4135.246 · September 3, 1815 AD
Blood and Bone
The women withdraw. Port and cigars appear. The fire has been built higher, the furniture rearranged into configurations that reflect alliances William is only beginning to understand. Fitzpatrick claims a chair by the hearth and stares into the flames like a man conducting an argument with himself. When William approaches, the old pastoralist doesn't look up. He's deciding, he says, whether he's a fool or a hypocrite. Possibly both. William should sit. There's something he needs to hear.
Every fortune in this colony rests on blood and bone and broken lives.
Fitzpatrick speaks of his first land grant—twenty pounds and a barrel of rum to a clerk in the Governor's office. Of convict labourers working fourteen hours in summer, sleeping in huts that wouldn't shelter a decent man's dog. He profits from their bondage. Builds his fortune on their broken backs.
Before you judge me for my compromises, he says, ask yourself: are you prepared to make the same ones?
Later, Harding finds William at the window. He offers something that isn't quite a promise—attention, benefit of doubt, a door left open rather than closed. If William proves to be a builder rather than merely a taker, they may find common cause.
Then Silas appears with urgency in his eyes.
Hartley. The creditors are moving within the fortnight. If they're going to act, they have far less time than expected.
The evening's lessons—the compromises, the corruptions, the moral complexities—will still be waiting tomorrow. But there will be no more time to contemplate them.
The colony has shown William its face.
Now it's asking what he intends to do.
