The Two Worlds

"A man can survive almost anything in this colony—poverty, hardship, even disgrace. What he cannot survive is carrying it alone."— Silas Croft

By midwinter, William's position at Hartley's had transformed in ways that would have seemed impossible mere months before.

He arrived each morning before dawn, unlocking the offices while the streets outside remained dark and empty, the only sounds the distant bark of a dog and the occasional rumble of a cart carrying goods to the harbour. The routine had become ritual: lighting the lamps, stoking the fire in the small iron stove, reviewing the previous day's correspondence before the clerks arrived and the chaos of commerce began anew. These quiet hours belonged to him alone, and he had come to treasure them—a space for thought before the demands of the day consumed every moment.

The transformation had been gradual enough that William had barely noticed it happening. Tasks that had once been Blackwood's exclusive domain now fell to him as a matter of course. Negotiations with suppliers, correspondence with trading partners in Sydney, decisions about inventory and pricing that would have been unthinkable for a clerk to make—all of these had migrated into his hands, one responsibility at a time, until he found himself managing aspects of the business that Hartley himself had once controlled.

Hartley. The name conjured an image that grew more pitiful with each passing week. The merchant who had once commanded respect throughout Hobart Town now rarely emerged from his private quarters before noon, and when he did, his hands trembled and his eyes held the glazed confusion of a man who had surrendered to forces he could no longer resist. The drinking had accelerated since spring, as though some internal dam had finally given way, and what remained was merely the shell of the man Donnelly had described in his letters of introduction.

William had stopped feeling sorry for him. That had surprised him at first—the absence of pity where pity might reasonably have been expected. But watching Hartley stumble through his days, watching the enterprise crumble around a man who no longer had the will to hold it together, William found himself feeling something else entirely. Not contempt, exactly. More a cold assessment of opportunity, of the gaps that Hartley's decline was creating and the spaces that a more capable man might fill.

It troubled him, this coldness. It felt like something Blackwood might feel—that same ability to look at a person and see only the calculations they represented. But the feeling persisted nonetheless, and William had learned to stop fighting it.

The morning's correspondence included a letter from a wool merchant in the Midlands who was seeking a new trading partner in Hobart Town. Word had spread, apparently, that Hartley's enterprise was foundering, and competitors were circling like gulls around a wounded fish. William read the letter twice, noting the careful phrasing that managed to express interest in future arrangements without explicitly acknowledging Hartley's difficulties.

He drafted a response—noncommittal but encouraging, leaving the door open without making promises he was not yet in a position to keep. The wool trade was lucrative, and the Midlands connection could prove valuable when the time came. When, not if. He had begun thinking that way without quite noticing the shift.

The clerks began arriving as the sky lightened toward grey, stamping mud from their boots and exchanging the usual complaints about the cold. William set aside his private correspondence and turned his attention to the day's legitimate business, slipping into the role of senior clerk. There were invoices to reconcile, shipments to track, customers to satisfy. The ordinary commerce of a colonial trading house, mundane and essential.

He worked through the morning with focused efficiency, moving between tasks with a fluency that had taken months to develop. The other clerks deferred to him now, bringing questions and problems that they would once have taken to Blackwood or Hartley himself. William answered them with the authority of a man who understood not just the mechanics of the business but its underlying logic—who could see how each transaction connected to others, how the flow of goods and money formed patterns that could be read like a language.

It was nearly noon when Blackwood appeared, slipping through the door. He surveyed the busy office with eyes that missed nothing, then caught William's gaze and inclined his head toward the back room—the small chamber that served as their private meeting space for matters that could not be discussed in front of the other staff.

William finished the document he was reviewing, made a note in the margin, and rose to follow. Whatever Blackwood wanted, it would not be about legitimate commerce. It never was, when he used that particular gesture.

The back room was cold, the small window admitting only grey light and the distant sounds of the harbour. Blackwood stood by the desk, his dark coat buttoned against the chill, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"There's a shipment arriving tonight," he said without preamble. "The Mary Catherine, out of Sydney. She's carrying cargo that requires special handling."

William nodded, understanding immediately. "Special handling" meant goods that would not appear on any official manifest, cargo that would be unloaded after dark and transported to warehouses the customs officials did not know existed. He had participated in half a dozen such operations since arriving in Hobart Town, each one adding another layer to the shadow commerce that underpinned Hartley's legitimate business.

"What's the cargo?"

"Rum, primarily. Caribbean stock, routed through Sydney to avoid the duties. Also some manufactured goods—textiles, tools, a few cases of firearms." Blackwood's voice remained flat, businesslike. "The buyers are already arranged. Your role will be to supervise the unloading and ensure the transfer to secondary storage goes smoothly."

"That's a larger operation than usual."

"It is. The Mary Catherine is carrying more than we typically handle in a single shipment. But the opportunity was too valuable to pass up, and I need someone I can trust to manage the logistics." Blackwood's dark eyes fixed on William with that familiar intensity. "You've proven yourself capable, Mr Jeffries. This is an opportunity to prove yourself indispensable."

The words landed with weight. Indispensable. It was what William had been working toward, consciously or not—the position where his removal would cost more than his continued employment, where his value to the enterprise made him too important to discard. Safety through necessity, the only kind of safety that colonial commerce offered.

"I'll need men," he said. "Reliable ones. The usual crew won't be enough for a shipment this size."

"Already arranged. You'll have a dozen workers, all vetted, all understanding that discretion is not optional." Blackwood moved to the desk and withdrew a folded paper from the drawer. "Here are the details. Timing, locations, contacts. Memorise them and burn the paper. Nothing written survives beyond tonight."

William took the paper and scanned its contents. The plan was thorough, as Blackwood's plans always were—every contingency considered, every potential problem anticipated. It was, he had to admit, impressive work. Whatever else might be said about Ezekiel Blackwood, the man understood the mechanics of illicit commerce with a depth that bordered on artistry.

"One more thing," Blackwood said as William finished reading. "There will be a customs inspector making rounds near the secondary warehouse around midnight. His name is Crawley. He's been... compensated for his cooperation, but he'll need to see a familiar face to know the operation is sanctioned. You'll be that face."

"You want me to meet with a bribed official."

"I want you to reassure a business partner that his investment in our enterprise remains secure." Blackwood's smile was thin, without warmth. "The distinction is largely semantic, I grant you. But it matters to Crawley, and therefore it should matter to us."

William folded the paper and tucked it into his coat. Meeting with Crawley would mean another step deeper into the shadow world—another connection made, another obligation incurred, another person who knew his face and could identify him if circumstances ever required. Each such connection was a thread in a web that grew more complex with every operation, binding him more tightly to Blackwood's network.

And yet he found himself nodding agreement. What choice did he have? The shadow commerce was what kept Hartley's enterprise afloat, what paid the wages of the clerks and porters who depended on legitimate work that would not exist without illegitimate subsidy. Refusing Blackwood now would mean walking away from everything he had built over the past months—the competence, the authority, the position that made his future possible.

"I'll handle it," he said.

"I know you will." Blackwood's satisfaction was evident, though restrained. "Report to the harbour warehouse at ten o'clock. The Mary Catherine should anchor by eleven, and we'll begin unloading as soon as the legitimate crew has been dismissed for the night."

William turned to leave, then paused at the door. "Blackwood. How long can this continue? The shadow operations, I mean. Hartley's decline is accelerating. Eventually, the legitimate business will collapse entirely, and then what covers the rest?"

"An astute question." Blackwood seemed almost pleased by it. "The answer is that Hartley's enterprise has perhaps a year remaining, possibly less. When it falls, other arrangements will be necessary. I've been planning for that eventuality since before you arrived." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "Your friend Croft has been part of those plans, though he may not fully realise it yet. As have you."

"Silas?"

"We'll discuss it another time. For now, focus on tonight's operation. Success breeds opportunity, Mr Jeffries. Failure breeds consequences. I trust you understand the distinction."

William understood. He understood far more than he wished to, and the understanding sat heavy in his stomach as he returned to the main office and the ordinary work of the afternoon.

The harbour at night was a different world from the bustling commerce of daylight hours.

William stood in the shadow of a warehouse wall, watching the Mary Catherine ride at anchor in the dark water, her running lights the only illumination against the moonless sky. The cold had deepened since sunset, and his breath made small clouds that dissolved instantly into the darkness. Around him, the workers Blackwood had provided waited in silence, their faces invisible, their presence marked only by the occasional shuffle of boots on cobblestones.

The legitimate crew had departed hours ago, paid off and sent home with the understanding that their services would not be required until morning. What remained was a skeleton watch on the ship and the shadow crew on the shore—men who knew better than to ask questions, who understood that the work they were about to do would never be acknowledged and must never be discussed.

At precisely eleven o'clock, a light flashed twice from the Mary Catherine's deck. William raised his own lantern and returned the signal, then gestured to the men behind him. They moved forward in silence, a longboat was lowered from the ship, and the transfer began.

The work was hard and tedious—barrel after barrel of rum, crate after crate of textiles and tools, all of it moved by hand from ship to shore to waiting carts that would carry it to secondary storage. William supervised from the waterline, counting cargo, checking manifests against reality, ensuring that nothing was lost or misrouted in the darkness. The men worked without complaint, their movements efficient if not elegant, and by midnight the first cartload was ready to depart.

It was then that Crawley appeared.

The customs inspector was a small man, narrow-shouldered and nervous, his eyes darting constantly as though expecting danger from every shadow. He approached William with the exaggerated casualness of someone who desperately wanted to appear confident and was failing completely.

"Mr Jeffries?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "I was told to expect you."

"Inspector Crawley." William kept his own voice level, projecting a calm he did not entirely feel. "Everything is proceeding as planned. Your patrol schedule has been most helpful."

"Yes, well." Crawley glanced around nervously. "I can't stay long. If anyone sees me here—"

"No one will see you. And if they did, you're merely conducting a routine inspection, found everything in order, and departed. There's nothing unusual about a customs inspector checking on a newly arrived vessel."

The logic seemed to calm Crawley slightly. He nodded several times, as though convincing himself. "Right. Yes. Routine inspection. Everything in order." He hesitated, then added in an even lower voice: "The next payment—Mr Blackwood said it would be increased, given the size of this shipment."

"It will be. You'll receive it through the usual channels within the week."

"Good. Good." Crawley's relief was palpable. "Then I'll be going. Just—tell Mr Blackwood that I'm reliable. Tell him he can count on me."

"I'll tell him."

Crawley scurried away into the darkness, his footsteps fading quickly, and William was left alone with a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the cold air. This was what he had become—a man who reassured bribed officials, who helped maintain the networks of corruption that allowed illegal commerce to flourish. A man who could look at someone like Crawley, pathetic and desperate and compromised, and feel not pity but merely the cold satisfaction of a transaction completed.

The work continued through the small hours of the morning. By the time the last barrel had been loaded and the final cart had departed for secondary storage, the eastern sky was beginning to show the first grey hints of dawn. William dismissed the workers with brief thanks and payments drawn from the funds Blackwood had provided, then stood alone on the empty wharf, watching the Mary Catherine prepare for her legitimate business of the day.

He was exhausted, his muscles aching from hours of labour he was not accustomed to, his mind dulled by fatigue and the weight of what he had done. But beneath the exhaustion was something else—a satisfaction that troubled him even as he acknowledged its presence. The operation had succeeded. The cargo was secure. The network had held.

He had proven himself indispensable.

The triumph tasted like ashes, but it was triumph nonetheless.

Three days later, Blackwood summoned William to the back room once more.

The operation had been declared a success—the cargo distributed, the payments made, the various participants satisfied with their shares. Word had filtered back through Blackwood's network that the buyers were pleased with the quality of the rum and were interested in future arrangements. Everything had gone according to plan, and William had received quiet praise for his role in making it happen.

But the expression on Blackwood's face as William entered the small chamber suggested that praise was not the purpose of this meeting.

"Close the door," Blackwood said. "We need to discuss your friend Silas Croft."

William felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. He closed the door and remained standing, his posture wary. "What about him?"

"Don't look so alarmed. I'm not suggesting anything has gone wrong with your little friendship." Blackwood settled into the chair behind the desk, his dark eyes fixed on William with unsettling intensity. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I've been watching the two of you for some time now—the Saturday meetings, the walks through town, the conversations that run so much deeper than mere commerce. It's quite touching, really."

"You've been watching us."

"I watch everything that might affect my interests, Mr Jeffries. Surely you've learned that by now." Blackwood steepled his fingers, a gesture William had come to associate with careful calculation. "Silas Croft is a man of considerable ability. His trading house has grown steadily since he arrived in the colony, and his reputation among the legitimate merchant community is excellent. He moves in circles I cannot easily access—circles that might prove valuable to someone positioned to bridge the gap between his world and mine."

"You want to use my friendship with Silas to expand your network."

"I want to recognise an opportunity when I see one. Your connection to Croft makes you more valuable than a mere clerk, Mr Jeffries. It makes you a potential conduit between different spheres of colonial commerce." Blackwood's smile was thin but genuine. "I don't expect you to betray your friend's confidence or to manipulate him on my behalf. That would be crude, and ultimately counterproductive. But I do expect you to understand that the relationship has implications beyond whatever personal satisfaction you derive from it."

William's hands had clenched into fists at his sides. He forced them to relax, forced his voice to remain steady. "Silas is my friend. Not a business asset."

"Everything is a business asset in this colony. Every relationship, every connection, every conversation over ale at the Crown and Anchor." Blackwood leaned forward, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "I'm not trying to corrupt what you've found with Croft. I'm trying to help you see it clearly. He approached you, didn't he? That first meeting in the marketplace—you didn't seek him out. He found you."

"He told me as much. He was curious about the new man at Hartley's."

"Curious. Yes, that's one word for it." Blackwood's smile widened slightly. "Silas Croft is a man who does very little by accident, Mr Jeffries. He has plans, ambitions, strategies that extend well beyond the boundaries of his current enterprise. When he approached you, he was making an investment—cultivating a potential asset for future use. The friendship that developed may be genuine, but it doesn't erase the calculation that initiated it."

The words stung because they echoed thoughts William had harboured himself, doubts he had pushed away in the warmth of Saturday conversations and shared confidences. Silas had admitted as much during their whisky-fuelled conversation—that he had approached William deliberately, with intentions that went beyond simple friendliness.

But that admission had come with vulnerability, with honesty, with a willingness to let William choose whether to continue the friendship knowing its origins. Blackwood's framing stripped away that vulnerability, reducing everything to calculation.

"You're wrong," William said quietly. "Or rather, you're right about the beginning but wrong about what it's become. Yes, Silas approached me with intentions. Yes, there was calculation in it. But what we've built since then—the conversations, the confidences, the understanding—that's real. Whatever business considerations might have motivated him initially, they're not what holds us together now."

Blackwood studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps the friendship has transcended its origins. It wouldn't be the first time that calculation gave way to genuine connection." He rose from the desk and moved to the window, looking out at the grey afternoon. "But understand this, Mr Jeffries: in my world, the distinction between genuine and calculated matters less than you might think. What matters is what the relationship produces—what opportunities it creates, what advantages it offers. Whether you love Silas Croft like a brother or merely find him useful, the practical implications are the same."

"Not to me."

"No." Blackwood turned back to face him, and there was something almost like respect in his eyes. "Not to you. And that, perhaps, is why Croft values you as much as he does. You're that rarest of colonial commodities, Mr Jeffries: a man who still believes in things. Who still draws distinctions that the rest of us abandoned long ago." He paused. "Don't lose that. It may be the most valuable thing you possess."

Coming from Ezekiel Blackwood, the words felt almost like a blessing—or perhaps a curse disguised as one. William could not tell which, and he suspected that Blackwood intended exactly that ambiguity.

"Was there anything else?" he asked.

"Not today. You may return to your duties." Blackwood turned back to the window, his posture signalling dismissal. "But think about what I've said, Mr Jeffries. The world I operate in has room for sentiment, but only if that sentiment serves larger purposes. Make sure yours does."

William left the room with his thoughts in turmoil and his certainties shaken in ways he had not anticipated.

Saturday brought clear skies and news that had set Hobart Town buzzing.

William heard fragments of it as he made his way to the Crown and Anchor—conversations in the street, excited chatter among the market vendors, the particular energy that accompanied any announcement of significance in a colony starved for connection to the wider world. A ship had arrived from England the previous day, carrying mail and passengers and, most importantly, word of changes to come.

Silas was already at their usual table when William arrived, but his customary smile was tempered by something more complicated—a thoughtfulness that suggested the news had affected him more deeply than idle curiosity would explain.

"You've heard, I take it," Silas said as William sat down. "About the new magistrate."

"Only fragments. Something about an appointment from London?"

"Sir William Harding." Silas spoke the name with careful neutrality. "A magistrate from Bath, apparently quite well-connected, appointed to oversee legal matters in the colony. He's expected to arrive within the month, along with his household." He took a long drink from his tankard. "It's been the talk of every drawing room and counting house in town. A titled magistrate from England, coming to Van Diemen's Land. The social implications are considerable."

William studied his friend's face, sensing currents beneath the surface that the words did not explain. "You seem troubled by it."

"Not troubled, exactly. More..." Silas searched for the right word. "Unsettled. Do you know what a magistrate from Bath represents, William? What kind of society he'll bring with him?"

"English society. Proper English society, I'd imagine. The kind we're supposed to have left behind."

"Exactly." Silas set down his tankard and leaned forward, his voice dropping. "I came to Van Diemen's Land partly to escape that world—the expectations, the hierarchies, the endless judgments about who you are and where you come from. Here, I could be simply Silas Croft, merchant. My background mattered less than my competence. My family's position in Bristol was irrelevant; what counted was what I could build for myself." He shook his head slowly. "A magistrate like Harding will bring those old structures with him. The questions about family and breeding, the subtle distinctions between those who belong and those who merely succeed. He'll want to know who comes from good stock and who rose from nothing."

"And that troubles you?"

"It reminds me of things I'd rather forget. Of the world I left behind and the reasons I left it." Silas's expression softened slightly. "Don't misunderstand—I'm not afraid of scrutiny. My business is legitimate, my reputation sound. But the arrival of someone like Harding changes the rules of the game in ways that may not favour men like us."

"Men like us?"

"Men who built themselves from nothing. Men whose value lies in what they do rather than who their fathers were." Silas met William's eyes directly. "You more than me, if I'm honest. My family has some standing, however modest. But you—" He hesitated, clearly weighing how to proceed.

"You can say it," William said quietly. "The convict stain. It won't wash away just because I've learned to keep ledgers and negotiate contracts."

"No. It won't." Silas's voice was gentle but honest. "In the world Harding represents, a man's past is never truly past. The questions about transportation, about the crime that sent you here—they'll be asked, if not openly then in whispers. The colonial elite who've accepted you thus far may find their acceptance tested when someone arrives to remind them of the standards they left behind."

William absorbed this, feeling the familiar weight of a burden he had never truly set down. The convict stain. It had shaped everything since that courtroom in Portsmouth, had followed him across oceans and through years, had remained present even in moments when he allowed himself to forget it.

"Then I'll have to ensure my value outweighs my history," he said finally. "It's all I've ever been able to do."

"And you've done it remarkably well." Silas reached across the table and gripped William's arm briefly—that gesture of connection that had become familiar between them. "I'm not trying to discourage you. I'm trying to prepare you for what's coming. The colonial world is about to become more complicated, and we'll need to navigate it together."

"Together." William smiled despite the heaviness of the conversation. "I'm beginning to think that word is the most valuable thing you've taught me."

"It may well be. Certainly more valuable than anything about wool prices or shipping schedules." Silas's mood seemed to lighten slightly. "Now—tell me about your week. I've been monopolising the conversation with news and worries. How goes the world of Hartley's?"

The question opened a door William had been dreading, and he found himself suddenly unable to avoid walking through it.

"I supervised a smuggling operation a few nights ago."

The words came out before William could stop them, tumbling into the space between them with a weight that seemed to change the very air of the room. Silas went very still, his tankard suspended halfway to his lips, his eyes fixed on William with an intensity that demanded more.

"Rum from the Caribbean, routed through Sydney to avoid duties. Textiles, tools, firearms. A dozen workers, carts, secondary storage, a bribed customs inspector named Crawley who I had to reassure personally that his payments would continue." William heard his own voice as though from a distance, flat and recounting facts he had not intended to share. "It was the largest operation Blackwood has trusted me with. He called it an opportunity to prove myself indispensable."

Silas set down his tankard slowly, his expression unreadable. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I can't carry it alone anymore." The honesty felt like bleeding, painful and necessary. "Because you're the only person in this colony I trust enough to be honest with. Because if I don't say it out loud to someone, I'm afraid I'll stop seeing it as something that needs to be said—that it will become just another part of who I am, unremarkable and unremarked upon."

"And that frightens you."

"More than anything." William leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I'm becoming someone I don't recognise, Silas. Someone harder, someone who can look at a false document and sign it without hesitation, who can meet with bribed officials and feel nothing but satisfaction when the transaction is complete. I tell myself it's necessary, that it's the price of survival in this place. But there are moments—more and more of them—when I wonder if survival is worth what it's costing me."

The silence that followed was long and heavy. The noise of the public house seemed to fade around them, the other patrons becoming distant shadows, the world contracting to just two men and the weight of confession between them.

"You want me to tell you it's all right," Silas said finally. "That the compromises don't matter, that the end justifies the means, that you're still the man you were before any of this began."

"No." William shook his head. "I want you to tell me the truth. Whatever that truth is."

Silas was quiet for another long moment, his gaze turned inward, his expression shifting through emotions William could not quite read. When he spoke again, his voice was soft but certain.

"The truth is that I can't offer you absolution. I'm not a priest, and even if I were, the compromises you've described aren't the kind that confession can wash away." He met William's eyes directly. "The truth is that I've made similar choices—perhaps not identical, but close enough that I have no standing to judge you. The truth is that this colony, this world we've chosen to build our lives in, demands things of men that would be unthinkable elsewhere. And the truth is that knowing all of this doesn't make it any easier to bear."

"Then what do we do? How do we live with what we're becoming?"

"We find things worth carrying the weight for." Silas leaned forward, his voice gaining intensity. "We find people, purposes, reasons to keep going that matter more than our own comfort or our own purity. We accept that we're not going to emerge from this unchanged, and we try—as hard as we can—to ensure that the change doesn't destroy what's essential in us."

"And if we fail? If the change goes too deep, if we wake up one day and find that there's nothing left of who we were?"

"Then we failed." Silas's voice was gentle but unflinching. "And we have to live with that too. But the alternative—refusing to engage with the world as it is, holding ourselves pure while everything crumbles around us—that's not courage, William. That's just another kind of cowardice, dressed up in the language of principle."

William absorbed this, turning the words over in his mind like stones in a tumbler, feeling their edges and weights. It was not comfort Silas was offering—not the reassurance that everything would be fine, that the compromises were justified, that the path William was walking led somewhere worthy. It was something harder and more honest: the acknowledgment that the path was dangerous, that the destination was uncertain, and that walking it anyway was the only real choice available.

"The people worth carrying the weight for," he said slowly. "You're one of them, aren't you? For me, I mean."

Silas's smile was sad but genuine. "I'd like to think so. And you're one of mine." He reached across the table again, his hand finding William's forearm and gripping it firmly. "We carry each other, William. That's what brothers do. The weight doesn't disappear, but it gets distributed. Easier to bear when you're not bearing it alone."

"Brothers." The word felt solid in William's mouth, more real than it had ever been. "Yes. Brothers."

They sat together in the fading afternoon light, the conversation turning to other things—the news about Harding, the state of the wool market, a particularly amusing incident involving a drunken ship captain and a stolen pig that had set the harbour laughing for days. But something had shifted between them, some final barrier fallen, and when they parted that evening, the handshake held a meaning it had not possessed before.

William walked home through the cold streets with his mind clearer than it had been in weeks. The weight was still there—would always be there, he suspected—but Silas was right. It was easier to carry when you weren't carrying it alone.

The challenges ahead remained formidable: Blackwood's expectations, Hartley's decline, the looming arrival of Sir William Harding and the changes he would bring to colonial society. But for the first time since those midnight hours on the harbour, William felt something other than dread when he contemplated them.

He had a brother to face them with. That had to count for something.

In the end, perhaps it was the only thing that counted at all.