All that time on board in command on the voyage out here, then the time in Holdfast Bay, living on board with the Marines and the prisoners in jail. At the time I couldn't wait to be off the thing, but I must admit to a lump in my throat at it dipped over the horizon out of sight.
I suppose that at least some of that emotion was a sense of apprehension at what the Commissioners were going to say about the expense of keeping the ship and crew here. I don't doubt for a moment that they had some money making venture in mind and I don't doubt either that by keeping the Buffalo here I have spoiled those plans right royally.
I will be hearing more of it all, no doubt.
If truth be told I think that in the back of my mind was the fanciful notion that while the Buffalo was at anchor I always had the option of packing a few things in a bag, going on board and telling Master Wood "Get me the hell out of here!" Now, it seems, my last hope of escape has vanished.
Also vanished are most of the Marines. I have kept a small band of the relatively less troublesome ones to act as my personal guard, but the rest are headed off on board the old Buffalo.
There were tears aplenty as they left and much sharing of anecdotes. "Oh Captain," they would say, with tears running down their cheeks, "do you remember when....." and trail of into some tale of disaster and disgrace that I was meant to find amusing.
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| The Marines as they saw themselves |
Unfortunately I did indeed remember every incident - every single one - and also remembered the inconvenience and danger all of them caused. So instead of meeting the departing Marines with a "Well down thou good and faithful servants", there was a certain froideur about me as I waved them a Vice Regal farewell..
The remaining Marines are to be set to work as guards for prisoners. At present we have few prisoners in the Colony, but then we also have few marines, so swings and roundabouts.
I am loathe to mention it, but before they left the crew took inventory and surprised us all by finding the missing sail.
Damnation!
I have spent the past month or so blaming Charlie Howard and believing him to be a sneak thief and a hypocrite but it seems that his story of the sail for the church being given gratis by the Captain of -I think - the Cygnet might well have been true. In which case - I am loathe to say - I may have been wrong. Fortunately I have been sufficiently restrained in making my suspicions known that I have no need to apologise to the Padre, but I admit to feeling a little sheepish about the whole thing.
And speaking of sheepish. Those damned sheep I had from Archer in exchange from naming a street after him have vanished!
Of course - do I really need to say this? - the Marines were involved. Asking one of them to care for them was clearly a mistake. James Fish - a delightful young lad, but thick as Tewksbury mustard - was appointed "shepherd" and sent out with the fifty best Dorset. That he kept referring to them as "wooly dogs" might have been a clue to his lack of experience in management of livestock and I suspect he lost them by trying to train them to fetch sticks. At any rate, within a week young Jim Fish was in my office telling me that "all them fluffy hounds have run away".
Still, leave them alone and they will come home I suppose. Either that or the natives will dine on wooly wombats.
Mad Menge has been out and about again and says he has discovered a silver mine in the foothills near the base of what Gilles has been pleased to call "Mount Osmond". Of course no-one believes the German. Not after the rush he caused last week after he declared he had found a deposit of sapphires on Wakefield Street.
Widow Harvey came to me during the week and said that "it breaks my heart yah Rexellence, but I feel I need to apologise to you."
I was stunned! There was so much she needed to apologise for and I was fascinated to see where she might begin. I asked her to continue.
"Well," she said, "I cannot help but feel that with my wee sweet little mite Harriet in the house to care for I might well have let the standard of my cooking to slip from my usual high standards."
I admit to being gobsmacked.
"But sir," she continued, "you may be assured to yourself that my collations and niceties will soon return to their usual high degree of tastefulness and delectibilty."
And to prove it that night she pulled out all the stops and produced what she referred to as "Rutland Ragout" (she pronounced it "Rag Out") Who would have thought that our smallest county might have given us such an enormous offense!
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