Twenty gallons of Rum for the Delivery into My Custody of one Colonel George Bloody Arthur.

The Reprobates Offences include Fraudulently Impersonating a Lieutenant Governor. For I Am the TRUE George!
William Burr, the son of an English settler in South America, had a steady job hunting mahogany pirates in British Honduras. One day, injured and recovering after a jungle skirmish, he receives a letter from John McQuillan, his old friend and now chief police magistrate in Hobart Town, with the offer of a reward for the capture of a notorious outlaw: and so Burr sets sail for the Antipodes, though with little idea of what to expect. He arrives in Van Diemens Land, the most isolated and feared penal colony of the British Empire, in 1830 to find a world of corruption, brutality and mystical beauty. Following the trail of Brown George Coyne, the charismatic outlaw leader of a band of escaped convicts, Burr is soon rushing headlong through the surreal, mesmerising Vandemonian wilderness, where he will discover not only the violent truth of British settlement, but also the love of a woman, and the friendship of an Aboriginal tracker, himself an outcast on an island of outcasts. A brilliant and beguiling Australian Western by a writer of astonishing talent. Visceral, phantasmagoric, explosive and exhilaratingyou have never read anything like it.

Cover design: Sandy Cull, gogoGingko Cover image: Ian Stevenson

FICTION

satisfies on every level. Intensely cinematicimagine Martin Scorsese let loose in Van Diemen's Land Malcolm Knox, author of The Life

For my wife and son

First published in 2013 Copyright Lenny Bartulin 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: info@allenandunwin.com Web: www.allenandunwin.com Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au ISBN 978 1 74331 611 5 Internal design by Sandy Cull, gogoGingko Set in 12.5/17 pt Mrs Eaves OT CE by Bookhouse, Sydney Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper in this book is FSC certified. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the worlds forests.

C009448

My opinion is such, that nothing but rather sharp necessity should compel me to emigrate.
C h a r l e s Da r w i n , The Voyage of the Beagle

Theres a good many strange people in the colony, Dick, my boy. Captain Starlight
Rol f B ol dr e wo od , Robbery Under Arms

heyd been on the trail of Ernesto de las Casas and his crew, three days upriver out of Dangriga and thinking about pausing in the shade, when an arrow struck William Burr in the shoulder and nearly knocked him out of the canoe. Natives. He recovered and pulled his two pistols, fired loose at a stand of logwood and fern, what the hell, some kind of courage: but four shots down from the Werner double-barrels and nothing but big holes in the air. The Creoles in the three canoes started paddling for their lives as small yellow arrows burst out of the riverbank, thwacking into the canoe and catching arms and legs, men crying out. Burr spilled his caps, unable to reload. He reached for a musket, but saw it was lying in a puddle of water in the bottom of the damn canoe. Another arrow smacked him in the hip and he howled, grabbing at his side. More continued to fly, zipping like mad insects through the air. Then, just as they were pulling clear of the range, the Creole behind him swung his paddle up out of the water as a shield; it caught Burr real good, right at the base of his skull. He managed to stay in the canoe, but didnt get to see how the whole thing turned out.
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When he opened his eyes next, it was the craggy face of Ethan Hall above him, former surgeon on the Surprise. He now operated a string of river catchments for the loggers, up and down the coast of British Honduras. He was sixty-five years old and had a twenty-two-year-old Honduran wife. The old man said, Might be it now, son, far as luck. He held up a bottle of aguardiente, the rough Brazilian brandy, said, Best if you drink this. Burr drank half the bottle, then bit the leather strap of a musket while Ethan Hall tore the arrows from his shoulder and hip. For a week he recovered in the wooden hut at the rear of Halls property, where the mother-in-law used to live until Hall couldnt stand it any longer. Burr dozed and sweated, burning sun slicing through gaps in the boards and throwing lines over the dirt floor, tired as a hundred men and melancholy, too. He contemplated his future without conclusion. Then the letter from McQuillan arrived, forwarded on from Belize Town.
Willie Boy, One thousand acres of prime grazing pasture on the Coal River, Van Diemens Land, if you want it. Reward from our old friend Lieutenant Governor Arthur (Colonel Holier Than Thou), who appears thwarted in his ability to capture an escaped felon and requires your able assistance. Has a notion in his head that you might know what youre doing. I pray, laddie, this letter finds you among the living. John McQuillan, Esq. Hobart Town, Van Diemens Land

He hadnt heard from John McQuillan in at least a year or more.

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Timing might be right, son, the surgeon said, reading over Burrs bandaged shoulder. Hed noticed other scars on the boys body, too: one a musket ball that had entered above his other hip and straight out behind. Maybe resuscitate your luck. Burr stared at the letter, said, Think they got hostile natives in Van Diemens Land? No idea, Ethan Hall said. But Ill hope not for ye.

Major John McQuillan was ex-cavalry, had ridden with the Scots Greys at Waterloo. When Burr met him in 1823 he was a mahogany trader down in Belize Town, also an adviser on military matters for the British Honduran administration, and a local magistrate, too. Burr was on trial for threatening an officer of the Crown in public. The man was drunk and had stepped into the path of Burrs palomino, which he proceeded to strike with an open hand. Burr had dismounted and handled the situation with the blade of his Spanish sabre, placing the point on the officers neck, and asking the officer if he wished to take the matter further. The cut was small, barely worth the dab of a handkerchief, though it did bleed a little into the mans stiff military collar. McQuillan disliked the officer arrogant and assuming a class solidarity and he dismissed the charges. He offered Burr employment with his timber concern. Burr said, Im no slave driver. McQuillan removed his robes in a small alcove off the courtroom. Neither am I. You pull the logs yourself? My workers wear no chains, laddie. Theyre fed and clothed and dry. Emancipation is only a matter of time. So why do you need me?
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McQuillan smiled, poured good Jamaican rum into two glasses and held one up for Burr. He said, For the pirates.

There was cedar and redwood, the odd haul of logwood, used for dye in the wool factories of England and on the Continent, but it was the mahogany everybody wanted. Swietenia mahagoni. Rich, reddish-brown and beautiful to work, curls creaming easy off the plane. Mature trees could reach more than one hundred and fifty feet and were at least a century old. The hauling gangs worked the dry season starting January, hunting the stand-alone mahogany through dense forest, then cutting and dragging it back to the riverbanks, where they dressed it and waited for the rains to flood and float the giants away. Back-breaking work. The pirates liked to sail casually in from the Caribbean Sea, slip into the mouth of the Rio Sibun, or down south at Punta Gorda and the Rio Moho, send their longboat crews up to help themselves while nobody was looking. McQuillan gave Burr his dragoon pistols from Waterloo, .62 calibre and take most of a mans arm off at close range, and half-a-dozen free Creoles armed with old Spanish muskets that were reliable if they didnt get wet: true for man and weapon both. They mainly worked off the coast, moving inland on the rivers south of Belize Town, all the way down to Dangriga, sometimes staying out for weeks at a time. The pirates would anchor in the nooks and bays of the Turneffe Islands, row out from there and into the forests of the mainland. One year, Burr went miles up the Rio Sibun following the pirate crews, then worked the interior from Belmopan, as far as San Ignacio, too, skirting the central mountains. The poaching was organised and corrupt, local officials in on the plundering. The whole enterprise kept Burr busy for a while: McQuillan paid him better than fair, there was
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plenty to eat and drink, a nice place to live in and Belize Town to entertain. Just had to risk his neck every now and then, but Burr made sure he took good care of that. Sometimes it was easy, the pirate gangs made up mostly of African slaves, not interested in dragging trees or dying for them. It was like that, often enough: an ambush, with just a couple of the Creoles getting a little too excited and blasting a musket uselessly into the foliage; the pirates looking up, surprised, then frowning, Burr with the dragoons out and heavy in his hands. Always easy to pick out the head hombre, because he was usually sitting on his arse, chewing coca leaves. Most times the slaves just took off into the jungle, and that was fine by Burr. On one occasion though, they had turned on their pirate masters with machetes, hacking at limbs and heads and shoulders, blood splattering leaves, soaking into the damp ground. Burr watched, stunned, having seen some things in his twenty-seven years on this earth, but not quite that. It all happened fast, like everybody suddenly crazy with sunstroke. Even the Creoles started firing, pointing their muskets at random. When it all ended, the forest seemed to pause in the silence, only gradually coming back to life, the sounds of birds and water trickling, monkeys screeching again and splashing through the high canopy of green, like nothing had happened. Burr helped the Creoles bury the dead pirates and three of the slaves, trying not to think too much. He understood how a chained man might feel about his servitude, and was no judge like McQuillan to conclude upon what he saw which eased his mind some, though hed never forget the day. Made him wonder sometimes, soaking in a bath after weeks in the jungle: all that timber turned into chests and chairs and commodes, wealthy young ladies folding their scented
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ndergarments away in drawers, no idea where the mahogany had u come from, or what it had witnessed.

Men dying for trees, Burr said. Ive seen them die for less, McQuillan said. They were drinking rum with a squeeze of lime, sitting on McQuillans wide verandah with the warm smell of cedar planks, watching the sun melt away and spread an agave light over the lushness of palms and avocado and banana, sweeping down the slope to Belize Town and the sea beyond. I dropped one of your pistols in the river, Burr said, looking straight ahead. Hed been waiting for the right moment and none had come, so he just said it. McQuillan paused the glass before his lips, gave Burr a look. It was an accident, Burr said. Heat of battle. You heard of Waterloo? You know I fired that thing at Colonel Louis Guillaume Joseph Chapuzet himself? Quite possibly changed the course of the battle? You told me you winged his adjutant. And? We destroyed Nogues Brigade and captured the eagle of the 45th Ligne that day. Were talking history, laddie. McQuillan sighed. And now, a piece of Waterloo, sunk forever. Burr gave McQuillan his own look. Might not be that one I lost, he said. Might be the one Ive got left. McQuillan shook his head. Id even been thinking about giving you my spurs. Those little English ones? Tickled the bellies of some of the finest horses in the world, my boy.
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I n fa m y

I like my Spanish rowels, Burr said. Big and blunt. Gives you more control of the horse. The English spurs are too sharp, draw blood too easy, then all youve got is an angry animal, wants to kick you off. We werent gauchos cutting cattle, McQuillan said. We were charging. He turned to Burr. Thundering. Burr had nothing to say to that, but hed keep his Spaniards. They drank more rum, and the housemaid, Magdalena, brought out some sweet milk breads on a wooden board, and coffee, rich and steaming. The old cavalryman thanked her and looked at her tenderly, then reclined and ate, crumbs falling onto his chest as he gazed out over his boots resting on the rail. His bean-black eyes were narrowed and glossed, focused on the middle distance. He combed down his thick grey whiskers with his fingers, and sucked through his teeth. After a time, he said, Im restless, laddie. Youre old, Burr said. Really? Maybe you should ask Magdalena what she thinks. Burr grinned and reached for the sweet bread. Ive received a letter from Arthur, McQuillan said. Hes Lieutenant Governor in Van Diemens Land now. Says theres not a morsel of talent in the whole colony. Then youd fit right in. Corruption like a pox was the gist of it. Needs capable men to help sort out the colonials. I thought you couldnt stand Arthur? Aye, its true. Hes a horses arse with a prayer book. But Im restless... He stood up and poured more rum, then stamped a boot on the verandah boards because his foot had gone to sleep. The price of timber has fallen, McQuillan said. Theyre pulling more mahogany next door, out of Guatemala, far down
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as Nicaragua and Costa Rica. And you know the pirates just keep coming. So are you restless or tired? McQuillan held Burrs eyes, who caught a glimpse of what a Frenchman might have seen, bearing down on him with pistol and sword from the saddle, on the fields of Waterloo. McQuillan said, Do I need to explain myself to you? Burr shook his head. They drank and sat out the evening until the rain began to stream down, and the rum laid thick golden sediment in their limbs. It was good to pause, thought Burr, feeling heavy in the reclined chair; and on the other side, it was good to move, too, an urge that had taken him all over the South Americas. And just then Isabel Manning swished into his mind, her soft white neck and bare shoulders in that dress he liked, the half-grin tucked into her cheek because she always knew what he was thinking. Oh yes, it was good and fine for a man to pause sometimes. You could stay on here, McQuillan said. Id work it into the sale. When would you go? Soon as Magdalena and I are married. Burr looked at his friend and smiled. Congratulations. Shes a fine woman. Thank you, laddie, and she is that. And so I hope youve no plans for the fourth, next month. Or young Miss Manning? Well cancel all appointments. Burr held up his glass and toasted McQuillan. The rain drenched the land and the forests drank deeply. The mahogany grew, unconcerned. They sat and watched like that, silent and thoughtful, until late.
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Isabel Manning never made it to the wedding. Her father Lord Alfred had other plans for his daughter and most of them were back in London. Exactly where Burr was not. His Lordship even sent a couple of sailor boys around to express his views personally, and though Burr managed to land a few at the outset, most of the expressing was one way and mainly worn by him. After she sailed, Burr was distracted by the pirates for a time, working for the new owner trading McQuillans timber, but after that last run in the jungle was now thinking Ethan Hall might be right about his luck stretching thin. Maybe a change was called for. He stayed another month in Belize Town, healing from the arrow wounds and Halls surgery, then squaring off his affairs and preparing for the voyage. He strolled through the narrow streets of town, the grand old Spanish buildings slowly crumbling and fading, the Garifuna women selling fruit and vegetables at the market stalls, the bleary whore-and-rum houses baking in the sun, the blue Caribbean swelling in the bay. He didnt know if hed miss Belize or not, it was probably too early to tell, but Burr had a sense that he was maybe coming back sometime. He booked passage on the Kinnear and sailed for Van Diemens Land on June twenty-second, 1829. The ships route was via Trinidad, Cape Town and Sydney. They said if the weather held good, he might even get there by the New Year.

1830

t was the third time theyd walked past the house and young Jim Jacobsen was getting nervous. He said, Somebodys going to notice. Shut your hole. Tom Rougets head remained straight, but his eyes flicked towards the house on the opposite side of the street. District Police Magistrate Vaughan was still in there. As soon as the man left, they could get on with it, but Jacobsen was right. The timing of the whole thing was starting to get skewed. Rouget had thought the idea lunacy to begin with, and had said so at the time, but they were there now and he wasnt planning on coming back to try again later. What if he aint leavin? Jacobsen said. Hell leave, Rouget said. He walked, stretched himself tall and confident, willing the plan into action. Jacobsen was at his elbow, hunched as though against rain, and twitchy in the shoulders like his shirt was bothering him. Rouget turned and grinned and put his arm around the boys neck, pulling him in hard and close. Roughed his hair, then started to sing. Oh, tis a fine mess, youve got us in, Jim Jacobsen! Tis a fine mess!
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Jesus! Jacobsen said, breaking free of Rougets arm. The man was mad, their names nailed to notices all over Hobart Town. A fine mess, oh, Jim Jacobsen! You want the gibbet, man? For Christs sake! But still, a thrill ran through young Jim Jacobsen too, the way Rouget flirted with the world around them, daring it like that. He just wished the man would use his own name instead. Tom Rougets eyes were bright and rum-shot. His hair was shiny black and long and he tossed his head to get it out of his eyes. The fraying coat he wore hid a cutlass hanging up high under his arm, and there was a pistol in the pocket, too. Thats your problem, Jimmy, Rouget said, looking around, serious again. No sense of humour. Its the light soul gets away quickest. Jacobsen followed, didnt reply. Tom Rouget was a different man on the rum, and best not provoked. Jumped from friendly to riled in a heartbeat. The light soul...gets away... And Christ, thought Jacobsen, now hes mumbling to himself,too. A cart came towards them, Aaron Lennox at the reins. No eyes met between the men, but the two horses pulling slowed to a walk. Rouget said, Go round once more. Lennox shifted a bucket with his foot, glanced down at the loaded pistol inside. I dont like it. Not what I asked you. Lennox spat on the ground. He said, Dont change what Im saying. Then he blew Rouget a kiss and clicked his tongue and slapped the reins, bringing the two horses up a pace. He hated Rouget and looked forward to the day hed slit the bastards throat. Slowly, he said to himself, imagining the knife in his hand. Further down he reined the animals into Macquarie Street, glancing over
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his shoulder at the dark walls of the town gaol as they went by. He felt the shadow of the building across his back like a cloak, and the scars there twitched beneath his shirt. Hed do it, he thought, and nobody was going to find the body. Ill feed him to the fucking dogs. Lennox smiled and his mouth was full of ragged black teeth. Rouget walked on with Jacobsen. Another twenty or thirty yards and theyd turn back again, separately, one on either side of the street, Rouget holding back a little. Then get the hell out of there. He said, This time, Jimmy, well be in and away. Ill wager a gill. Jacobsen didnt take the bet. He was just praying now, quietly in his head, that they wouldnt get caught. Thinking how Rouget had promised him, hand on his heart, that hed put a fucking ball into young Jimmys head before ever letting them send him back through Hells Gates again.

It wasnt the first time Ellen Vaughan had smelled another woman in her husbands hair, but it was the first time she didnt care one way or the other. She picked off a loose strand of cotton at the seam of his jacket, then smoothed it across his shoulders. It was old and the cloth was worn to a flat shine, but it would be all right. As Stephen turned to face her, she thought about setting his hair on fire, the thought sudden but quiet in her mind, the idea of just picking up the oil lamp on the table there beside them and smashing it on his skull. Shed like to see it, but had reached a threshold of pain now that only left her feeling numb. There would be no changing what was. Ellen Vaughan had already decided to leave the son of a bitch. Youre not going to tell me? Ellen said. Stephen Vaughan turned away, ignoring his wife. The Lieutenant Governor, George Arthur, had asked to see him, yet Vaughan had
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no idea why. As a district police magistrate, he usually dealt directly with the chief police magistrate, that old turd John McQuillan, who passed on Arthurs concerns and commands. Hed met the man, of course, but their business had been brief and always with one or two others present. Even in a room full of people, George Arthur made him feel awkward. To be called in personally like this had set Vaughans mind to speculating, and mostly in the negative. Of course, he hadnt admitted that to Ellen, but had built on it by acting as though he knew exactly what the meeting was about. Holding it from her seemed to ease his anxiety. And irritated her, he could see, which was pleasing in itself. Fine, Ellen said and walked out of the room. Vaughan couldnt remember when it had started, him liking the feeling she could be hurt like that. He checked himself in the mirror, fixing his hat at just the right angle. It was early, but Vaughan would leave now and make his way. Hed need a drink before seeing the Lieutenant Governor.

Rouget was thinking they had come far enough down the street. The rum was wearing off and tiredness had crept into his limbs. Sober, he was predisposed to a thick, morbid melancholy, something hed had in common with his old man, and he was starting to feel the heavy, cold lead of it now. Thankfully, the dusk was working itself up at the same time, and in Rougets case this always helped. He liked the night, the world turned to shadow. Once they were away with the Vaughan woman, riding out into the dark back to camp, hed be good by then, nothing to sweat about at all. And Christ, with a bottle in his hands, too. Rouget said, Lets do it. He left Jacobsen without looking at him and crossed the street, pushing his fists deep into the pockets
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of his coat. He curled the fingers of his left hand around the pistol there. He tried to walk with a loose, calm stride, but felt the restraining of his muscles. A few moments later, District Police Magistrate Stephen Vaughan came past on his horse, heading in the opposite direction. As they crossed level, Rouget looked away, felt the magistrates eyes on him and had to fight turning towards the man, as though Vaughan had his chin on a rope. Theyd met before, so maybe it was the dimming light, or Rougets hair was longer, but the police magistrate didnt call out in recognition, nothing like that. Rouget took it as a good sign. His stomach settled a little as he walked on towards the house.

Ellen Vaughan waited a little while after her husband left, then followed, unable to bear the emptiness in the house. That shed decided to leave him was good and fine, but there were questions like how and to where and a hundred others, and she couldnt bring herself to concentrate on that now: when she did, every step away seemed crooked. Outside, she looked but couldnt see him in either direction, so turned into Murray Street and followed the gentle slope of it down towards the river, past small, neat front yards of sweet briar and hawthorn. Mr and Mrs Forester paused to say hello. Ellen noticed the looks on their faces, and couldnt stand it, the talk, the nothingness of it. She hurried away, knowing they would gossip about the state of her marriage, as they had done already, but they could go to hell now. She reached St Davids Cathedral, looking up at its greencopper spire but resisting any prayers, then hesitated on the corner of Macquarie Street before turning left. On the opposite side, not too far along, Government House came into view, shadowed
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in the declining light. She wondered if Stephen was at a window just now, gazing down on the street, waiting for the Lieutenant Governor to see him; and if so, what would he be thinking, looking at her there? A chill threaded the air, fresh off the mountain above. She didnt care what the hell he thought anymore; her mind was concerned only with how she could evacuate their sinking life together. Ellen Vaughan remembered her father bidding them goodbye on the docks at Deptford two years before, his eyes glazed in the fog. He didnt say anything as they started up the gangplank, just watched and wobbled his sad old head. Hed disapproved of Stephen from the beginning, and had warned her. But Captain Vaughan was handsome, resplendent in the uniform of his new commission, and attentive to her. There was the promise of adventure, of a singular life. There was nothing needed warning that young Ellen could see. She crossed Elizabeth Street, then Argyle, no particular destination in mind. Her husband had eventually sold his commission to pay gambling debts, and was now with Arthurs police, in the company of convict constables and thieves, drunkards and prostitutes. At first, Ellen put it down to Hobart Town, the raw shock of it, down here at the bottom of the world. The whole settlement was a runnel. Any man could get his boots muddy, it was almost impossible to step completely clear of its degradations. What she discovered, and in quick time too, was that her husband didnt mind the mud at all. The evening cooled the suns setting, its orange glow faded slowly from the sky. Ellen saw the ships in the harbour turning to silhouettes, tilting their masts stiffly to and fro. The sound of creaking timber carried across the water and mingled with the shouts of dock workers loading and unloading the smaller boats
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that nudged their way through the jigsaw of ships. Sullivans Cove was no place for a woman, particularly approaching night, but her defiance of the situation shed found herself in a wicked husband, a wicked place was piqued and there was nobody to stop her going down by the water, to sit and watch its lapping, drift her mind out on the tide. Ellen Vaughan wanted to stay out all night and never go back.

Captain Stephen Vaughan, for that was his official rank, stood beside the fireplace and stared at the unlit logs stacked there, hands clasped behind his back. He was glad of the rum in his blood, more than willing to risk the teetotal Arthur catching it on his breath. This way, Captain. Vaughans boot heels echoed through the hall. Government House smelled musty and damp; the weather had been unseasonably warm. As the servant led him down, Vaughan grew hot beneath his coat, felt the alcohol rising up his neck and into his cheeks. Hed heard that Arthurs position as Chief Executive might be coming to an end sometime soon; but then, rumours were a plague in Van Diemens Land, and not to be gambled on. And besides, Vaughan already knew where to put his money, when the time came to do so. The servant stopped before the Lieutenant Governors door and leaned in slightly. Muffled voices could be heard inside. He hesitated, then knocked. Arthurs voice, from the other side of the door, Yes? Captain Vaughan, sir. One moment. Vaughan stood straighter. The door opened and Lionel Gibbons of the Van Diemens Land Bank walked out, his large head flushed,
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his jowls shiny, the remaining hairs on his skull snaking across it like scrawled signatures. No doubt he had some good ones in his collection too, locked away in the banks vault, on very carefully worded pages and among them Arthurs, who Vaughan knew to be quietly collecting a more than extensive portfolio of fine real estate. Gibbons was sly, a nasty little wombat: just a firm squeeze would see plenty of fat seep out of his pores. Vaughan knew about his slut up in New Town, but was patient with the information for now, willing to wait for a more lucrative moment to arrive. Vaughan smiled. The banker brushed past without a word. Come in, Captain. Vaughan removed his hat and stepped through the door. Arthur sat at his desk and did not look up, concentrating on the documents spread before him. His movements were deliberate and careful as he slid the pages around the desktop. You could see it, why the free settlers loathed him: the perpetual air of condescension, the slow-blinking, insouciant eyes, the self-assurance that seemed out of proportion to his size. At some level, Vaughan had to admire the man. Arthur used what he had and never thought about what he lacked. The silver buttons on his coat shone. You have news of Coyne? Arthur said. So that was it. This was going to be about the outlaw. Vaughan relaxed. A raid in the midlands, sir, three days ago, he said. Twenty-three sheep, five cows, and one of the hands beaten. Thomas Lovelocks farm. Vaughan restrained a smile: Lovelock was married to a cousin of Arthurs. Yes. I have been informed. Arthur shuffled more papers on the desk, stretched the silence. Vaughan wondered if the collar on the mans shirt could possibly reach any higher up his neck. Arthur said, And what have your contacts to say, Captain? Vaughan baulked. Well...sir...
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I should think they would betray their own mothers for the amounts I have furnished you and the other district magistrates with these past months. A familiar dread burned for a moment in Vaughans stomach, one he remembered well in the shape of his father. So now it was two cunts in one lifetime. He couldnt help but believe in a significant compensation, surely coming someday soon. Vaughan said, They headed north-west, sir. Arthur said, North-west. This with contempt. Where else would they go? Its where the miscreant is hiding out, is it not, Captain? According to numerous informants? Vaughan wore Arthurs scornful look. The man was angry, and he knew why. Only two days previous, Brown George Coyne had a gang member nail a notice to the courthouse under cover of dark, addressed to the citizens of Van Diemens Land.

Reward Twenty gallons of Rum for the Delivery into My Custody of one Colonel George Bloody Arthur. TheReprobates Offences include Fraudulently Impersonating a Lieutenant Governor. For I Am the True George!
I cannot waste further resources on Coyne, Arthur said. Your men will, from now on, be exclusively committed to protecting settlers from hostile natives. Yes, sir, Vaughan said, surprised that Arthur would abandon the recapture of Coyne. There have been seven British deaths in the last month alone, Arthur said. He opened a drawer, dropped a page inside and closed it. In response to the deterioration of relations between
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ourselves and the natives in response to their increasingly violent behaviour and unprovoked attacks on our presence I have received authorisation from the Colonial Secretary to offer a reward for the capture of any and all of the natives in Van Diemens Land. Vaughan frowned. Five pounds, Captain Vaughan, for every adult, and two pounds for every child delivered to the authorities. Arthur looked over at Vaughan now. You will dispense such claims as regards your district and jurisdiction. Of course, sir, Vaughan said. Christ, did the man say five pounds? Vaughan wondered whod be left in the colony not hunting the blacks. So Im to divert my men from pursuing Coyne? Arthur said, I want three men available, in addition to yourself. If youll excuse me, sir, Vaughan said, but The Lieutenant Governor raised a hand. I have somebody arriving who shall take care of the Coyne question. A professional. You are to offer him every assistance. Vaughan thought son of a bitch. May I inquire who, sir? William Burr, Arthur said, eyes back on the papers before him. He arrives this evening on the Kinnear. And I would like you to meet him, Captain Vaughan. If you dont mind? Major McQuillan will no doubt be there, the two men are old friends, but I would prefer an official government welcome to the colony, in the person of yourself.

Rouget rubbed thumb and forefinger over the walnut stock of the pistol in his pocket, tracing the grip-smoothed engraving there, lines crisscrossing into tiny diamonds. He was waiting for Lennox to come around with the cart. Ellen Vaughan had followed her husband out of the house, and Rouget had watched her stop to
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talk to some people, then wait to cross the street and make her way towards town, walking quickly. Before he could think to do anything, she was out of sight, gone through the meandering couples on their evening walk, and Rouget had sworn, irritated that things had swerved on him again. And now the whole street had come alive with carriages and people walking by, like a tide had come in and caught them, and Lennox still hadnt turned the corner with the fucking cart. Up ahead and on the opposite side of the street, young Jimmy Jacobsen had stopped walking and was looking back at him, obvious and unsure what to do. Rouget said, Jesus, fuck. He started towards Jacobsen, looking back over his shoulder and finally catching sight of Lennox in the cart, turning back into the street with the other traffic. Rouget quickened his pace, pulling the coat tight around him as it flapped open, holding the cutlass down with his arm. They would have to improvise.

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he Hobart Town docks shimmered ahead, caught in the faint light of a pale, early-evening moon. After six days at sail, the decommissioned brig Kinnear was slow up the River Derwent, though the calm was like a dream after the hell toss of Bass Strait, the rip and tear of Storm Bay. In William Burrs experience, there was a reason why some places were difficult to navigate, and most times it was because they didnt deserve his acquaintance. Burr knew Van Diemens Land was a penal settlement the man who sold him a horse in Sydney said nothin but a shit-hole, ask me but looking at it now, across the silver-dappled water, he thought it pretty enough, nestled neatly at the foot of a big grey mountain. It was a better first impression than he might have expected. Burr was standing on the forecastle deck with Charles Trentham, a slim, tall Englishman with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and side-whiskers, fine clothes and sophisticated manners. They had talked a few times during the trip, at dinner with the captain, or on deck when the weather allowed. A ship trader, Burr remembered him saying, or something in that line, but a strange man, too, secretive and smug. A companion seemed to be travelling with him, maybe a servant or some kind of secretary,
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though the man looked like neither, being short and stocky and with a chest that could keep the rain off his shoes. Grim-faced and standing with his hands held over his crotch, as if expecting a kick there out of the shadows, though Burr had only noticed him maybe a half-dozen times, and always on Trenthams periphery somewhere, ignored and waiting. Hed seen them actually together only the once, whispering on deck one night when Burr stepped out for air, before they hit the roil of Bass Strait. Trentham didnt bother introducing the man, who simply walked quietly away as Burr approached them on the forecastle deck, though later Burr was convinced the man had planted himself somewhere nearby in the dark. A strange couple. Burr had been avoiding Trentham and was glad they were finally near to docking. The Kinnears crew worked the rigging, trying to tempt a breeze. Trentham stood erect, gazing out over the side. He said, My fifth time here. Burr said, Must like it, then. Trentham grinned. The opportunities, certainly. But the rest... He let that hang, half shrugging his shoulders. Burr obliged and said nothing. Thats a lovely animal youve on board, sir, Trentham said after a few moments. Hed had a close look at the ginger-brown brumby down in the hold, clean-limbed and with good proportions, red-golden mane and a white blaze down her face. Burr said, She gets a little frisky. Its the way Ive always liked them. Trentham smiled. Burr looked up into the sails. There was a growing flutter to them, but only just. Are you moving to Van Diemens Land, Mr Burr? Trentham said.
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Soon as we pick up some wind. I meant Trentham caught himself. Of course, you know what I meant. He paused. I was just wondering what a man in the mahogany trade might find of interest in a lowly little penal settlement? That took Burr by surprise. He waited until the flash of it passed, and calmed himself. There was always an explanation, even in the most obscure situations. Burr said, Didnt McQuillan tell you? Trentham laughed. Oh, wonderful. Well done, sir! Very well done, indeed. And yes, youre quite right, he did mention to me on my last trip that you were to assist in the capture of the notorious Brown George Coyne. But Im still wondering why a timber man was asked to come all this way to catch an outlaw? Just then the foretopsail curved out above, the flap and pop of the canvas still sounding wet after the rain that had drenched them through Storm Bay. Trentham looked up, still smiling. Please dont be offended, Mr Burr, he said. Its a small town. Everybody knows at least something about everybody else. Youve got me then, Mr Trentham, Burr said. I dont know anything about you. Except maybe you like to talk around corners. Trentham nodded, as though a point had been taken off him in a fencing bout. He said, And a wise man listens at those corners, too. Although something tells me youve a good ear, Mr Burr. Well, there were no corners where the mahogany grew, Burr said. Most things just came straight at you. He looked down at the man standing on the waist deck. Trenthams man. Charles Trentham glanced there too, then turned to leave. He said, I suggest you adapt to your new environment.

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McQuillan was waiting as Burr led his horse off the gangplank from the cutter that had run them over from the Kinnear. The old major greeted him with a broad smile and braced his shoulders at arms length, giving Burr a stiff but affectionate shake. Youre older, lad, McQuillan said. Burr grinned. And you dont look a day over one hundred. They embraced, a slap of backs. McQuillan still smelled like old mahogany, rum and tobacco. Burr was pleased to see his ageing friend as firm of vein and muscle as when hed left. McQuillan looked down. Spanish boots, huh? And still wearing the big rowels? Ive got a horse to ride, havent I? No use being fancy down here, lad, McQuillan said. Light on talent, Im afraid. Climates a touch indoors, and sos the general temperament of the ladies. Those youd pay any attention to, anyway. Burr said, The airs a little lighter than Belize. Aye, it is that. Magdalena has had her moments, you can be sure. Shes not partial to the winter, or the food most times neither. She could cook up an old boot, far as Im concerned. Oh, Ive not suffered, lad. Just wistful on occasion, when I recall the former menu. Black beans and pork, tamales, fried plantains. McQuillan moved to the horse and stroked its neck. This is a nice animal you got. Shes just getting to know me. McQuillan moved to the horses ear, whispered in it, Dont let him scare you, even if he is a son of a bitch. Had the best teacher. Charles Trentham came past, glanced at them for a moment but kept on his way, his burly servant in tow, pushing a barrow with a trunk tilted on it.
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Burr nodded in his direction. You know that gentleman? McQuillan turned, only seeing the mans back. Who? Charles Trentham. Ah, Trentham, yes I do, McQuillan said, narrowing his eyes. The opportunist. Im surprised to see him back so soon. Meant to be heading to England was what Id heard. I met him on the Kinnear, Burr said. Has a disconcerting way about him. McQuillan nodded. Dabbles in everything: timber, sheep, insurance, banking. Theres even a rumour that he spies for the home government, too. George Arthur cant stand him, which is saying something. Well, I havent got that far yet, but can see the potential. Burr gazed after them, Trentham a few steps in front of the barrow. Know the man pushing his trunk? I dont believe so, McQuillan said. His servant? Blacksmith maybe. What? Burr shook his head. McQuillan said, Trentham has criticised Arthur in the newspapers, back in London. Most recently to do with Coyne remaining at large and threatening the economic future of the colony. My new pirate? McQuillan said, Ill tell you all about him, laddie, in good time. Lets get home to dinner first. Magdalena cant wait to see your ugly mug. He pointed towards a laneway. Ive got a carriage waiting, you can tie your horse on. They began to move, Burr looking around as he led the brumby. The dock area was busy, ships being loaded and more unloaded, cutters running back and forth on the river, men straining and shouting. A line of stone buildings stood all along the waterfront,
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what looked like storehouses and offices, and more than a few taverns, too. A small troop of soldiers approached in a ragged double line, their muskets slack. Behind them came two handcarts pushed by rough-faced men in dirty grey, followed by more soldiers. Reminds me of Belize Town, Burr said. McQuillan turned to where Burr was looking. Aye, though I dare say those boys would rather the fetters there. A horse appeared before them, stepping a slow clip-clop, an old pony with short legs and a low belly, eyes covered in a long fringe of mane. In the saddle sat a man wearing a black frockcoat and tall hat. He touched the hat, said in greeting, Major. McQuillan looked up. Magistrate Vaughan. Out for a brisk evening ride? Vaughan ignored him and stared at the other man there. Mr Burr, I take it? Yes, McQuillan said, allow me to introduce you. Willie, this is Captain Stephen Vaughan, police magistrate of the district. Burr said, Evening. I was asked by the Lieutenant Governor to extend his welcome, Vaughan said. I hope your trip from Sydney was comfortable. Well, we nearly sank in Bass Strait, Burr said. But Im told thats better than average. Vaughan smiled politely. Quite. His eyes took in Burrs horse, noticed the rifle stock sticking out of a scabbard and a sword hanging from the pommel in another. The Lieutenant Governor wishes to convene a meeting for tomorrow morning. I trust that will suit all parties? McQuillan said, Of course. He disliked Vaughan, and was reminded of it again. The wife, however, was a different story.
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McQuillan beamed as she approached, surprised to see her there on the docks. Mrs Vaughan, McQuillan said, half bowing and grinning wide. What a pleasure, madam. Stephen Vaughan frowned and turned in his saddle. The sight of his wife caught him off guard. Ellen looked up, saw the anger in his face and was pleased to be the cause. To McQuillan she said, Its been too long, Major. Such are the pressures of government, Mrs Vaughan, McQuillan said. In a busy metropolis such as ours. Yes, of course, Ellen Vaughan said. There are times when I have woken and believed I must surely be in London. She was looking at Burr now. How is Magdalena? Fit to burst, madam. When is she due? Burr said, Due? His old friend smiled. I was going to let her tell you. Oh no, Ive spoiled the surprise, Ellen Vaughan said. Tis quite all right, my dear. From your lips the news is just as sweet. McQuillan turned to Burr and winked. By the size of her, the bairn is a strappin young thing. Stephen Vaughan cleared his throat. My wife has no control over her tongue. Our apologies to you, Major. None are necessary. Ellen stepped forward. Shall nobody introduce us? She held out her hand to Burr. Im Ellen Vaughan. The man on the sad horse there is my husband. Burr nodded beneath his hat, reached out and took her hand lightly. It was soft and warm, with long elegant fingers that squeezed his own, just for a moment. Then she let go and Burr touched the rim of his hat, a reflex to the intimacy. The womans
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hair was the rich red-brown of molasses and her skin was white, freckled across the nose and cheeks. Hazel eyes and a wide, fulllipped mouth the pale pink of a rose. A little late for strolling, dear? Vaughan said, his mouth cruel. Is it? Stephen Vaughan glared at his wife. Id rather not have to fish you out of Mill Race. He held her eyes, then turned to McQuillan. Like poor Mrs Evans with her throat slit, only last month. Isnt that right, Major? McQuillan said nothing, holding the silence. Then to Ellen he said, I have a carriage, Mrs Vaughan, if youd care to be accompanied home. Thank you, Major, but I have a need of air. She smiled at Burr. A pleasure to meet you, sir. And you. Good evening, gentlemen. She looked up at Vaughan as she walked away. Husband. The men watched her go. Vaughan reined his horse, then nudged it with his boot heels. He said, Until tomorrow. McQuillan waited, watching the man ride off, then said in a low voice, A right cunt, that one. Light on manners, Burr said. Corrupt as a barrel of pork on a hulk and cunning as a rat. They send the best men to the colonies, huh? Aye, laddie, they do, they do. McQuillan started towards his carriage and Burr followed. The next moment, a scream filled their ears, followed by the thick explosion of a pistol shot. Burrs horse reared and whinnied and he pulled the reins tight. A few men started to shout, pointing towards a rough cart rigged up with two horses. Burr saw a man sprawled on the ground, his chest chewed bloody, and another with his arm around a womans
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waist, dragging her into the cart. The woman was Ellen Vaughan. In the same instant, a whip cracked and the driver on the cart cried, Ha! and they took off violently down the dock. A third man beside the driver turned and pointed a pistol back at the men on the docks and fired. By the time McQuillan had turned to look at Burr, he was already gone, riding the brumby hard in pursuit.

He could see the driver flaying the horses with the reins. Ellen Vaughan had been thrown to the floor of the cart, and one of the men held her there while the other stared back at Burr. Though the brumby galloped strongly and gained, they were both stiff and still a little at sea. Burr worried about the rough road, loose stones and shadowed ruts, but he could sense the animals sure-footedness over the terrain. The thrill was in man and horse now, and Burr let her out some more, the brumbys mane flicking like a flame over his arms, her stride long and pounding. They would be on the cart in a matter of moments. The kidnappers thundered across a small wooden bridge in Campbell Street. People on either side saw the cart rumble by and turned, following it with their eyes, some bemused, others pointing and laughing. Burr saw the man in the rear of the cart kneel and aim a pistol at him. He jagged left, then swung right and tucked his head in behind the horses ears. His own pistols were packed in the saddlebags, along with the dragoon; the rifle in the scabbard was a gift for McQuillan and not loaded besides. That left the sabre hanging off the pommel. No good from a distance. Burr held a wide line, slipping through the darker patches where trees stood at the side of the road. He saw the man follow him with the pistol, getting a bead. Burr imagined the flintlock being primed, something intuitive threw it into his mind, and he
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reined the horse hard, diagonally across the street again. There was the shot and Burr felt the heat of the ball pass his cheek. Luck, or was this a man of talent? He dug his spurs into the horses flanks and charged ahead. The time available now to get close was the time it would take the man to reload. Or maybe there was another pistol there in the cart somewhere, and all the man had to do was reach for it? Burr would find out soon enough. He drew the sabre, feeling the scrape of the blade against its scabbard, and heard the quick shing of the steel as it came out, singing in his hand. Burr raced the brumby right up beside the cart. He could see Ellen Vaughan on her knees inside, head down and hands at her ears, hair wild in the wind. The man whod fired was shouting, but nothing Burr could make out. Then, as he watched, the man suddenly drew a sword from under his coat, a goddamn basket-hilted cutlass with a fat blade, and stepped over and swung it at Burrs head. At the last moment, Burr held up his sabre and the steel clashed, ringing above the sound of pounding horses. The man lost his balance and stumbled back into the cart. Ellen Vaughan turned her head just then and saw Burr, their eyes locking for only a moment; the fear seemed to leave her face, or so Burr imagined it. He spurred the brumby on and drove ahead for the rigged horses. The man holding Ellen Vaughan shouted, Lennox! The driver turned and saw Burr. He slapped the reins down hard on the horses flanks, then reached below the seat. When his hand came up again, it was holding a pistol. He extended his arm and cocked the flintlock, looking frantically from the road to Burr, back and forth, trying to aim and drive the horses at the same time. The brumby was fearless, didnt baulk at the roar and clatter of the cart beside her. Burr swung in close. The driver
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fired the pistol. A cloud of smoke and the sabre flashed. Weapon and hand were sliced from the mans wrist. There was a scream and Burr saw the man staring in disbelief at the bloody stump at the end of his arm. The rigged horses had bolted after the pistol shot and the rear of the cart came up quickly beside Burr. He let the reins out and felt the brumby surge, but before he could gain on the cart, something like lightning struck him in the arm. He dropped the sabre and started to fall out of the saddle. He felt his right boot twist in the stirrup and had the presence of mind to pull it free just in time, save himself from being dragged by the horse. Then the ground came up and smacked him hard in the back, blowing the air out of his lungs. In the moment before his head struck the ground, it was like a great lucidness descended on him, and Burr could see more than just the dust trailing the cart with Ellen Vaughan in it, and the man with the cutlass standing there with his long hair blustering about his head, looking back at him on the road. Burr saw a glimpse of the future...Then it was gone. And everything went dark around him.

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Infamy is a novel that satisfies on every level. Intensely cinematicimagine Martin Scorsese let loose in Van Diemens Landit distils the colonial encounter down to its elemental violence. With vivid characters, deep psychological understanding and symphonic plotting, it drew me in so completely that it was a shock to find out that this is a work of the imagination. Bartulin has made fiction stranger, and more compelling, than truth. A Tassie devil of a book. Malcolm Knox, author of The Life