Published: 22 Apr 2024

With his new set of clothing and enough powder for a month’s hunting, Axel was more than please, even so he would kept his old clothes for hunting believing the wildlife wouldn’t mind the occasional glimpse of privacy, as for the blacks they may appreciate the idea at least one of the invaders had gone native, besides it wouldn’t be the first time the woman caught him skinny-dipping in Stringers Creek while taking his daily ablutions and made fun of his ivory white pizzle surrounded by a thick red bush.

On his way from Sullivan’s store Axel happens to pass by the Fisherman’s Inn, bringing to mind his earlier encounter with the travelling portrait painter. Having nothing better to do before returning to his camp he decided to call by and see what the painter is about. As for painting his portrait, Axel couldn’t imagine anyone wishing to see a likeness of him, especially with the number of insults he had been given over the years about the colour of his hair, which he now allowed to grow and was beyond shoulder length, at times becoming quite matted at the extremities, running towards dreadlocks. Often he would comb his hair back to straight giving question as he tortured his head, how the natives kept theirs from matting.

The inn bar was quiet as at that time of the day many were about their business, or discovering what damage had been done and what property had been stolen during the rebellion. Axel spies his painter in conversation with the inn keeper. It appears to be a friendly exchange like what would occur between old acquaintances. Axel decides to leave them to their privacy but as he turns to depart the painter calls and beckons him to approach. The inn keeper breaks their encounter to attend to a rowdy demand from the bar.

“Axel,” the painter greets.

“You remember my name Mr. Clarkson?”

“It is an easy name to remember. Have you come about my invitation?”

“I was passing.” Axel doesn’t agree as he has no wish to appear too eager.

“My offer remains standing, a half sovereign for your sitting but I would need to start this very afternoon, as I have been invited to a function at the Governor’s request this evening.”

“I don’t know about sitting for you but I would like to see your work.” The painter’s offer of a half sovereign seems a little excessive to the lad seeing coin remained scarce in the colony, even with the new governor banning the use of rum as currency and the introduction of ten thousand Mexican Spanish silver dollars to be used as coinage.

It soon became obvious the Spanish silver would not remain long in the colony, as a higher price was on offer for fine silver at Halifax in Canada, so the hoard was defaced under official instruction by a convicted forger named William Henshall, with two new coins struck from one. The outer portion was named the Holey dollar worth five English shillings, while the inner was the dump and valued at fifteen pence.

“Then that you may. I have taken a room here at the inn and if you are willing, I will give you a private showing of my work.”

Axel followed the painter to his room at the top of the stairs. It is a small room that could only be considered functional, containing a bed, chair and small table. There is a rudimentary easel set up under the light from a small grimy window with a diagonal crack across one of its four panels and at the foot of the bed a well used traveller’s trunk. Leaning against a bare wall are a number of canvases and box panels in readiness for working, others obviously holding portraits.

“What is your background Axel?” the painter asks more to lower Axel’s obvious nervous disposition.

“In what way do you mean Mr. Clarkson?”

“Please call me Joshua.”

“I have no background as such.”

“Are you Currency?” It was a terminology the painter had often heard during his short visit to the colony referred to those born in New South Wales, while those British born were considered to be Stirling.

Axel laughs, “I guess not, as I was born at sea but I suppose my answer should be I am almost but neither Stirling nor Currency.”

“What of your family?”

“No family, my mother was a convict and she died giving me birth as the ship approached the south coast.”

“Where was your mother from?”

“Some place called Southwark from which I took the name of South, as that given to me as a child was offensive.”

“Therefore lad, I believe you to have a most interesting, if not a little sad, background. I will say one thing about you lot out here in the antipodes and that would be how strong and tall you all are compared with your compatriots back home.”

“I couldn’t say.”

“I could – and handsome.”

“Oh!”

“Have I embarrassed you Axel?”

“Not at all; only I don’t usually get complements.”

“Therefore it is about time you did.”

“Where I live there isn’t anyone to give complements; – besides -.” Axel pauses.

“Go on.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The painter laughs.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Never; what I see in you is someone who has had a rough life but through it all, you have retained a high measure of innocents and it is that innocents I wish to capture on canvas.”

Axel gives a confused frown.

“Never mind; I believe I promised to show you my work.”

The painter collects two painting from his small collection and sets them in the light, they are on wooden box panels no larger than what one could hold comfortable between open hands without having to stretch. The paintings are portraits of two women, one a fine looking gentle lady with a hoity expression, the other somewhat down in her dress and appearance.

“Who are they?” Axel asks.

“The one on the left is the likeness of the wife of Captain Long who is with the regiment replacing the New South Wales Corpse who also arrived on the Anne, the other Mrs. Nelly Winslow who wishes to set up a millinery shop in Sydney.”

Axel is most impressed, “it is as if they are so real and they could speak to me.”

“I will accept that as the finest complement I have received since arriving. I will be displaying them for the Governor’s wife as examples to obtain patronage with Sydney’s elite.”

“Is it my head and shoulders you wish to paint?” Axel asks.

“Yes that and more if you are permitting.” The painter’s words are low and cautious, possibly somewhat apprehensive.

“I have no fine clothing to display in such a work.”

“Would I embarrass you if I were to paint you without your clothes?”

“What naked!”

“Only as a study of the male form.”

“I’ve never been naked in the presence of strangers since I was a boy.”

“You were in my presence and naked while you were swimming.”

“True but by accident not intended. Why would you wish to paint me naked?”

“As I said, it would be a study of the male form and I assure you nothing sinister.”

“I will have to consider, I don’t think I would be happy with others viewing that sort of painting of me.”

“I could give you the finished painting if that is what worries you.”

“I would have to hang it on a tree, as I have no walls to complement art of any kind.”

“Where do you live?” the painter asks.

“I live in the forest and as distant from people as I possibly can, black or white.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” the painter asks as he could not envisage a single day in his twenty-nine years of living without the company of others.

“I think the human race intrigues me too much to feel lonely.”

“In what way do people intrigue you?” the painter asks.

“How stupid people can be.”

“You appear very negative for such a young lad.”

“I’m a realist, if you had been flogged as many times as I have for no apparent reason, you may reach the same conclusion,” Axel firmly shares.

The afternoon is drifting away from the conversation and the painter needs to gather his work to keep his appointment, “what of my proposal,” he finally asks.

“I will have to think about it.”

“I’ll be busy for most of the week, how about you come by the Wednesday after next if that would be suiting to you.”

“I could.”

“And if you do not agree, we could at least have a meal and you can tell me about living in the forest.”

“At least I’ll be up for that.”

It was late afternoon with Axel still some distance from Stringers Creek, where he would divert to take the track to his camp. ‘I will need to walk the last in darkness,’ he perceives while glancing back over his shoulder at the sun as it gradually dipped towards the mountains, realising the two hours of sunlight remaining would not be enough to reach home. It wouldn’t be the first time he walked in moonlight and if the night became too dark and the track difficult, he would simply make a comfortable nest in some secluded spot.

A short distance from his turning along Stringers Creek Axel notices the figure of a man at rest. The man is seated in the dust beside the road and by his appearance he is an old salt, a sailor well past his sailing prime and obviously down on his luck. His clothes are rags and his back bent. Beside him lay a pair of rudimentary crutches and a small backpack.

Axel pauses before the stranger.

“What is your business lad? The old man asks. His back and legs may be close to broken but his voice is that of a young man having an interesting tone.

“I suppose sir; you could call me a hunter.”

“You address me as sir?” the old man appears surprised.

“I address you with respect, as I don’t know your business.”

“My business lad? Why I am a peddler of stories for a pittance or a meal. My name is Ezra Raspin and far from home.

“Where is home?”

“Wherever I may wander.”

“A good friend, who is no longer alive, told me home is where a man is prepared to die.”

“And lad, where would you be prepared to die?”

“I have too much living to do before I make that decision and what about you Mr. Raspin?”

“Wherever I lay my head and don’t wake with the morning’s sun on my face or winter’s rain in my hair will suffice.”

“I have no coin to offer you for a story.”

“No need lad, you have ears, therefore I will give you a story for the courtesy you have shown.

“I would like to hear you story Mr. Raspin,” Axel agrees.

Then sit yourself down and find comfort on god’s good earth and turn your ears to the voices in the trees and I will tell you a sad tale of war and love.

Axel becomes seated.

The old man begins;

It is long ago.

Ezra Raspin is back in England.

He is a young man.

It is spring and the county of Devon is alive with nature’s wealth while Ezra is stricken with love for a fair maiden and having everything on god’s earth to live for.

What could go wrong?

But as good stories must, it does.

Then from the streets of Plymouth Raspin is taken by the Navy’s Shilling and before a minute more could pass, the telling has the old sailor at sea and being fired upon by half the French navy.

His recall is so realistic Axel can almost hear the canon’s roar, taste the burning gunpowder, hear the screams of dying men and feel the heat of the ship’s fire as it burns and sinks with all hands lost but his.

Ezra Raspin survives the ordeal only to be press-ganged onto another ship, then as peace breaks forth, Ezra Raspin is thrown back onto the streets, destitute and broken, his fair maiden gone to another’s love.

At story’s end the old man smiles, he reaches for his crutches and stands tall on his rickety legs. His thin frame suggests the slightest puff of wind may bring him to the ground.

“I’ll be gone then lad. It is a long way to Parramatta.”

“I am sorry I have nothing to give, or a fine house to invite you for a meal but you are close to Rose Hill where you may find the kindness of a store keeper named Rose Craddock.”

“No matter lad, you take care and remember to never take the King’s Shilling.”

The old man then hobbles away in the direction of Parramatta and like Axel would never make his destination before the light had faded. Axel watches after Ezra Raspin until he turns the first bend in the road and is much touched by the old salt’s misfortune.

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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