his, and she seemed to start and jump away when he stirred and reached out a hand as if to ask her to dance, here, now. Still young, her eyes were bright against the darkness of her skin and the darkness of the night. And he was certain, for no reason, that he was seeing up close the face of the girl whoâd watched him arrive.
Sitting up to look at her, he woke himself properly. But there was nothing there, no one. The wind had dropped so completely that he held his breath for a moment, waiting for even a single leaf to move. Away in the north, the thunder mumbled. He had no idea how long heâd been lying down, but his legs were stiff and his guts cold from the last lingering damp of his trousers. Standing awkwardly, he heard something splash out in the water, and a manâs snore closer still. And there, a dozen paces away or so, was a fellow in a red coatâor rather a fellow with a red coat, the red coat pulled across the huddled body of a young woman. Her pale hair was pushed back from her face and she looked as comfortable as if sheâd been tucked into a feather bed. What are you dreaming? Where have you gone? wondered Dawes, and was sure he saw the girl smile in reply.
The strange intimacy of watching somebody sleepâheâd watched over his father one winter, the older man coughing and shaking. Sometimes sleep looked like happiness, and sometimes it looked so much like death that you wanted to ruffle the covers, drop the pitcher and wake the person back up into life. But no matter how well you knew them, sleeping minds were even less penetrable than waking ones, pressed into pure dark stillness or off adventuring in a thousand unimaginable places. The girl turned a little, her face glancing against the sleeping manâs shoulder, and he flinched and turned away from her; it was a mean movement, even if it was unconscious. Let her wake first and leave , thought Dawes. There were so few places to avoid that uninterested shrug among so few people.
Moving along the track then he realised he was counting for the first time since heâd arrivedâa dozen paces: forty-two feet. His land legs back at last, he strode towards the tents, all intent and certainty compared to his furtive dash to the point earlier. The tree that had been an officer was just a tree; the rock that had been an ill-intentioned convict was just a rock. He was in control, on the job, and ready to quantify everything that presented itself. Half a mile from the point to the settlement, almost on the nose.
William Dawes turned and looked out across the rough-hewn clearing; snores from tents here, snickers there, and unmistakably quick and carnal breathing still pulsing and pushing from others again. The men and women had found each other thenâhe could smell the stickiness of sex against the wake of the storm and the messy mash of mud and muck around his feet. And there was the tree that had been hit by lightning, splintered and fractured with the disaster of a stock pen that had been staked out underneath it. Our first night here , he thought, and weâre losing animals and gaining people , and he froze as one of the youngest boys from his ship dashed out of a tent and across the grass, whooping.
Later, under his blanket, Dawes remembered the toast Tench had wanted to propose to these new places, these new acquaintances. How tiny and civil against the nightâs bodies, the nightâs abandon. Closing his eyes, he saw the face of the girl on the point, the girl heâd seen or dreamed. He couldnât tell if it was lightning or daylight, but she seemed surrounded by brightness, almost luminous, with a great curve of black above her where the sky should have been. And behind herâhe heard himself snore as he tried to turn his head to see it betterâsomething like a bird began to swoop and dive, down towards the harbourâs deep black-blue.
There were things that it was important to sayâthings
Sitting up to look at her, he woke himself properly. But there was nothing there, no one. The wind had dropped so completely that he held his breath for a moment, waiting for even a single leaf to move. Away in the north, the thunder mumbled. He had no idea how long heâd been lying down, but his legs were stiff and his guts cold from the last lingering damp of his trousers. Standing awkwardly, he heard something splash out in the water, and a manâs snore closer still. And there, a dozen paces away or so, was a fellow in a red coatâor rather a fellow with a red coat, the red coat pulled across the huddled body of a young woman. Her pale hair was pushed back from her face and she looked as comfortable as if sheâd been tucked into a feather bed. What are you dreaming? Where have you gone? wondered Dawes, and was sure he saw the girl smile in reply.
The strange intimacy of watching somebody sleepâheâd watched over his father one winter, the older man coughing and shaking. Sometimes sleep looked like happiness, and sometimes it looked so much like death that you wanted to ruffle the covers, drop the pitcher and wake the person back up into life. But no matter how well you knew them, sleeping minds were even less penetrable than waking ones, pressed into pure dark stillness or off adventuring in a thousand unimaginable places. The girl turned a little, her face glancing against the sleeping manâs shoulder, and he flinched and turned away from her; it was a mean movement, even if it was unconscious. Let her wake first and leave , thought Dawes. There were so few places to avoid that uninterested shrug among so few people.
Moving along the track then he realised he was counting for the first time since heâd arrivedâa dozen paces: forty-two feet. His land legs back at last, he strode towards the tents, all intent and certainty compared to his furtive dash to the point earlier. The tree that had been an officer was just a tree; the rock that had been an ill-intentioned convict was just a rock. He was in control, on the job, and ready to quantify everything that presented itself. Half a mile from the point to the settlement, almost on the nose.
William Dawes turned and looked out across the rough-hewn clearing; snores from tents here, snickers there, and unmistakably quick and carnal breathing still pulsing and pushing from others again. The men and women had found each other thenâhe could smell the stickiness of sex against the wake of the storm and the messy mash of mud and muck around his feet. And there was the tree that had been hit by lightning, splintered and fractured with the disaster of a stock pen that had been staked out underneath it. Our first night here , he thought, and weâre losing animals and gaining people , and he froze as one of the youngest boys from his ship dashed out of a tent and across the grass, whooping.
Later, under his blanket, Dawes remembered the toast Tench had wanted to propose to these new places, these new acquaintances. How tiny and civil against the nightâs bodies, the nightâs abandon. Closing his eyes, he saw the face of the girl on the point, the girl heâd seen or dreamed. He couldnât tell if it was lightning or daylight, but she seemed surrounded by brightness, almost luminous, with a great curve of black above her where the sky should have been. And behind herâhe heard himself snore as he tried to turn his head to see it betterâsomething like a bird began to swoop and dive, down towards the harbourâs deep black-blue.
There were things that it was important to sayâthings
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