Trog the Leprechaun: The Rise of Australian National Consciousness, #2

By John Worth

1852  - The discovery of gold at Ballarat has engulfed the fledgling settlement of Victoria, with  Melbourne in a mad building boom.

The harbour  choked with abandoned ships, crews deserting on hearing the news - gold rush!  Other ships arrive crowded with men from gold fields of California, the Yukon, China.

Our story opens with the young Swede Nils Jeppersen, on board a Finnish grain ship anchored out on Port Philip Bay. Denied shore leave, the crew bored, the mood on board is ominous.  Deserting, Jeppersen swims ashore.

Reaches land, finds himself in immediate trouble, but is rescued by Dermott O'Neill, Irishman; They team up, and  together with their weird companion Trog, leave to seek their  fortune.  They meet success, but then  take part, together with friends both historical and fictional, in that tragic fiasco we now know of as the defense of Eureka Stockade. A sad and mismanaged farce; nevertheless providing the bitter ashes out of which the phoenix of Nationhood ultimately rises.

The second strand of our novel, though interwoven with the first, is set fifty years  on.  It is the occasion of the visit to Britain by Edmund Barton* and group representing the various Australian States. 

They seek acceptance of the Australian plan for Federation and Self Determination. So now a second set of characters come to the fore. 

Lachlan Grey  a young Australian studying in England, finds himself drawn into a series of events involving European intrigue, and political assassination.  A suspected plot is foiled by the ad hoc and unlikely alliance of our young hero and  Adrian Fettice of British Intelligence.

A  work of fiction, the novel deals with an important period in the development of the nation of Australia. It also involves real historical characters, portrayed as faithfully as possible to their perceived personas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Worth
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201969776

John Worth

John Worth grew up in Western Australia, and spent much of his early life working in the back country of that vast state.  The bush was in his blood, but he nurtured other dreams. Shortly after marrying a young schoolteacher, he and his wife took themselves off to Europe, where he studied sculpture in Munich and London. Returning eventually to Australia, Worth began his career as a sculptor, working and exhibiting, mainly in Perth and later Melbourne. Later, still working mainly in bronze, Worth moved to Brisbane.  After some years, he also began painting seriously, exhibiting in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne.  Beginning around the same time as this gradual shift to painting, he also began to write, continuing to do so for the last twenty years. Now living near Byron Bay.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1853 

Their ship sat sullenly at anchor well out from the harbor; yards bare of sails, sweltering hot on the glassy, airless bay.  The slight suggestion of an early morning breeze had completely dropped away, as it had for the preceding seemingly endless, boring days.  The low coastline lay but a hazy and improbable smudge on the horizon.

A group of seamen sat in the lee of the deck housing, sheltering from the fierce sun: mending clothes, smoking, talking scuttlebutt.  At the occasional urging of the bosun’s mate, a couple would reluctantly get up buckets of seawater to throw over the main deck in a futile effort to cool it.  The pitch was melting, bubbling out of the deck seams.

Nils Jeppersen sat slightly apart; he was a Swede and most of the crew were Finns, speaking Finnish excitedly amongst themselves.  He had by necessity achieved a basic grasp of the language, often under the not so gentle tuition of the bosun's rope end.  This animated discussion was a bit beyond him, but from what he caught of it, it boded trouble.  Another seaman, the Russian Kosakhov, also sat a little away from the main group. 

‘Shto te dumaish, Svenska?‘ he asked anxiously of Jeppersen, as he moved to join him.  'What do you think Swede, is this all true what I think they are saying?'  They exchanged a long and thoughtful look.

Like Jeppersen, Vanya Kozakhov understood only basic Finnish.  Speaking quietly, heads close together, they anxiously pooled their meagre understandings.  From what they could make out, it seemed the Finns had overheard from the ship's officer's that the harbor of Melbourne was in great crisis - the port was reportedly crowded with all kinds of ships, unable to unload because of the chaotic congestion of shipping. 

There was rumor of a great Gold Rush, crews were deserting, entire ships, officers and all abandoning their ships: - according to the rumor.  Rumors however, as the big Russian pointed out, are the daily sustenance of shipboard life.  Nevertheless, something was very odd.

Their cargo was sawn Baltic pine scantlings and planks, easy to unload, with their return cargo to be wheat.  Normally, as Kosakov explained, they should already be docked and half unloaded.

Yet here they sat; their captain obviously keeping well out in the bay, for fear of losing his crew.  Some of the men had gathered enough from the captain's long worried conversation with the pilot to understand that he was waiting for advice from his shipping agents.  Picking what they could from the scuttlebut, the Russian and the Swede made out talk of desertion. 

They decided between the two of them that they must keep their ears open.  If the others deserted, officers included, they would probably have no choice but to follow anyway.  For no officers meant no ship...And no ship meant no pay.

All this in some British colonial backwater, a long way from home.  A worrying prospect: - or perhaps an exciting one, Nils was beginning to think.  The mood aboard ship had become tense to the point of unbearable – something had to give.  The crew had become surly and unfriendly, the captain suspicious to the point of paranoia.  Nils felt he would go without much regret; his only friend aboard ship was this big Russian, Vanya.

They understood each other well enough, these two, with a mix of this and that as seamen always have.  Nils actually understood some considerable Russian; after all his beloved old Babushka, his grandmother, had been Russian.  As the voyage had progressed, he had come to depend upon Vanya, and in fact had gained a great affection for him.

The great grizzly bear of a man had taken his part several times during the voyage; notably on one occasion, when three drunken Finns had decided to introduce the young Swede to their own way of relieving the sexual deprivation of the fo'castle hand.

Some of the crew had concocted a vodka from potatoes; and as soon as it was more or less ready to drink, they decided to have a party.  There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that as long as they kept to their quarters the ship's officers didn't interfere with the lower deck.  Life on a windjammer was brutal and hard; it did not leave a lot of time or energy for fun and festivities.

Nils had joined the rest for a couple of drinks, but it was very rough stuff and he was unused to it.  He had gone early to his hammock; despite the noisy singing, he had no trouble in falling into a deep sleep.

Nils woke in pitch darkness to feel a hand clamped firmly over his mouth and his arm in a lock grip.  He felt someone holding his legs, another pair of hands was tugging roughly at his canvas seaman's trousers.  His unknown assailants had rolled him over onto his stomach, he found himself bent  across his hammock. 

After his initial shock and confusion, Nils had realized exactly what was going on, he began to struggle furiously.  A kick connected, and there was a muffled curse as the assailant staggered back to fall across another sleeping in an adjacent hammock.

'Brudne Svinya!' roared the big Russian as he leapt from his hammock.  'Filthy pig!’  One after another the unknown assailants were hauled off him, and as Nils scrambled to his feet the Russian hit the last with a fist like a small leg of ham.  With a yelp, the fellow staggered out into the dark companionway, helped along by a hefty kick in the rear end from big Vanya.

Jeppersen lit the lantern hanging from the bulkhead, and turned to thank his friend, but the big fellow was still off chasing his former attackers. Nils was shaking; he had heard of such things, but the experience - or rather the near experience, was a bit of a shock.

'What a farm boy I am,‘ he thought ruefully.  'I'll have to watch my back from now on.'  He couldn't believe that this had nearly happened to him.  It was not as if he presented an easy mark, far from it.

Nils Jeppersen was a strongly built young man with an air of coordinated strength; athletic in fact.  Dark for a Swede, with dark brown hair and eyes, people had often looked at him askance when he mentioned his nationality.  Even Vanya Kosakov had laughed that he didn't believe his grandmother to be Russian, but Gypsy.

Eventually Vanya had returned; he hadn't caught the men and was still angry and breathing like a blacksmith's bellows.  'Don't worry, they not do this again.  Is OK, no need to thank.  These miserable bastards, always try on new crew', he grunted as he paced up and down the floor of their cramped quarters.  They were alone; the rest of the crew probably still drinking.

'You know Svenska, I tell you what; these pederastniks, they don't go to heaven you know.’  The big Russian stood glaring and snorting out of his heavy beard and shaggy hair.

Despite his recent shock, young Nils couldn't resist a small grin at this somewhat incongruous remark; his friend the Russian was very religious.  A strange juxtaposition, in such a tough and if needs be, violent fellow.

'If they don’t go to heaven, what happens to such men?' Nils asked, innocently. 

'I tell you what.'  A fierce answering grin; he realized that the young Swede was gently ribbing him.  'They go to hell to be stuffed up the arse with red-hot pokers, and if you not learn respect for religion, maybe this also happen to you.  Amen.’

He clapped Nils on the shoulder.  'We watch out for these bastard more better now.  But I think this:- they are drunk, they think you are drunk too, you know?  Is mostly stupid business.  Tomorrow we not fight them, not make trouble.  I think I am know which ones is this; wait till end of voyage, da?'  Grinning evilly, he clambered into his bunk.  As Jeppersen had turned to put out the lantern, Kozakov had offered a final thought.  His basso profundo voice came to Nils through the darkness.  'Maybe then we kill them.  If the Good God wish this, it happens.'

CHAPTER TWO

1900 Lachlan Grey

Trolling along the river bank, utterly revelling in this lovely summer day, young Lachlan Grey felt his heart swell with joy; - God it was good to be alive!  For months now, he had suffered through the depths of a particularly miserable English winter.  And to his colonial sensibilities, an appalling early spring.  Then suddenly this glorious harbinger of the summer to come.  To be warm, unbelievably warm, at last. 

The trees along the path were as yet funereal, dark and practically leafless, the path dank and soggy; nevertheless our young man had the distinct feeling of rebirth.  He had actually seen a couple of small white flowers, which seemed to his untutored eye to be of the bulb family, struggling out towards the sun.

I'm starting to see why they make such a fuss about the end of winter, the English - so ran his happy thoughts - perhaps I might get to like it here after all.  For Lachlan had been seriously doubting that he would. 

Now he bounded along like a puppy, this exuberant youth; anybody watching would have smiled and liked what they saw.  He was dressed carelessly, in white duck trousers held up with a hastily knotted neck tie, white shirt open to reveal a strong brown neck.  Squashed down over his unruly mop of curly chestnut hair, a straw boater.  On his feet, with neither socks or laces, canvas tennis shoes completed his attire.  Whistling as he went, hands in pockets when he came to a small stone landing.

Lachlan stood for a moment or two, watching some fish swimming lazily against the slow moving current.  I wonder what kind of fish they are, he mused, definitely nothing at all like the fish at home.  Suddenly, obeying a whim, he dropped his boater on the flagstones and plunged his head into the river so as to get a better look.  The water was even colder than he expected, but he stayed face down to watch the fish.  As the fish swam in close under the pier overhang, Lachlan followed them lowering himself until his shoulders were in water.

Moments later he felt himself grabbed by the hair and pulled violently from the water, back onto the stone pier.  Startled and furious, sputtering and choking, Lachlan acted on reflex.  Grabbing hold of his attacker, he threw him into the river.  As Lachlan scrambled hastily to his feet, his unknown assailant came to the surface; blowing like a whale and making a lot of splash.

'Help me!  I can't swim!' came the choking cry, before he sank once more.  As he surfaced for the second time, Lachlan called.

'Try standing, you fool!'  At which the fellow slowly stood, chest high in the water and looking somehow very sheepish and exasperated; all at the same time.

As he came closer, Grey cautiously helped him from the water.  He didn't want the tables to be turned once more.  He observed the fellow as he clambered from the water; he appeared to be about Lachlan’s own age, though much less robust a young man. 

Despite this disparity, as soon as he could pull off his sodden striped blazer and pullover, he turned to Grey with a very determined look.  Holding up his fists like a bare-knuckle fighter, he commenced dancing around a bit. 

'Come on you cad; get them up!  Either you will apologise or I shall biff you a good one!  Yes, you'd better believe it!  Damn swine! I'll teach you to throw me into the river!'

Although it appeared that the smaller fellow was quite serious, Grey couldn't help being amused by his dancing around, boxing in the air but not coming too close. 

'Hey, hey, steady my man! - How come you’re cross?  You attacked me first, yeah - I was just defending myself, you bloody drongo!' he grinned at his angry sparring partner , 'anyhow, I don't reckon you can teach me anything about chucking you into the creek - I did a pretty good job of it, I thought.'  And his grin widened. 

A new look came into the other fellow's eyes. 'Ah!  One of our colonials,' he jeered, adding smugly.  'I should think I might at least be able to teach you to speak properly.  As Mr Oscar Wilde says, what a pity a whole continent has got its vowels wrong.'

Lachlan lost his cheerful grin, suddenly his jaw set. 

'Your Mr Oscar Wilde is a nancy boy, and so are you.'  Jumping forward he ducked under the other's guard, rapidly jabbed him left right and left again in the solar plexus region.

Caught unawares, his would-be opponent bent double, totally winded.  Instantly Grey was contrite, trying to help the distressed young man get some air into his lungs 

'I say!  I truly am sorry!  Didn't mean to hit you at all hard,’ he muttered hurriedly  'Look, this all seems to have been a stupid mistake - please I would like to apologize.'  Then anxiously.  'Do try to take a breath, there's a good chap'.

Slowly, with tears in his eyes and red of face, the young fellow straightened up. 'Yes thank you, I can breath now; I accept your apology.'

Looking into the boyish blonde face, Grey recognized that the fellow was rather pleased with the outcome.  His former opponent had wished to defend his honour, then realizing that Grey was much bigger than he, had sparred about a bit; not actually wishing to land the first blow.  On the other hand, he had not retreated.  Had Grey not given him those couple of sharp jabs it could have been an embarrassing stalemate. As it was, Grey thought, he got his apology and honour was satisfied.

Seizing him by the hand, and shaking it vigorously, Lachlan said.  'Mine's Grey. Lachlan Grey.'  And waited, eyebrows raised interrogatively.’  If you don't tell me your name.’  He grinned.'  I'll throw you back in the bloody creek.'

Eyes widening and blinking at the same time, the young fellow managed to stammer., 'er, ah, oh! Yes er,  Bebbington!  Arthur Bebbington. There.'

Half laughing, he explained.  'We English are just a little more, how shall I say, more reticent perhaps than you colonials - oh! sorry, no offence meant old chap,' he hurried on, flushing with embarrassment.

But Lachlan was laughing with his head back; a hearty full laugh, as Arthur watched him slightly wistfully - He even laughs like a colonial he thought; No inhibition about it.

'You weren't so slow to give me a mouthful back there, not to mention threatening to give me a thrashing', teased Grey as they hurried along the tow path, trying to get warm. 

'Oh nonsense!' cried Bebbington, his fair skin blushing, to Lachlans secret approval, embarrassed now.  'I'm a much smaller chap than you, you would have given me a right pasting.' As he hung his head in self-abasement.

'I don't know,' said Grey judiciously.  'You seemed to be shaping up like you wanted to fight, so I hopped in and gave you a couple.  I didn't fancy a blood nose, did I?

Bebbington's eyes glowed with pleasure;  'Ah! You are just saying that,'  he answered.  Lachlan stopped for a moment, looked at him gravely. 

'No Arthur; and we have a saying in Australia.  It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog.'  He gave Arthur a big grin, who found himself grinning back.  It was about this instant that they both decided that they might become friends.

'What on earth made you pluck me from the water anyhow?' Lachlan asked, curious, as they began walking along, teeth chattering now from the keen wind off the river.

'Ah! well, you see; I,-I thought you were drowning yourself or something.  Tried to pull you out, you know.'  Bebbington looked quizzically at Lachlan  'Don't suppose it would be rude to ask; what were you doing in the river, fully dressed, what?'  Some colonial thing - water worship was it, Some pagan rite to spring?'  Arthur was obviously enjoying this.

'Well you could say that,' responded Lachlan.  'But it would be difficult to explain to an Englishman, even one as enlightened as yourself.  They’re reputed back home to be a bit adverse to the tub.’  His eyes glinted mischievously back at Arthur.  'I wanted to observe the fish, actually.' 

Arthur laughed delighted, looking around at an imaginary audience.  'So I was right!  Chaps a bloody maniac!  well well!  Their vowels are not too flash but perhaps they make up for it with crude drollery,'  he chortled as they continued along, happily exchanging insults.

CHAPTER THREE

Melissa 1901

It was indeed one of those absolutely glorious, absolutely rare spring days. The English always rhapsodise over such pearls, and well they might; there's nothing quite like it.  The sharp bright sunlight cutting brilliantly through the air – still, crisp and tart as a fresh apple.  New lime green buds on wet black limbs, the early ground fog quickly lifts.  On such a morning, only an insensitive clod is unaware of the quickening pulse; the re-awakening of life, the eternal cycle...Apollo is reborn, hope is renewed: - and it's great to be alive!  One particular young lady however was oblivious to all this splendour.

As she stomped along the river path, Melissa swished savagely with the stick she carried at any shrub or tree trunk unfortunate to be in her way.  The rather portly gentleman with a dog on a lease lifted his hat to her, to his astonishment he was completely ignored.  She was muttering fiercely to herself, and as he turned to watch her storming along, considered himself lucky not to get a whipping as well.

'Wretched young people!' he grumbled to his dog, a large boxer.  'Absolutely no bloody manners at all!'  He harrumphed.  'What a bloody shower!'  He roared hoarsely after the girls retreating back.  Melissa, hearing his angry bellow turned to him with a brilliant smile. 

'No I don't think so Major,' she cooed sweetly, 'I don't think it is going to rain at all.'  Walking backwards as she spoke.  Turning on her heel, Melissa went on her way.  Major Bullmore stood watching her, astonished once again.  What cheek!  He thought, and then to his dog -  'Demm fine looking filly though, b'gad.' The major went on his way, not mollified but chortling to himself now and then.

'Come along there Rufus!  By golly Rufus, if I were twenty years younger’-A quick calculation, and then wryly to himself. - steady on Dudley old boy; forty years more like it.  He continued on his way, still chuckling.

This little episode had its effect on our young lady as well; she too had a bit of a giggle over the absurd exchange.  She slowed her pace and finally threw away the stick she was carrying.  I'm not normally an evil-tempered shrew, she thought with a bit of a grin, and found herself rapidly returning to something like her usual good temper.  She began to feel contrite.  I really must grovel to dear old Uncle Ade, she told herself.

The uncle and niece were very fond of each other - they were all the family each had.  But goodness me!  she nevertheless still harangued herself.  It's absolutely intolerable that Uncle Adrian won't let me go up to Bedfordshire with Jessica.  I'll probably have a perfectly ghastly time of it here on my own all summer.

Melissa had just come from a rather stormy meeting with her uncle.  She had been rather keen to convince him that she should go to stay with her friend for the holidays.  He had remained unusually adamant against it - even despite some quite theatrical tears.  What put her out most of all was the fact that he was usually so compliant - she had to admit it; he spoiled her rotten.

As she strode along, her face quickly lost its storm clouds, and we see that she is a 'fine looking filly' indeed.  She was quite a head- turning girl; long swinging legs with flawless figure and face to match.  Her hair was her most striking feature.  It was abundant, glossy and dark.  There was a very strong and determined set to her jaw though; it had already intimidated at least two incipient suitors.

As she continued along, mellowing, Melissa began to feel a bit contrite about her rudeness to their neighbour the major.  Oh dear; hope I didn't hurt the old lecher's feelings, she thought.  Uncle Adrian goes on a bit about being nice to the neighbours.  Has this real big thing about it; must rub along, don't make waves, all that rot!  The jolly old major's not all that nice anyhow; always oggling women.

Musing thus, she decided to cut off through the trees along the path at this juncture, take a short cut towards the village shops.  She had to clamber up and over the steep bank of the flood levee to do so.  A rather difficult feat, considering the fact that she wore a voluminous dress, which reached to her buttoned boots.  In fact she found herself in the undignified position of having to scramble the last foot or so on all fours, grabbing at the grass as her shoes slipped.

Reaching the top despite this little loss of dignity, she hastily glanced around and behind; somebody might have seen her lack of decorum.  Well bought up young ladies just didn't behave so.  Melissa was relieved to see nobody. 

For herself, she didn't give a fig; she was a bit of a tomboy at heart.  She was afraid it might embarrass her Uncle Adrian dreadfully if some local busybody felt it her duty, her absolute patriotic duty, to report her unladylike behaviour. 

In the latter years of her Most August and Proper Majesty Queen Victoria's reign, well brought up young ladies certainly didn't behave thus.

Catching her breath, Melissa scrambled down the other side of the bank.  Finding her way blocked by some shrubbery, she hesitated, looked around again; instead of following the path winding past, she pushed through.  Melissa had hoped to create a short cut for herself, but instead came upon an astonishing sight.  As she wrote to her close friend Milly later -  an absolutely gruesome sight.

At first they hadn’t seen Melissa; before her in a sheltered clearing were two young men jumping about in vigorous exercise.

'Well, might you say, Milly my dear,' She wrote, 'so what ?  I'll tell you what!  Their clothes were hanging upon nearby bushes, and they were stark naked!  Yes!  And I saw everything!

Naturally I was horrified, of course, but I must admit I was just a little curious.  You know how we have talked about young men, wondering, you know.  Well you should have been here, they looked so silly!!  The dear Lord only knows what they were up to! At first I thought that they must be some of those homosexual chaps your aunt Rebecca was telling us about, but they didn't seem to be up to anything abominable.  Actually; I don't quite know what your aunt meant, when she mentioned Abominable Practices, do you?  I think they do something embarrassing with their private parts or something.  From what I saw, one wouldn't touch them with a barge pole!  My dear!  Absolutely gruesome!

Well then, just as I was about to go discreetly on my way, one of these bounders, the shorter of the two - tho I must say he wasn't lacking below, if you catch my meaning. Gosh!  Am I not awful!  I suppose that some of our local guardians of Public Morality would consider me a fallen woman, just saying such things.  But you are the only one I could possibly share this with  - I do so wish you had been there!  Anyhow, as I was saying, this shorter, fairer one gave a yelp and ran off into the bushes, calling to the other that someone was peeking at them.  Can you believe it!  Peeking at them!  What is the country coming to!  Should be horse-whipped, the pair of them. Peeking! I was so indignant!  These rotters were displaying themselves more or less in public, and now I was suddenly the transgressor!  Can you possibly imagine how embarrassed I was?  Naturally I made off as quickly as possible.  What cheek!  To add insult to injury, the other larger lout was laughing, and I heard him calling out something about charging a shilling a look next time!  My dear Milly, I was just so mortified!  To make even matters worse, this braying ass was some kind of beastly colonial.  South African or something, judging by the way he spoke.

Oh dear, I do so wish you had been there!  I hope this missive will not make you as distressed as I was when I took pen in hand.  It all happened just an hour or so ago.  I didn’t know if I might faint of have hysterics, but I feel much better after sharing it with you, my dearest and good friend.

Yours affectionately

Melissa F.

PS  Uncle Adrian is being rather tiresomely intractable about me spending the hols. with you, but I haven't given up by any means.  I shall grind down his resolve!  Get your Mater to write a begging letter  - her daughter is having an attack of the vapours and needs a healthy diversion or something.  M.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nils ashore 1853

Nils Jeppersen stood before the fire rubbing his hands, trying desperately to get some feeling back into them.  The sea had proved colder than he had expected.  As he soaked up the delicious warmth, his wet clothes giving off steam, he looked surreptitiously under lowered eyes at the motley and ragged group about the bonfire. 

There seemed to be about twenty or so of them, with some dark women among them, all seemingly very drunk.  Although several had nodded to him in an offhand way as he had first approached the fire, some others were casting looks in his direction, muttering amongst themselves.  Nils began to realize that he was perhaps not completely welcome.

But the fire had been like a beacon beckoning; it had guided him as he had swum through the unknown dark and frightening sea.

The swim ashore had almost been the end of Nils; although a strong and confident swimmer, there had been a strong cross current.  Neither had he reckoned the distance from the ship's moorings to shore as being so far.  Fortunately, before letting himself quietly down the ship's side, he had thrown a small empty cask overboard.  Vanya Kozakhov had lowered his few belongings wrapped in oilcloth to him in the calm, pitch-black water.  They had parted wordlessly; the big Russian had refused resolutely to accompany him ashore but his huge bear hug was eloquent.

Earlier, he had urged Nils to follow his instincts.  For himself he said, he was not cut out to be a pioneer; to learn new languages or eat the flesh of snakes, as he had heard they did in these parts.  Some of the Finns had told wild and scary tales of black cannibals.  Although physically fearless, the idea of being eaten was particularly repugnant to the devout Russian; following such an unfortunate circumstance he feared that his soul might not achieve Heaven.

Gripping tightly to his cask, Nils was somewhat reluctant to leave his only friend, as he set off for the unknown shore. But he was full of youthful determination to seek his fortune, in this new and to him unknown land.

As he stood now warming himself, one of the group sitting opposite drinking rum, got up and came round the fire to him.  He was a swarthy, strongly built fellow.  Saying nothing, he abruptly thrust the rum bottle towards Nils.  As the young Swede hesitated, the man before him sneered.

'Don't want to put your mouth where ours have been eh?' Slowly and deliberately he wiped the bottle on his rear.  'Now drink.'  He challenged. 

Things were suddenly very quiet around the fire: some figures, Nils noted out of the corner of his eye, began moving away from it, one by one.

Although of an indeterminate race, the man had spoken to him in English, which Nils understood well enough.  Well enough understood also the insult, and the threatening menace in the man's manner.  Nils remained silent.

Tossing the bottle to one of the others, the fellow started moving slowly weaving and feinting back and forth in a semi- circling direction around the young Swede, keeping Nils' back to the fire.

Smiling insolently all the while, he demanded  'What you got in that wet old bag, boy?'  Turning to his fellows  ' Hey, I think maybe we got us one of these here ship deserters.  Harbourmasters office offrin' two whole guineas, you catch one them eh.'

The fellow continued in his very slow, deliberate encircling, still keeping Nils with his back to the fire.  'And they gonna whip your arse, boy.  Or maybe hang yuh.'  He chuckled unpleasantly.  Looking around, Nils slowly put down his bag.  Pulled back now from the fire somewhat, men stood watchful and expectant.  Flight was not an option for Nils, nor was it in his nature.

The flickering firelight caught glimpses of the expectant, waiting faces in the background, all around.  Nils saw no friends there, amidst these suddenly savage masks. From somewhere deep within, someplace he didn't know about until then, he felt the fighting spirit of his Norse ancestors rise up.

Now suddenly the fellow was upon him, trying to force him back into the fire.  Immediately two others jumped up and coming up from behind, pinioned both arms and held him fast; the first attacker punched Nils very hard, just below the ribs. The blow bent him double. He could hear roaring, shouting all around, women screaming.

Winded, stunned, Nils somehow managed to dig his bare feet into the sand and threw himself head first into the stomach of his attacker.  Catching his breath, he gave a mighty roar, the bellow of a berserk Viking, then threw himself and the two men holding his arms backwards, into the very centre of the bright glowing fire. Knowing exactly what he was doing, Nils flung himself into a backwards roll as soon as he landed in the fire. Apart from some singed hair, he was unharmed. 

The two who had attempted to hold Nils had to let go of him; their urgent priority was to save themselves.  One of them, probably drunker than his companion, had landed awkwardly on the flat of his back; he began screaming and threshing about like a stuck pig as his companion tried to pull him from the fire. Jeppersen left these two to sort themselves out.  Addressing himself to his original attacker, he went for him, furious now, fighting mad.  As they came together, he saw almost too late the fire-light's gleam on the knife blade, slashing at his face.  Reflexively, Nils ducked; swishing, it went past his left ear.

‘Just hold it right there, you treacherous dog, you fucking great cannibal you!  I'd take great pleasure to blow another arsehole in ye, so help me Jaysus.'  Nils looked involuntarily towards this new voice, the other saw his chance.

His attacker sprang forwards, knife again swinging - a loud explosion, a shower of sparks and the attacker lay dead.  Just like that; one moment filled with fierce energy, then suddenly this.  Appalled, Nils saw that half of the man’s face had been blown away.

'Keep back!'  Cried the small man, waving his very large, still smoking revolver.  'First one of yez moves, you mongrels, you'll get the same.'  The moment is frozen, stretching to eternity.  They all stood momentarily stunned by this sudden drama.

Horrified, Nils noticed that one leg of the dead man had fallen into the fire.  It was starting to smoulder.  Absurdly, he wants to pull it out, as if that would somehow ameliorate the situation.  The small man hissed out of the side of his mouth;   'Grab your bag, young feller.  We are out of here, on the instant.'

Moving slowly at first then turning and running, a shocked and bemused Nils Jeppersen found himself within an hour of landing in Australia, a fugitive.  Fleeing into the darkness with a complete stranger, who incidentally had just killed a man. His mind was in total confusion; what had happened a scene of complete chaos and madness.  Nils ran on instinct, not knowing where or with whom.  As they ran, the small man kept urging him to go faster, all the while indicating which direction to run.  He had seemingly been this way before.

At first blinded by the firelight, Nils had run into several tree branches, but gradually he regained his night vision.  His stomach still hurting from the blow he’d received, it was hard running in the soft coastal dune sand, but Nils was beginning to get the hang of it. 

Luckily his boots were still in his duffel bag, bare feet made it possible.  He began to see vague outlines of low-lying trees all about, also the short figure running slightly ahead.  He turned back to Nils, and Nils was taken aback - the fellow was seemingly enjoying himself, judging by the grin of his white teeth in the moonlight.

Seeing Nil's surprise at his high spirits, he gasped, grinning fiercely now.

'Have to make your own fun in this country, you know!’ he laughed out loud. ‘We'll break down to a canter for now, I should reckon. They won't be too keen to follow us anyhow'.  As he slowed to a jog.  'This is what they call hereabouts the ti tree scrub.'  Indicating with his hand the surrounding dense low shrubbery.  'Hide a whole poxy regiment in here,' he assured Nils as they eventually stopped, hands on knees and gasping for air.

Upon the two fugitives catching their breath somewhat, the smaller man suddenly put out his hand. Responding warily, Nils did likewise, they shook hands.

'Nils Jeppersen, from the country of Sweden' he gave out, formally. 

There was a mischievous glint in the other's eye, he chuckled, answering,  'Dermott O'Neill, representing Ireland, your honor!'  Turning, he set off again at a fast walk.

Although vaguely sensing that this small Irishman found his introduction amusing, Nils couldn't quite see why.  Everything had been thrown into turmoil, his life endangered almost as soon as he landed, and now this fellow chose to make fun of him!  He stopped suddenly.  They had begun walking briskly on their way again, and his companion had to return several paces to where he stood, glaring. 

'What is it, what's eating you now?  You look as cross as forty cats, for Gods sake!'

Nils answered him, speaking as stiffly as before.  'I am sorry my English iss so bad that you find to laugh.  Perhaps we shall speak Swedish, or?'  The Irishman peered at him intently for a moment, then grasped Nils once more by the hand. 

'Well said, well said!  I apologize altogether for laughing.  Your English is fine.'  Grinning again now.  'Even better than my Swedish, although with a bit of practice, I might give you a run for the money.'  This as they resumed their brisk walk. 

Surprised, Nils asked his companion.  'What, you speak Swedish; where - 'only to interrupted by the Irishman. 

'Well you see now, I haven't exactly begun my lessons in a formal kind of way as yet, if you get my meaning.'  Dermott tried to hide his mirth as he looked up at the big Swede, who realized that he was being teased again.

'Of course, now that you've finally arrived in the country, we might get cracking at it any day now.'  Again the cheeky half grin.  'As soon as your Honor has properly rested up from the vicissitudes of the voyage, naturally.'  By this he was grinning again openly.  Nils though was rapidly getting the hang of the Irishman's style.  He had never heard anything like the way the Irishman used English, but he was beginning to enjoy his quick wit.

Walking on, the two men exchanged notes.  Nils learnt that Dermott had been camping along the beach, off in the dunes. Many homeless men, Dermott told him, all newly arrived, did this.  The weather at present was very mild and most didn't need much more than a blanket to be at home under the stars, as Dermott put it.  He had set up temporary camp far from the large group they had encountered around the fire, and which he had kept well hidden from them.

'That lot