Published: 17 Dec 2020

The road to Sydney was busy in both directions. Towards town was the hopeful, wishing to travel south to try their luck on the goldfields. From town came some with a measure of disappointment and returning home, others dreaming of building a grazing empire in the vast interior, droving small flocks of sheep or herds of cattle, looking for that patch of ground with good grass not already taken by the squatter and having to travel further inland on every occasion, reaching into the dryer pastures relying on seasonal rain that often failed.

Also came those hawking wares from the mother country at inflated pricing, fiscal music to the hawker’s ears as pots and pans clanged and clinked in carts as they past along the rough dusty bush tracks.

Such travelling salesmen would often stop at homesteads to peddle their wears, attracting excited children with bare feet and dirty knees milling with saucer eyes wide at the magic of it all. A new dress for the good woman, tobacco and a replacement smoking pipe for the man of the house, maybe the latest in sheet music for those fortunate to own a piano and always promises that the next visit would have more.

There were others in the presence of highway men, known coequally as bushrangers. Some were escaped convicts, others down on their luck, finding robbery an easier way of existing. Although transportation had ceased in New South Wales, there was still hundreds from earlier days forced to serve out their sentence as virtual slaves and forgotten by authority either in England or the colonies. There remained transportation to other parts of the continent and many of those found their way to the mother colony reappearing under assumed names, often becoming respectable citizens, others reverted to past lives of crime.

Those who lived their life roaming the bushland, either alone or in gangs had it hard. Living of the Australian country wasn’t easy and without skill the land soon has the advantage. Many of these so called bushrangers held little value for the life of his fellow, even less it appeared for their own and took early death as expectation. Often when facing the rope they walked to the gallows in sullen mood without obvious fear or disappointment, their final words but acceptance. One such fellow as the rope was placed around his neck and brought to tight simply said, oh well it was fun while it lasted. Others laughed and cursed the hangman, declaring they would meet again in hell. Others if not most had given up on god and without belief declared death was but a release for torment and nothing more.

Along the way the boys would hear tales from the goldfields, or of this one or that who struck it rich, or the hardship of wasting away in the hot sun with empty bellies, without a single comfort to come to after a day of fruitless digging. Mostly it was the latter; even so it didn’t dissuade the boys from the excitement of their pending travel or dreaming of what they may find. Not even stories of men fading away long before their prime from lack of hygiene or proper food, of women dying in childbirth, or children before their first birthday turn them from their adventure.

Before departing Logan read the journal Edward kept when he was a servant during the Blue Mountain crossing. Within were a number of maps, one describing a cairn Edward had erect during the crossing.

A second map showed where the explorers had camped on that final night, when they discovered the wide western plains and first looked upon the monoliths they named the three sisters. Logan had carefully copied the maps for investigation while waiting for the Sydney connection at Katoomba.

What Logan established was the road to Sydney followed the crossover mile for mile and during their overnight stay at Katoomba it was but a short walk to that final campsite but he had difficulty finding the cairn as the area had since become thickly forested.

As the sun set in the dust hazed west the boys found the spot and sat in awe of the grandeur.

“This could be the very spot Edward sat all those years ago,” Logan perceived.

“I must agree although we’ve crossed over many times I have never quite understood the ruggedness of it all.”

“You can almost see as far as Elsie Downs,” Logan exaggerated.

“Almost,”

“Well a bloody long way I must admit.”

“Sydney tomorrow;”

“Getting excited?” Logan asked.

“Some but I wish I could click my fingers and be at Ballarat.”

“That would take away half the reason for going.”

“Being?”

“The adventure of it all,” Logan inferred with a measure of exuberance.

“True, I suppose we better be heading back before dark.”

On reaching Sydney the boys found it busy with its many ships along the endless line of docks, their tall masts stretching high like a forest of trees stripped bare of foliage their spars draped with canvas snow. Occasionally there would be a steamship its low profile hidden amongst the tall masts, with hulls and all that was above deck blackened from coal dust and soot, while adding gritty acrid smoke to the ever increasing pollution that hovered in the air above Sydney Town.

When such vessels were in port their emissions carried across the town to settle on washing or entered through open windows. So strong was the complaining that a list of steam vessel activity had to be issued to print in the Sydney Empire.

The hum of industry was everywhere and with the wealth from gold and wool, every conceivable luxury was being landed. Pianos in wooden crates, barrels of the best whisky Scotland could produce, along with the finest linen from the Manchester mills and spices by the pound, not ounces from the Dutch Spice Islands to the north, also people, always people all wishing to find their fortune in the southern land, wishing to escape the trials of Europe with its continual turmoil.

With the ships they came from across the world, take one step and you would hear English, another and it was French, or German or Italian, even when it was English there were accents and dialects, some known to the ears, others strange yet still discernible as the mother tongue. There was also the Orient as China had quickly learnt of the new gold mountain, its people arriving in huddled groups of ten or twenty for a southern connection to try their hand. Sent by family or cartels of devious character to which they owed their very souls, who kept their families hostage until returned with pockets heavy with wealth.

The dock area was a concoction of different smells from sandalwood to sewerage, while between the ships bobbing up and down in the wash and tide could be found the discard from the ships galleys, crates that fell or spilt their contents, even the rotting carcass of a bullock as it bumped against hulls and came apart at the joints, Everywhere young boys risked their health and lives attempting to fish out items of interest from the soup as it crushed between the momentum of the hulls.

Before leaving Hamish had been kind enough to pen a letter of introduction and supply the name of a shipping agent known to the family, although in the main to their Uncle Edward and father. A man with fair disposition, while owing to Edward for his start in business during the days following emancipation.

As the boys walked their way along Pitt Street, Logan paused and prevented Chance from travelling further. “Listen,” he said.

“Listen to what?” Chance asked.

“Everything,”

“Noise upon noise is what I hear.”

“That is progress, look about even since we were last here there is much growth, more shops, bonds stores and people.”

“More smell as well.” Chance complained.

“That comes with progress.”

“I would rather the scent of sheep shit than sewerage.” Chance admitted.

“Yes I agree there is more smell.”

Finding the booking office at the corner of Pitt and Reiby Place the boys entered through a milling crowd of frustration as Sydney jockeyed for a berth on the next ship, any ship that chanced to list Port Phillip as its next port of call.

Logan led the way through the crowd to the front and somehow managed to grab the attention of the young shipping clerk who stood stilted in confusion as the pressing crowd of hopeful shouted their demands, some offering all their wealth for a simple space among the cargo.

“Is Mr. Ron Dexter about?” Logan asked while holding the clerk by the lower arm.

“He’s busy,” the clerk snapped as he shook Logan’s hold away.

“Could you let him know Logan McGregor is to see him?”

“Join the rest,” The clerk’s voice rose above the noise in obvious frustration.

“Tell him I am from Elsie Downs,”

“Where?”

“Elsie Downs, let him know I have a letter of introduction from Hamish McGregor, son of Hamish of that name and once partner to Edward Buckley.”

“Edward Buckley, why didn’t you say so earlier?” The clerk quickly departed through a rear door, moments later reappearing with Dexter.

“The young McGregor?” the man called as he recognised Logan standing at the front of the crowd. He waved the boys through to a rear room and closed the door against the squabble beyond.

“Who is your friend?” Dexter asked.

“Chance Wilcox from Bridge Town.”

“Ah Piers’ young boy, I remember your dad and how Sam took him in and gave him his name, they were truly hard days, how is Piers?”

“Feeling his years Mr. Dexter, otherwise well.”

“And Edward?”

“I’m afraid he passed away but three months previous,” Logan softly answered.

“That is but a shame, a fine man was Edward and I owe him much,” the man forced a smile, “I was also a convict you know,” the man declared with pride, “enough of that what can I be doing for you young fellows?”

“We were hoping to find passage to Port Phillip,” Logan hopefully answered.

“You and a thousand others, soon there will be no one left in Sydney.” Dexter then referred to his shipping logs, “I’m afraid the last ship for Geelong is leaving almost as I speak, an old convict ship called Roslyn and there isn’t anything else for a fortnight.”

“Oh,” Logan replied disappointedly.

A long breath from Dexter and a scratching at the crown of his balding head brought on a deep breath and a proposition.

“There is a possibility,”

“Anything,” Logan quickly answered.

“I know someone who owes me a favour or two and runs a trading schooner called Bass Strait, he is sailing early in the morning for Geelong but there is a catch.”

“What would that be?” Logan asked.

“It will be expensive five pound a head, I can’t influence that and he will expect you to work as well. He has stated a full listing but I am sure I can convince him to squeeze you in somewhere.”

Chance shuffled his feet on hearing the price but Logan ticked him with a glance. “We’ll take it Mr. Dexter.”

“Then be at Alexandrina Dock first light and I’ll forego the booking fee.”

“Thank you Mr. Dexter.”

“Don’t thank me yet Logan, Tobias Toft is a brutish task master and by journey’s end you may have regret.” Dexter guided the two towards the rear, “Leave through the back door otherwise it may start a riot if they think I’m giving privileges.”

After trying a number of inns and boarding houses it became apparent there wasn’t a spare room in Sydney, so it was decided to bed down on the dock until morning. On reaching the dock they found that the birth where their ship should be was empty. With concern Logan asked a passing stevedore about the Bass Strait, discovering she was unloading at King’s Wharf and wouldn’t arrive until early morning to take on a cargo for the south.

After their long journey across the Blue Mountains to Sydney and the humidity of the day the boys rested dockside on a collection of cloth bales that were destined for the new southern colony. Once they were comfortable Logan removed a small parcel from his pack. “Dinner,” he said with an ironic smile towards its lacking.

“What’s left?”

“But some cheese, stale bread and a little beef jerky.” Logan removed the cloth from around their meal and offered up to his friend.

“To my stomach it will be a feast,” Chance laughed and accepted a portion.

“So tomorrow we will be on our way.”

“I’m a little apprehensive about travelling by ship.” Chance admitted while viewing the many vessels lined along the wharf, many battle scared from years fighting the elements of sea and wind.

“It will be fine and a grand experience.” Logan gave a long and noisy yawn.

“Tired?”

“A little,”

Soon they were asleep and didn’t take attention of the noise that continued throughout the night. Not wakening until Logan received a sharp kick to his boot, bringing him bolt upright to the early dawn.

“Are you my late passengers?” a rough salty voice demanded.

“If you are Tobias Toft the captain of the Bass Strait then yes,” Logan answered, giving Chance a shake as he rose to his feet to stretch the uncomfortable sleep from his bones.

“What’s up?” Chance gasped as he woke with a start.

“Our ship has arrived.”

“I’m -,” Logan commenced to introduce himself to the figure of a large man standing akimbo but a stride away in the half light of the dawn.

“Never mind the introductions they can come later, better get a wriggle on there is loading to be done, see the mate he will show you where to stow your gear and you will have to share a bunk in the crew quarters.”

Once on deck the mate came quickly to them. “Names,” he demanded while referring to his short manifest.

“Logan McGregor and Chance Wilcox,” Logan offered.

“Chance is that a real name or something your cobbers call ya’,”

“It’s real enough,” Chance answered.

The mate made a short notation to his manifest while mouthing the words as he did so. Lifting his pencil he half smiled through a set of black and rotting teeth then continued, “what are you waiting for, store ya’ kit and get to work with the others, ‘ave to be gone before the tide turns.”

The late morning was bright as the Bass Strait made its way down harbour towards south head under a gentle breeze. Smoke lazily lifted from midday cooking and already the industrial haze as plagued London commenced to form above Sydney Town, some days blotting out the mountains that formed the eucalyptus blue hazed backdrop and once an impenetrable barrier to the west.

At south head the breeze strengthen from the north east, filling the sales and speeding their progress at a steady seven knots as they passed Greenway’s lighthouse dazzling white, with its oil powered light still burning.

Logan was joined by Chance as he gazed towards the tall form of south head; “are you feeling alright,” Chance asked noticing Logan appeared to be a little pallid.

“So far,”

“Seasick?”

“A little,”

“What is that tall stone building?” Chance pointed towards the lighthouse.

“That is Francis Greenway’s light.”

“Oh, who was Greenway?”

“Greenway was sent to Australia for fraud but he was a noted architect and designed many of the important building around town,” a grin, “but he couldn’t help himself and again returned to forgery.”

“That wasn’t bright.”

“Neither is his light.”

“Not very funny,”

“Did you know Uncle Edward knew Greenway and was a friend of the governor at the time?” Logan admitted.

“I thought Edward was a convict?”

“True but he was emancipated as was Greenway, Governor Macquarie had him set free with a ticket of leave for his help in finding a way across the Blue Mountains but he was never permitted to return to England. Back then I would have been called currency.”

“As you once said; can we visit England?” Chance asked.

“Do you wish to do so?”

“No,”

“We could but I should think it would be a foreign country to us and we naught but convicts to them.”

“But we weren’t convicts.”

“Some people believed that the stain of conviction is in the blood and we are also tainted.”

“Was Edward considered to be called currency?” Chance asked.

“Edward was Devon born but your father was currency as he was born in Sydney and not long after it was established,” Logan gave an ironical huff of thought; “I suppose I could consider myself and my brothers as such and rather like the handle.”

“Piers never spoke of the old days, only about his parents being lost in a flood and his earlier time on Elsie Downs. I don’t think I would like to travel to England, from what I hear the sun hardly leaves the horizon and it’s always raining.”

Logan diverted his view from south head towards a collum of smoke rising from a wooded area further to the south which he assumed to be a native camp. “Nor I, this is our country now, Matthew Flinders named it Australia and a more perfect name there could not be.”

“I’ve heard it mentioned, what does it mean?” Chance asked.

“I think simply south land.”

A number of naked natives arrived out of the scrub and become most animated as they shouted towards the ship from the beach; Chance wave to them.

“I don’t think they are being amorous,” Logan warned.

“They are waving.”

“Tis as well we can’t hear or understand what they are shouting.”

“Still a little friendly response can’t hurt,” Chance continued to wave.

“I guess not but I think theirs is useless protest, soon we will outnumber them across the entire continent, in the Sydney area that has already happed, as it has over the mountains.” Logan’s prediction came with a touch of empathy but coated with realism, yet his fair skin gave him a measure of superiority, believing if it wasn’t for the British taking their country, it would have been the French or Spanish and their treatment of natives was considered much less tolerant.

Chance pointed towards the beach and laughed as one of the natives collected something from the sand and hurled it with all his might towards the ship. He remained waving as the ship travelled away from the protected inlet.

“Well we are truly on our way now.” Logan spoke as the native collected a second missile giving it more force than previously. The object landed but a few metres from the shoreline, where a number of seagulls, believing the motion to be food, quickly attended to the splashing.

“Enjoying your leisure?” It was the voice of Captain Toft as he approached giving the boys a start.

“We were watching the natives,” Chance answered.

“It’s time to earn your passage; part of the cargo has shifted and needs attention, Jim Brigg will show you what to do.”

With the bells sounded to end the first watch there was a sudden jolting as a building squall tossed the ship, Chance woke with a start. “You awake,” he whispered close to Logan’s ear.

“Yes,” Logan softly replied.

“What was that?”

“Wind I should think,” Logan explained as the ship once again settled.

“Can’t you sleep?

“I am finding it difficult,”

“Are you still feeling seasick?” Chance asked.

“I’ve settled a little, what about you.”

“It isn’t worrying me but did for a while when we started out but I’m fine now.

“I’ll get over it,” Logan hoped.

“I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except my cousins when we visited,” Chance admitted in a low whisper.

“I must admit it is cramped but I am enjoying the closeness.”

“Better if naked,” Chance released a quiet giggle and gave a caress through the material of Logan’s clothing, “hard,” he whispered close to Logan’s ear.

“I have been for most of the night – it’s your fault.”

“Then I should do something about it.”

“Don’t think so others may hear.”

A second jolting to the ship brought further concern to Chance as he gasped and gripped tightly to the bunk railing.

“Again wind,” Logan confirmed without confidence.

“Are we sinking?” Chance spoke loudly.

“This old tub can take anything,” A crew member confidently called across their confined space below deck, “never been to sea before boys?” he asked.

“Never,” Chance answered.

“The old man said there would be squalls tonight and he knows his weather.”

“What is a quall?” Chance gave question.

“You’ll soon find out, get some sleep.”

Neither slept well that night as the captain’s squalls came in irregular intervals tossing the small schooner about like flotsam. On a number of occasions they had to hold onto the bunk rails not to fall to the decking but with first light the weather settled and both went above to watch the sun rise out of the eastern ocean, colouring a now flat sea like the paint mix on an artist’s palette. To the west the shoreline was well defined and smoke for native camps rose lazily into the clear blue morning.

“Where are we?” Chance asked the captain as he walked the deck inspecting for any damage from the night’s storm. He paused.

“Close by Eden I should think by the local terrane,” Captain Toft answered somewhat dismissively.

“Eden?” Logan humorously questioned while remembering his limited religious instructions.

“Yes Eden,” the captain dully answered, “tis’ a small sealing and whaling settlement towards Cape Howe, we will be landing supplies there and your labour will again be necessary.” Toft cast his eyes upwards and gave a satisfying response believing his understanding of the weather had once again been correct.

“What do you think of being at sea?” Logan asked Chance as the sun fully broke away from the horizon line.

“I would rather walk or ride,”

“Agreed but that would have taken the best part of a month maybe more and most of the land between has hardly been explored,” Logan wisely related.

“Still it makes me nervous; you hear so many stories of ships sinking or ending up on rocks in some storm,” a nervous chortle, “Edward had a number of books on shipwrecks and they now come to mind.” Chance recollected.

“Or never heard of again, like George Bass.”

“Who was he?” Chance asked.

“He was an explorer in the early days, the strait between Victoria and Van Diemen’s Land bares his name, also I should think but indirectly this ship.”

“What happened to George Bass?”

“A good question, like Uncle William he simply disappeared. Bass was supposed to travel in the Venus to South America for supplies and he and the ship were never heard of again.” Logan was playing with Chance’s nervous disposition.

“Sunk?” Chance asked.

“Sunk, hit rocks, eaten by cannibals or taken by the Spanish – who knows, there is one story he was captured by the Spanish during a British war with Spain and sent to work in some South American silver mine.”

“Is that true?”

“It is true that it is a rumour.”

“Thank you for the words of confidence,” Chance growled.

“For us it’s been easy so far but can you imagine how those transported felt while chained below deck for months in a tossing sea sitting is their own shit and eaten by rat while they slept.”

“Did Uncle Edward tell you that?” Chance asked.

“No it was a man who worked on the farm when I was a little tacker, he had been a convict servant on Elsie Downs. Edward never spoke of his transportation.”

“I do remember your convict servants. As for their voyage I should think many would have wished for the ship to sink to be released from it all.” Chance assumed as a deckhand approached and asked them to help trim the jib and staysail to utilise the easterly as Worang Point was in sight and Eden but a short distance beyond.

As Eden lacked a jetty of any proportion and there was already a whaling ship in port, the Bass Strait had to drop anchor offshore and land supplies by lighter. Doing so was slow and it was into the late afternoon before all was conveyed. The boys would loved to have gone ashore to explored but were quickly put to work with the unloading, being certainly told they were not privileged to do so by the terms of there passage, beside there would not be time as they would need to catch the turning tide.

Once the lighters had completed their work there was time to relax and at least take in the beauty of the surrounding countryside. Eden was but a small settlement on a double bay which without imagination named Twofold Bay but the land beyond was well watered with areas of tall timber and other of pasture already taken for sheep and cattle.

“It’s called the Henry F. Trent out of Boston,” Logan said while noticing Chance’s interest in the larger whaling ship, her hull and rigging black with soot from the rendering down of whale blubber. The ship’s two tri pots were clearly visible and built into the deck.

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?” Chance asked while pointing towards the rendering pots.

“I believe they are inclosed in a brick furnace.”

“Still, I should think any fire on board a wooden vessel would need to be managed cautiously.”

“Until recently they had to bring the whale flesh ashore and render it down, see on that strip of land beyond the village?”

“Do you mean those big black pots?”

“That’s the ones; they are different than those on ship but still called tri pots.”

Chance’s interest returned to the ship, “I was counting the stars on their flag.”

“There are thirty-one,” Logan admitted.

“How do you know?”

“I also counted them; it’s the American flag, one star for each state of their union.”

“Then they must have a lot of states.”

“I guess so.”

By evening with twilight glowing on the surface of the sea and the land but dark shadows between the setting sun and the ocean. Both boys were on deck before being called for their evening meal.

“That’s Cape Howe,” the mate said pointing towards a shadow of land jutting some distance into the water and once spoken he moved on to attend to his duty.

“What is the significance of Cape Howe?” Chance asked Logan who was well known to be the custodian of history and quite apt in sharing his knowledge to anyone who would listen – or not.

“Zachary Hicks was the first lieutenant on the Endeavour when Cook discovered and mapped the east coast of New South Wales. It had been suggested Hicks was the first to sight land at that point we are viewing and Cook named the point after some fellow in the Admiralty. ”

“How do you know that?” Chance asked.

“Sam, your dad’s benefactor told Uncle Edward and Edward as you know was much interested in anything historical.”

“Cape Howe,” Chance repeated.

“It should be called Cape Harvey.” Logan corrected.

“Why so?”

“Sam Wilcox told Uncle Edward he had met William Harvey who was crew on the convict ship Sam arrived on and Harvey admitted freely and often it was he who first spied land from high in the crows nest of the Endeavour and called his sighting down to Hicks, who in turned passed the information on to his captain.”

“That all appears complicated, so why wasn’t it named Cape Harvey or even Hicks?”

“Simple, Cook couldn’t call it Cape Cook much too presumptuous to name the first sighting of the eastern continent after himself, so he named it Howe from the Admiralty as the others held little importance, except Hicks did receive a footnote for the fact in Cook’s journal but not Howe, he slipped into obscurity.”

“As I said, it is all much too complicated.” Chance confused.

“You did ask,”

“I did but I’ll stay with Cape Howe and leave the rest to history.”

“You just do that,” Logan laughed and moved on from the naming of a small jutting of land in a wide mostly unknown ocean at the arse end of the globe.

With darkness about the small vessel rounded Cape Howe and commenced, with a slight south-easterly, to enter into the strait of water the ship was named after. It was a stretch of water Tobias Toft had passaged many times knowing well its dangers. He also knew to steer well out to sea and midway between an isthmus called Wilsons Promontory and a group of islands know as the Furneaux Group, being sure to pass between Rodondo and Hogan Islands to be well away from the numerous shallow reefs.

The strait was also notorious when the southern storms blew up from the antarctic and brought heavy seas from the west, therefore in those conditions entering from the east and against the natural weather could be treacherous. Even in such storms entry from the west could also be difficult and already there were a number of shipwrecks along the Van Diemen’s Land coast and a section of Victoria notoriously known as the shipwreck coast with its high cliffs, shallows and rocky outcrops.

Fortunately it had been a calm night allowing Logan’s stomach to settle to tolerable and with the morning an amount of excitement was extracted from knowledge they were but half a day from entering through the narrow heads of Port Phillip.

All along that southern shoreline there was evidence of native population, as camp fires could be seen from the ship’s position out to sea and often as they passed natives would come to the beach but seldom took notice of their progress. On one occasion a group of children appeared to show some excitement but as they cooeed and waved, women quickly drew them away from sight to hide in the scrub beyond.

Heavy smoke was evident in the tall mountains that made a backdrop to the southern shore, obviously a bushfire that would burn for days, if not months until the rain came to extinguish it, or a change of wind blew it back upon itself.

“There is a lot of smoke,” Chance perceived and pointed.

“Bushfires, the first European sailors who passed by the coast named New South Wales the land of smoke.”

“Are there settlements along this coast?”

“Some I hear and good grazing land between the sea and the mountains and timber as tall as anywhere but in the most the population is to the west of the big bay in the goldfields; I hear there is a small town Inverloch and some whaling stations but little else,” Logan related what he had heard only that morning at breakfast.

As they enjoyed the early sunshine and calm sea a pod of playful dolphins arrived taking turns in breaking the bow wave as they swapped from port to starboard and back with amazing dexterity. Everyone had become so engrossed in the dolphins play they failed to notice a French man-of-war closing in from port. “Are we at war with France?” the mate nervously asked his captain while pointing towards the ship’s tricolour proudly displayed high on the head of the foremast.

“We are always at war with someone, that’s the British way,” the captain answered. “Spill wind,” he cried and on application the ship slowed as the French man-of-war effortlessly glided by. The crew of the Bass Strait as was tradition saluted the larger ship, it with all gunports open, its cannon snarling like black teeth directed towards the smaller vessel.

“Cochons Anglais sales,” was clearly heard from the towering French foredeck as a bucket of galley slops came across the gap. It missed and fell into the ocean beside the Bass Strait’s hull.

“What did he say?” the captain asked of his mate while holding to a false smile and salute.

“I don’t speak Froggy,” the mate quietly answered.

“Baiser La Reine Victoria par un chien gere,” followed as the man-of-war progressed beyond hearing.

“Keep saluting,” Captain Toft quietly demanded as the ship past out of range.

“Phew she’s gone and we’re still afloat,” The mate released a long held breath.

“Did you see her name?” the captain asked as his eyesight had been impaired from many years of sun glare on ocean waters.

“It was the Trition,”

“Umm, 74 guns what is she doing this far south, we must advise the authorities when we reach Geelong,” The captain concerned as it was unusual to see foreign war ships in Bass Strait.

“I do speak a little French,” one of the passengers admitted.

“What did he call?” Toft enquired.

The passenger became quite red in the face as he cleared his throat and searched his vocabulary for acceptable language.

“Well?”

“It was a suggestion that loosely translates Queen Victoria should have intercourse with a dog.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Toft laughed and moved on although somewhat amused with the insult towards Victoria, as his imagination could not comprehend beyond the surly appearance as betrayed in the monarch’s many public portraits, with wonder how she could have given birth to so many children thus debunking the suggested accusation of bestiality.

With Westernport bay in sight to their north and Port Phillip but hours away Captain Toft appeared to lighten his usual rigid attitude as he approached the boys. “If this weather holds we should be through the heads by late afternoon, then it is only a short distance to Cairo Bay and Geelong.”

“What about that French ship Mr. Toft?” Logan asked.

“More than likely she was taking a short cut through the strait to avoid rougher weather to the south of Van Diemen’s Land and is heading for New Caledonia, they have a presence there.”

“Is there going to be a war?” Chance tentatively asked.

“I doubt it lad, she was only flexing her muscles but still it is wise to report the sighting,” The captain pointed to a long straight length of beach, “that is but a narrow Peninsular of land and the rip is just beyond.”

“What is the rip?” Logan asked.

“It’s the entry to the bay but we will need to hove-to until slack water.”

“Why so?”

“The rip, it runs close to ten knots with the tide, a steam ship may force its way through but never one under sail.”

“When will we reach Geelong?”

“We’ll go through between four and five this afternoon and Geelong is a little to the west on Corio Bay – enough now I have work to do and when we arrive, I don’t want you two scarpering before we unload.”

It was a pleasant afternoon while waiting for the tide, with a slight breeze coming in from the south west. As they waited a small vessel came through the heads with the outgoing and even without the help of the light breeze she appeared to be travelling at a number of nots, depicting the pull of the tide through the rip.

“Not long now lads it’s on the turn,” Toft said as the small vessel made way to the east passing them to starboard, “she is the topsail schooner Enterprize, Hobart built and heading for Launceston.”

There was an offer of courtesy from both ships and a shout of warning from the Enterprize but fell unheard on the Bass Strait.

“What did he call?” the captain asked, as not only was his sight failing but also his hearing.

“I thought I heard the word yellow but little more,” Chance offered.

“Never mind I should think we will discover what it was soon enough.”

“We were watching what appears to be a dolphin,” Chance said and pointed to a large dark shadow that passed under the ship.

“White pointer shark,” Toft explained, “big at that and deadly if you were in the water.” He cast his eyes to the south west. “There will be a storm this evening.”

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