decided to approach him boldly; he was hungry and thirsty after his walk, and he was curious to know how this pretty little farm had appeared here in the bush.
The man looked up and rested his chin on the handle of his hoe as Brennan approached. He was tall and sinewy, and burnt dark by the sun. “Hello there, m’lad,” he said in a rich cockney accent. “I thought yer was the traps coming to check up on me an’ all.”
“Not the traps,” Brennan laughed. “Just a tramper out in the bush for a stroll. I saw your wagon tracks, and decided to follow and see where they led me. I came from the city via the high ridge; I did not expect to find a farm out here. My name is Brennan.”
“Glad to know you then, Brennan,” the man said. “They call me Sly Joe, the Cockney farmer; though some call me the wise man. I was a bloomin’ convict to begin with; but now I’m what they call a ‘ticket of leave man’. I think I may be the last of my kind because the Governor cancelled the idea, but he made a special case for me. I don’t think there will be any more convicts coming to the colony at all from now on. If I’m a good lad and grow vegetables for the military garrison for the next three years this little farm is me own, and in the meantime I’ve also met a fine and pretty lady convict who has agreed to be me bride an’ all as well. So there you have it straight, and that’s why I thought yer was the traps come to check up on me.”
Brennan looked around and saw lines of bean bushes with long, plump beans hanging from them, and melon and pumpkin vines twisting their way down the slope amid huge patches of fruit. Fat cobs of corn hugged tall stems that reached skyward with shiny brown tassels on the tops. “The garden looks so healthy,” he said in awe, his mouth watering.
“Aye,” Sly Joe said proudly, perhaps even a little smugly. “The land is new and rich, and the water from the creek is sweet and plentiful. Few men have a better life than old Sly Joe these days – though I’ve braved some tough times to get here.” He shouldered his hoe and shook Brennan’s hand. “Come up to the cottage and share a pannikin of tea with a man. I don’t get much company except the troopers and a few mates, and a pint twice a month when I take the crop down the road to the garrison.”
He led the way through the lush garden towards the cottage. In the outside fireplace Sly Joe prodded the dark coals until they glowed red, then set a large pot of water over it to boil for tea. Brennan followed him inside when Sly Joe went for the tea leaves; he was curious to see the interior. By now he had learned that Joe had built the cottage himself, with a little help from some fellow convicts. The walls were made of iron bark slabs that had been shaped and trimmed to fit perfectly. The roof had been constructed using long strips of stringy-bark and wattle cladding welded together with clay. Push-out windows of light pine shingles let light and air into the dwelling when they were open, and kept out the rain and the cold when they were closed. A rough table had been built on two stout stumps in the middle of the bare earthen floor, with a long bench-seat running down one side of the little building. A cabinet with a bag for a door and a tin trunk sat against one wall, while a kangaroo-hide hammock hung across a corner.
All things considered, Brennan reckoned Joe to be pretty comfortable. They went back outside, where the boy watched the man make the tea. “Why do they call you Sly Joe instead of just Joe?” he asked finally, sipping the sweet tea as they moved over to sit on a rough bench seat under the shade of a large tree.
“Because I am a sly dog,” Joe laughed, “and I did a few sly deeds that led me to this land in the first place. Still, I have managed to keep out of harm’s way with the troopers over the years, and that’s no mean feat, let me tell ye, lad. That’s how I got this wicket here in the bush.”
They drank the tea, and munched the sweet pink flesh of a big watermelon Sly Joe had broken open. To his surprise, Brennan saw that the tree under which they sat had not one type of fruit but several, all growing together on the same tree. “How can you get so many different types of fruit from one tree?” he asked. “And surely this tree is much older than the whole colony, you could not possibly have planted it in your lifetime.”
“The tree is old an’ all,” Sly Joe replied. “I have grafted all sorts of fruit stock onto it as a host tree. The tree provides the nourishment, and then I can have all the fruit I need from the one strong trunk.” He laughed. “That’s another reason why they call me Sly and wise; I have all manner of little tricks up my sleeve.” He stood up as he finished speaking, rubbed his back, and stretched, removing his large Chinese-looking hat as he did so. His features were sharp like those of a ferret; his eyes were small and bright, but warm and alive. Brennan liked him immediately.
“I have to start the afternoon watering now,” said Sly Joe, picking up the empty tea mugs.
“Let me help you. I can spare another hour and still get home before dark.”
“I’d appreciate that. Not that there is too much work involved, now that I have set up my watering system. If you follow the wagon track on yer way ‘ome, it will take you to the city in good time. You came the long way over the mountain, but the road follows the valley along.”
Brennan followed Joe to a large earthen dam that had been dug into the ground on the slope near the head of the garden. A series of small hollow logs and long troughs made of tree bark disappeared down the rise among the various rows of vegetables and fruit. The man took up a large wooden bucket and began to bail water from the dam and pour it into the troughs. Brennan shook his head in wonder, watching the water glisten in the sunlight as it gurgled down the network of troughs and hollows to feed the thirsty crop below.
“Sly Joe is a cunning old villain, yer thinkin’ I’ll bet,” Joe said easily, watching the boy’s reaction. “A wind pump down near the creek brings the water up to the dam during the day. Then I let gravity feed the water down to the garden as I need it. Most days we get a breeze or two, but even if I get a few days without a wind, there is always enough water in the dam to tide me over. One day I’ll have proper metal pipes for the irrigation, but for now the Governor only allows me the short span of pipes to carry the water up to the dam from the wind pump. I made the windmill meself; I’m a deft hand with metal or wood alike.”
“You have it all well thought out,” Brennan said quietly. “And I’ll vow the
