Master of Customs.
You will get your share , Thornhill , King told him, smiling his calm smile, the smile of a flourishing man. You will find it better than coin of the realm . Thornhill had no concerns about not getting his share. You may rely on me, Mr King , he said, and they shook hands on it.
Mr King was a happy man, and did not grieve about the tiny splined holes under the hoops, and the gimlet in Thornhill’s pocket. He did not grieve because he did not know, tucked up safe in his feather-bed while Thornhill was busy in the dark.
~
Morning and evening the Government chain gangs clanked and shuffled to and from the split-timber barracks where their hammocks were packed in so close together the convicts became part of each other’s dreams.
Without Sal, Thornhill would have been assigned to one of those gangs. Failing that, to some settler who, in exchange for victuals and a suit of slops once a year, could do with him pretty much as he pleased. A man could be lucky, and be assigned to some master of kindly stamp who would feed and clothe his convicts properly and at the end of a year let them apply for a ticket of leave. But for plenty of masters the charm of having men obliged to work for nothing was irresistible. Those masters would make sure their servants were accused of some misdemeanour or other before the year was out, so they would never get their ticket.
The ticket of leave was a peculiarity of New South Wales. Here, three-quarters of a year away from the fields of wheat and sheep in England, the working of the land to produce food was urgent. The authorities had realised that if the place was ever to sustain itself, it would be by free labour and not the reluctant time-serving of felons. The ticket was a way of making men free enough to benefit from their own sweat but not free enough to stop being prisoners.
As little as a twelvemonth after arriving, a convict could apply for his ticket, and with that safe in his pocket he could walk about as free as any Legitimate. He could sell his labour to anyone he chose, or take up a piece of land and work for no one but himself. The only limit to his freedom was that he could not leave the colony. For folk who had thought to die an ugly death, that seemed a light enough fetter.
But for the next twelve months, until he could apply for his ticket, Thornhill would have Sal as his master. It made a good joke between them. In the nights, on a pile of the fern the old hands called bungwall that was covered with a piece of canvas, he would turn to her. I had best call you Mrs Thornhill, madam , he said, and squeezed her body, that he had felt in his imagination for those months at sea, and never tired of having now under his hands. Yes, Mrs Thornhill. No, Mrs Thornhill. At your service, Mrs Thornhill . Many things in this place were bewildering, but the feel of her body was still the thing he knew best in all the world. Sal moved closer and the fern beneath the canvas shifted too, like a restless creature in the bed with them. Why Thornhill , she whispered. My good man. Let me think now, how can you service me?
~
The place ran on rum the way a horse ran on oats. Rum was the currency of all exchanges, there being little coin. As well, rum promised consolation for the fact that everyone in the colony might as well be on the moon.
A man could hardly take a step in the settlement without coming to one of the open-sided shelters, nothing more than a roof of bark held up with a few lopped saplings driven into the dirt and a counter of wattle-lathes, where rum could be got at any hour. Men sprawled on upturned barrels with their heads on the counter, far gone but still clutching a pannikin so tight their knuckles were white, and behind the counter thin-faced fellows with sunken cheeks stared blankly at their world.
What with the rum Mr King knew about, and the rum he did not, the Thornhill household soon moved into another hut down by the stream. It was made mostly of
You will get your share , Thornhill , King told him, smiling his calm smile, the smile of a flourishing man. You will find it better than coin of the realm . Thornhill had no concerns about not getting his share. You may rely on me, Mr King , he said, and they shook hands on it.
Mr King was a happy man, and did not grieve about the tiny splined holes under the hoops, and the gimlet in Thornhill’s pocket. He did not grieve because he did not know, tucked up safe in his feather-bed while Thornhill was busy in the dark.
~
Morning and evening the Government chain gangs clanked and shuffled to and from the split-timber barracks where their hammocks were packed in so close together the convicts became part of each other’s dreams.
Without Sal, Thornhill would have been assigned to one of those gangs. Failing that, to some settler who, in exchange for victuals and a suit of slops once a year, could do with him pretty much as he pleased. A man could be lucky, and be assigned to some master of kindly stamp who would feed and clothe his convicts properly and at the end of a year let them apply for a ticket of leave. But for plenty of masters the charm of having men obliged to work for nothing was irresistible. Those masters would make sure their servants were accused of some misdemeanour or other before the year was out, so they would never get their ticket.
The ticket of leave was a peculiarity of New South Wales. Here, three-quarters of a year away from the fields of wheat and sheep in England, the working of the land to produce food was urgent. The authorities had realised that if the place was ever to sustain itself, it would be by free labour and not the reluctant time-serving of felons. The ticket was a way of making men free enough to benefit from their own sweat but not free enough to stop being prisoners.
As little as a twelvemonth after arriving, a convict could apply for his ticket, and with that safe in his pocket he could walk about as free as any Legitimate. He could sell his labour to anyone he chose, or take up a piece of land and work for no one but himself. The only limit to his freedom was that he could not leave the colony. For folk who had thought to die an ugly death, that seemed a light enough fetter.
But for the next twelve months, until he could apply for his ticket, Thornhill would have Sal as his master. It made a good joke between them. In the nights, on a pile of the fern the old hands called bungwall that was covered with a piece of canvas, he would turn to her. I had best call you Mrs Thornhill, madam , he said, and squeezed her body, that he had felt in his imagination for those months at sea, and never tired of having now under his hands. Yes, Mrs Thornhill. No, Mrs Thornhill. At your service, Mrs Thornhill . Many things in this place were bewildering, but the feel of her body was still the thing he knew best in all the world. Sal moved closer and the fern beneath the canvas shifted too, like a restless creature in the bed with them. Why Thornhill , she whispered. My good man. Let me think now, how can you service me?
~
The place ran on rum the way a horse ran on oats. Rum was the currency of all exchanges, there being little coin. As well, rum promised consolation for the fact that everyone in the colony might as well be on the moon.
A man could hardly take a step in the settlement without coming to one of the open-sided shelters, nothing more than a roof of bark held up with a few lopped saplings driven into the dirt and a counter of wattle-lathes, where rum could be got at any hour. Men sprawled on upturned barrels with their heads on the counter, far gone but still clutching a pannikin so tight their knuckles were white, and behind the counter thin-faced fellows with sunken cheeks stared blankly at their world.
What with the rum Mr King knew about, and the rum he did not, the Thornhill household soon moved into another hut down by the stream. It was made mostly of
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