Transcript
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Copyright Lenny Bartulin 2013
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 ofThe Life
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Theyd 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, butsaw 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. Hecontemplated 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 hipand 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 withhis timber concern.
Burr said, Im no slave driver.
McQuillan removed his robes in a small alcove off the court-
room. 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, sometimesstaying 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 helpedthe 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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undergarments away in drawers, no idea where the mahogany had
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 talkinghistory, 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 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, wantsto 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 runin 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 themarket 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.
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2
It 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 theloaded 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, andnobody 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 f lat shine, but it would be all right. As Stephen turned
to face her, she thought about setting his hair on fire, the thoughtsudden 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 theman, 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, some-
thing hed had in common with his old man, and he was startingto 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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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 desti-
nation 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, itwas 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 wickedhusband, 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 unseason-
ably 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 carefullyworded 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. The Reprobates 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 forthe 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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20
Infamy
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 meanderingcouples 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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Competition closes 20/10/13
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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 nd
a world of corruption, brutality and mystical beauty.
Following the trail of Brown George Coyne, the charismaticoutlaw 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.
This is an extract fromInfamyby Lenny Bartulin andis for promotional use only Not for resale
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