gaze has drifted slowly across the horizon and has run up hard against the dark foot of South Head cliff, its craggy profile standing imposing against the brittle glare.
For one startling moment, there’s a terrible flash in his mind’s eye of a dark shape (or is it two, a larger and a smaller one?) hurtling with a scream towards oblivion. He blinks, rubs his eyes, shudders. The vision is gone.
Now listen, lad, he reprimands himself, don’t you go back there. You get that business well and truly out of yer mind, if you know what’s good for yer. Nothin’ to be gained by mullin’ over that. Nothin’ at all.
He narrows his eyes and directs them purposefully back across the dazzling bay towards the ship. He peers with interest at the longboats. One has set off towards the rough jetty at the southern fringe of the bay just below his position. Wonder who’s comin’ ashore off this one, he thinks. And with an inadvertent licking of the lips: an’ what quality o’ merchandise might be aboard.
He rubs his hands together and starts to whistle a rather comical little tune. Were it more recognisably whistled, it might be identified as an Irish jig.
After what seemed an interminable negotiation of the difficult harbour entrance, the ship had creaked its way slowly and mercifully to a dead halt. It now stood finally at anchor in the large bay.
Several longboats had been lowered alongside and an assortment of ropes and ladders dropped to meet them. I had not dared to watch as with the most remarkable dexterity, the sailors had set to work, conveying luggage and passengers into the boats. I had hung back while most of these had set off for the jetty. I now inched gingerly towards the railing and forced a quick glance downward towards the last of these rather unstable-looking vessels, now bobbing like a cork in the briny in the shade of the ship’s flank, far below where I stood apprehensively awaiting instructions.
I noted with some relief that my own trunk – filled with my clothes, books, medical equipment and assorted other odds and ends - was among the items stacked at the stern of the longboat. Various passengers, having scrambled gleefully down the rope ladder, were now seated therein: a small, motley cluster of settlers of diverse ages, all staring upwards toward the rail of the ship, behind which I remained perched in a state of some reluctance like a long-confined prisoner, pale and skeletal, blinking through the bars towards an uncertain freedom.
“Come on, Doctor, down you come, sir”, shouted a hefty sailor in what he evidently hoped was a confidence-inspiring tone of jovial encouragement; but his voice came from so far below that it gave the impression of rising mockingly from the depths like the cry of some ghostly denizen of Davey Jones’ locker – or indeed Mister Jones himself, inviting the unwary sailor to descend into his watery clutches.
“Down you come”? Easier said than done, I thought. Rope ladders had never been my stock in trade - let alone those dangling from the sides of sea vessels, lurching in sub-tropical swells, into even more wildly lurching and perilously over-laden longboats.
Nevertheless it appeared the thing would have to be done, and better sooner than later. Yes, I determined, best get it over with. Now is the moment, I thought. Yes indeed, I decided, let us without further …
“Come on now, sir! Before the next change of tide, if ye please!” Hoots of laughter from the other sailors and passengers at this.
I gritted my teeth and took firm hold of the ladder with both hands, heaved myself awkwardly over the side and, not daring a seaward glance, started to inch painstakingly downwards, scraping and bumping my already bruised knee against the side of the ship. And bruising the other one to match it, along with both elbows for good measure. In this fashion I made my way towards my destination, bobbing unsteadily such a daunting distance below.
After what seemed hours of diligent scrambling, I had very nearly attained the relative safety of the smaller vessel - when, perhaps a little over-eager to reach it and the promise of dry land beyond, I slipped from the ladder and fell with a squawk and a splash into the swirling water between ship and boat.
I rose paddling wildly to the surface, choking and spluttering, my only thought at this instant being how terribly farcical it was to have survived such a long and gruelling journey, only to drown within a few oarstrokes of the shore. In the rush of water churning around my head I could almost hear Davey’s voice, laughing in mockery: Ha ha, got another one. Down you come, doctor. All the way down.
In the next instant, however, I felt several strong hands grasping my arms and coat, and I was hauled most unceremoniously up over the gunwale and into the longboat. There I lay on my back with my legs kicking helplessly in the air like some half-drowned insect, to the unkind guffaws of sailors and passengers alike.
Slowly I heaved myself onto the end of a box and sat there exhausted and bedraggled, dripping and gasping for breath atop the luggage - as the oars were manned and we set off for the beach. Each new lurch threatened to bring up once more the now merely theoretical contents of my stomach.
2. EMPIRE BUILDERS
Along the dusty street that runs in front of Government House, a rather impressive couple come sauntering grandly, arm in arm.
These two are dressed to the nines. He in broad-brimmed black hat and tie, dark waistcoat, frock coat with silver buttons, and ruffled shirt-front. She, the taller of the two, looms above him in full-length brocaded and billowing bustled gown, buttoned high at the neck, and topped by an enormous floral hat and ornate frilled parasol. Despite the shade offered by this, both are perspiring visibly, their outfits clearly excessive in the baking South Pacific heat.
As these two very fine personages draw level with the rough stone façade of Government House, the Reverend Staines emerges from behind it. He falters in his step as he catches the gaze of the grand couple, and grins awkwardly and perhaps a trifle guiltily. They saunter to a stop in front of him.
“Good day to you, Reverend Staines” comes the cultured and just faintly European-accented voice of the lady. She is a woman of stature and some beauty, mature and somewhat hardening though it appears. A droplet of perspiration clings to the end of her aquiline nose – down which she looks imperiously at the chaplain as he performs his characteristic gesture of fiddling with his besmirched clerical collar, pulling it up nervously in a manner perhaps symbolic of his constantly faltering struggle to carry the personal burden of its moral responsibilities. He twitches slightly and lowers his head in what he fondly imagines to be a charming, chivalrous posture, but which manages only to achieve the visible status of fawning.
“Ah … good morning, Lady Anastasia … er, Colonel McMurdough”, he adds quickly, though never taking his batting eyes from the lady. “Lovely day for it.”
The lady merely inclines her head in a response of polite and dignified elegance; but the Colonel returns the greeting with haughty blankness upon his rather broad, nondescript face. “For what?”
Anastasia rolls her eyes with exasperation, hissing through clenched teeth to him: “It’s a figure of speech, Montague …”
Her husband nods ponderously in something short of full understanding, figures of speech being definitely not his forte.
The Chaplain now sees an opportunity for further oiliness and flutters his eyelashes with renewed
