The Secret River

Yeah? You'll be hanging by the jurisdiction

of the Governor of New South Wales.

Mind the sting!

- Second lot. - Oh, get out!

Get out of there!

Move your backs!

Come on.

I said move it!

To be handed over to the jurisdiction of the Governor of New South Wales.

Will!

Will!

Will!

Sal... Will!

Move!

Get up! Stand up straight.

Eyes in for the Governor's man.

Governor's man gets first pick, then gentlemen, seconds.

Will!

Straighten yourselves!

Heads up! Palms open. Will!

Show your teeth. Will!

Show your hands to Mr King.

River hands. I know 'em where I've seen 'em.

Waterman?

No, Thames. A Thames man is good enough for me.

I'll take him. William... Will!

Theft. Sentenced to hang,

commuted to transportation for life.

Will!

You are hereby assigned to Mr Alexander King.

Will! Bound over to him as his servant.

Oh, William. William! Sal!

Hey... Hold it! Hold it!

You're no good to me with broken ribs!

Get away from him! Get away!

It's us, Will. Who are you?

I'm his wife!

Come on. It's alright, my darling.

It's me.

Will? Will, it's us.

Sal...

Hey.

Look, it's our new one. Born at sea.

I named him Dickie - after Da.

Willie. Willie, it's Da.

He don't know it's me, Sal.

He don't know it's me.

Here.

This letter, it's all you need to know.

Says here William Thornhill is to be assigned to his wife.

Take a look at who signed it too.

A woman accompanying her felon of a husband,

I've never heard of it.

Well, now you have!

Signed by Lord Hannebury.

Takes a special whore to get special favours.

I'll give you something, what'll you give me?

Oh, you piece of... You shut your gob!

Shut it, Sykes.

My name's Alexander King, Mrs Thornhill.

I need a man what knows his way around a boat - a big boat.

Will rode the Thames from when he was a lad.

Mr King... Yes, alright, Mr Grouse.

He may be her husband, but she's his master now.

Take those chains off.

I'll pay you for his services. In rum.

Will's as good a waterman as ever was.

Coin or nothing.

Rum's the only currency in this godforsaken place.

It fuels the colony, like a horse runs on oats.

You get your husband fit and well,

come and see me.

Well... thank you, Mr King.

Come here.

Whoa! Will! Will...

Darling...

Come here.

Blankets and a week's victuals -

the extent of King George's obligations.

Well, where do we go? Where do you go?

There. That's where.

Will!

William...

Which way's home, Will? What direction?

I don't know.

Got no Pole star to guide me.

No bear...

..and every night the world was so big.

It's not like London, not this place.

The important thing is we're together.

I don't know how you done it, Sal.

Letters.

Up the line. You know that.

'To the King...

..from the man of quality.'

I done what I had to do, Will.

I weren't gonna let them hang you.

The important thing is...

..Willie and Dickie got a father...

..and I got a husband.

And promise me you'll never ask me that again.

God, Sal, what've I done?

Be off!

Be off, I said!

Go to the devil.

This way for good work.

Alright. I'll see you later. Coming through!

It's a colony of thieves,

and none bigger than the Master of Customs, hey, Thornhill?

Alright, Mr King.

We ship to the end of the world,

naught changes but our master's uniforms.

How is that, Mr King?

Back home it's the silk-clad, high-born

feeding off the backs of the lowly.

Here, it's the trumped-up foot sloggers in red jackets.

Given time, and a new Governor, things might be put right.

Not for lifers like me, I wager -

more likely pigs'll sprout wings and fly.

So... job done, Mr King.

You're a grand worker, Thornhill. Too grand.

I have nothing more for you till the next fleet. Come back then.

Right, drink up, gentlemen. And others.

Home to your wives.

God help 'em.

Ma... On the bench there, Willie.

Dickie!

Where are you going? Come back here!

Willie, come here.

Take this and hide it. Quick, go on.

Go on. Right, you lot, come on. Bugger off.

Thank you for your custom. Hold on. Go on.

You too, Scabby Bill. Shoo! Go on.

No more broth today - shutting up shop.

Come on.

Breeding more convict scum, aye?

Last time I saw a mouth like that it was feeding from a trough.

I'll plant you a good freeman's seed. Get off me!

Leave me ma alone! You watch yourself. I am a free settler.

And so are my boys. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Free but not above the law.

The I sell's Jamaican. It's my husbands wages.

Means you got your cut already.

You won't mind giving us a tot, then?

That's thievery, plain and simple.

Just to be sure it ain't rot gut from some poxy still.

If it weren't for you lot running the rum trade there'd be no poxy stills.

Willie, get me two clean pannikins.

Rum. Rum!

Fuck off, you black bastard. Rum!

Climb back up your tree!

Rum.

It's quite the lurk, innit? Right. There you are.

Small reward for serving in this shite hole.

Jamaican, like I told ya.

Now, bugger off! What're you doing?

Hey! Hey, that's legal! Leave it!

That's my husband's earnings!

I'll tell my Da! He'll get the law onto you!

We are the bleedin' law, my lippy little sparrow.

Mm. It's good.

There's a shipwright at Cockle Bay, makes skiffs.

Reminded me of the way Da started when he went.

Only wants £11. Only?

No, I've done my sums - we've got near enough.

The sooner you get a skiff of your own, the better.

We'll make our pile like everyone else

and go home.

Get us a little house in the borough.

There's no going home. Isn't that right, Da?

Don't believe everything that Da says, Willie.

Rum Corp come round again, didn't they, Ma?

Right. Put that wood on fire, Willie.

Dickie, sit by the fire, we're going to have a little singsong.

Come on. Chop, chop!

I'm sick to death of the drunks and the bleedin' Rum Corp.

It is no place for kids to be growing up.

It matters nowt how sick and tired you are, love.

There's no going home.

See this, Dickie?

Willie found it right before we come out, didn't you, Willie?

Right by Pickle Herring Stairs.

It's a bit of old roof tile from London.

Now, see how they fixed it? Through that hole there?

Now, we'll take it back to Pickle Herring Stairs by and by.

My word, we will - right back where it come from.

Your remembering of London ain't the same as mine, Sal.

One bad winter's all it were.

No, we were starving.

We were on the bones of our arse.

Willie, he was thin as a match -

fading to nothing in front of our very eyes.

You with child again and not a farthing in my pocket.

It was not what you thought it was.

We'll get us that house in the borough.

For the term of me natural life, Sal.

It's no good pretending otherwise.

You'll get yourself another boat.

Sal... And you'll have apprentices

to row for ya.