“D’ye mind if I try being the man on top of the log first?” asked Richard. “My eye is very straight, so I am curious to see if that holds true when I am sawing. Besides, being bottom man is easier on the muscles. Unfortunately ye will not be able to wear a hat—ye have to stand too close to the saw. I will yell as I begin my pull to give ye the chance to look down.”
His eye proved straight; Wigfall’s did not. The work was every bit as grueling as Richard had thought, but Wigfall turned out to be a magnificent partner, capable of a tremendous pull downward. But I could never have done this in Port Jackson on those miserable rations. Here, between the fish, the occasional turtle and the masses of green vegetables and turnips—not to mention the better bread—I can saw without losing more weight than I can afford. For a man of forty, I am in far better condition than Lieutenant King is at a mere thirty.
At Christmastide the Commandant killed a large pig just for his convict family, so on that dark and windy day the porker was spitted over a fire of smoldering coals and roasted until its skin crackled and bubbled up crisply; each man and woman got a double portion, there were scarce potatoes to go with it, and a half-pint of rum to wash the meal down. This was the first roast meat that Richard had eaten since his days at the Cooper’s Arms—incredibly delicious! As were the potatoes. Dear Lord, he prayed that night as he tumbled into his feather bed, I am so very grateful. Only those who have truly wanted can ever enjoy simple plenty.
For the next few days it rained and blew too hard for outside work, though, as both sawpits were sheltered, the sawyers continued to cut logs into planks, scantlings and beams; Government House was receiving some additions, Stephen Donovan was getting a new house in close proximity to the Commandant’s, and all the sawyers were allowed to cut timber to build themselves private dwellings. Nor was Richard, already possessed of a good house, unwilling to saw for his teams’ houses.
New Year
of 1789 dawned clear and fine; the convicts were given a half-day off work and a quarter-pint of rum. Thanks to the subtle and unobtrusive exertions of his supervisors, Lieutenant King was settling into something vaguely like a routine—please, sir, if we finish what we have started, it will mean we can devote all our attention to the new work in its turn. . . .
King’s joy overflowed when his healthy son by Ann Innet was born eight days into 1789. As the only person who conducted religious worship, King baptized the boy himself and christened him “Norfolk.”
“Norfolk King has a pleasing sound,” said Stephen to Richard on the sand at Turtle Bay. “I am delighted for him. He needs to have a family, though ’twill not help his naval career to marry Mistress Innet. But a more doting father would be hard to imagine. Things will go hard for him when comes the time he must leave for England—what to do with a much-loved bastard, not to mention the mother? He is very fond of her.”
“He will solve all his dilemmas,” said Richard tranquilly. “A flightier commanding officer would be hard to find, but he lacks neither honor nor a sense of responsibility. There are some things he cannot deal with happily—routine, for one—and he has a hot temper. Witness Mary Gamble.”
Mary Gamble provoked that hot temper when she threw an axe at a boar and severely wounded it. Furious at the near-demise of this immensely valuable animal, King refused to listen to her frenzied explanation that the boar had charged her and she had thrown the axe in self-defense. Before his temper cooled he levied the atrocious number of a dozen-dozen lashes at the cart’s tail upon her. Once calm returned, he was aghast—strip that gallant creature to the waist before men like Dyer and give her 144 licks of the cat, even the kindest cat among the assortment? Oh, Christ, he could not do it! What if the boar had indeed charged her? The axe she had by right, as she was one of the women deputed to debark pine logs. Oh, Jesus! He had never ordered half that many lashes for a man! What a pickle! So he summoned Mary Gamble to Government House and announced in lordly tones that he forgave her.
His conduct of this debacle told a few of the convicts that he was stupid, soft-hearted and weak; certain plans already in train were advanced in time because it was so obvious that King had neither the stomach nor the kidney for harsh action.
Robert Webb the gardener came to see him urgently. “Sir, there is a plot afoot,” he said.
“A plot?” King asked blankly.
“Aye, sir. A great many of the felons plan to take you, Mr. Donovan, the other free men and all the marines prisoner. They are then going to wait for the next ship, take her, and sail her to Otaheite.”
The Commandant’s face paled from brown to dirty white; he stared at Webb incredulously. “Jesus Christ! Who, Robert, who?”
“From what I was told, sir, all but three of the convicts off Golden Grove, and”—he swallowed, blinked away tears—“a few of our original party.”
“How quickly the rot sets in, Robert,” King said slowly. “If just one fresh intake of felons has caused this, what is going to happen when His Excellency sends hundreds more?” He passed his hand across his eyes to brush away moisture. “Oh, I am
hurt!
A few of our originals. . . . How could they be so foolish? Noah Mortimer and that silly youth Charlie McClellan are the originals, I imagine.” He set his shoulders and squared his jaw. “How did ye discover this?”
“My woman told me, sir—Beth Henderson. William Francis got her on her own and asked her to see if I would be in it. She pretended to agree to persuade me to be in it, then told me.”
The sweat was running into his eyes; high summer at these latitudes made the uniform of a naval lieutenant—and a commandant at that, doomed always to be in uniform—a torment to wear. “Who off Golden Grove are the three not involved?” he asked, voice thin.
“The Catholic, John Bryant. The sawyer Richard Morgan and his simple hut companion, Joseph Long,” said Webb.
“Well, of the latter pair, one is too busy at the sawpits and the other, as ye say, is a simpleton. ’Tis the Catholic Bryant I will learn from, he works with them. Go to his hut from here and fetch him to me as quietly as ye can, Robert. This being a Saturday, Sydney Town is fairly deserted—they all like to think I do not notice that they have vanished into Arthur’s Vale. Also ask Mr. Donovan to report to me immediately.”
Lieutenant King’s talents shone at full brilliance in dealing with concrete peril; it was all over and done with before one of the ringleaders knew he had been detected.
Armed with their rusted muskets, the marines took the dangerous men into custody—William Francis, Samuel Pickett, Joshua Peck, Thomas Watson, Leonard Dyer, James Davis, Noah Mortimer and Charles McClellan. Exhaustive examination winnowed out the real villains; though almost every convict on the island had indicated a wish to be in the coup provided it succeeded, only a handful were actively involved. Francis and Pickett were put into double irons and confined in the stoutest storehouse; Watson and Mortimer were fettered and released until Monday’s full enquiry brought the whole story out.
A startled Richard Morgan was told to walk at once to Ball Bay and fetch its three custodians into the Sydney Town fold, while King arranged his scant supply of free men and marines around his end of the beach and the convicts were ordered on pain of being shot to remain in their huts.
“And as if that were not enough,” said King to Donovan in huge indignation, “Corporal Gowen found Thompson pilfering Indian corn in the vale! From which, given what Robert and Bryant have told me, I gather that men like Thompson thought the island would be taken over by Francis before I could flog him for theft. He is mistaken.”
“They should have waited until Supply was in the roads and our attention was taken up in that direction,” said Stephen thoughtfully, too tactful to add that King’s conduct in the Mary Gamble business was the reason for the plot’s advancement in time. “What of the women, sir?”
King shrugged. “Women are women. They are neither the cause nor the trouble.”
“Whom will ye punish?”
“As few as I can,” King said, looking worried. “Otherwise I stand no hope to keep control of Norfolk Island, ye must surely see that, Mr. Donovan. Hardly a musket fires and there are many more of them than of us. But most of them are sheep, they need leaders. That is our salvation provided that I do not punish the sheep. I will have to wait until Supply comes, send word to Port Jackson on her, and then wait for her to return before I will be able to ship the ringleaders to stand trial in Port Jackson.”
“Why,” asked Stephen dreamily, “do I have a feeling that ye’ll not solve Norfolk Island’s difficulties by shipping them to Port Jackson and the Governor’s justice?”
King’s eyes flashed angrily. “Because,” he said grimly, “I am well aware that most of those on Golden Grove were sent here to rid Port Jackson of them. His Excellency will not want them back, especially branded as mutineers. He would have to hang them, and he is not a man likes to see others at the end of a rope. If he is forced to hang, he would rather that the crime was committed under the gaze of those around him, not a thousand miles away in a place he has been using as an example of felicitous success. Norfolk Island is too isolated to prosper under a system which delegates the real authority to men who are not here, to men who are more than a thousand miles away. The Government in Norfolk Island ought to have authority over Norfolk Island’s affairs. But I am strapped. I must first wait months, then no doubt will not get answers which improve Norfolk Island’s lot.”
“Just so,” sighed Stephen. “It is a cleft stick.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Sir, ye have a master gunsmith right here in the island who was not implicated in the plot—Morgan the sawyer. May I humbly request that ye set him at once to fixing our firearms? Then on every Saturday morning the free men, marines and Morgan will shoot for two hours. I will undertake to set up a proving butt beyond the eastern end of Sydney Town, and also undertake the supervision of firing practice. Provided that ye give me Morgan.”
“An excellent idea! See to it, Mr. Donovan.” The Commandant grunted. “If, as I expect, His Excellency does not want any of our mutineers sent to trial in Port Jackson, then he will have to send me a bigger detachment of marines under the command of a proper officer, not a mere sergeant. And I want some cannons. Plus powder, shot and cartridges aplenty for the muskets.” He looked brisk. “I shall draft a letter this instant. And from now on, Superintendent of Convicts, ye will see a stricter discipline enforced. If flogging is what they want, then flogging is what they will get.
I am hurt!
Wounded to the quick! My happy little family has serpents in its midst, with many more serpents to come.”
It was
John Bryant the fanatically devout Catholic who bore the brunt of convict resentment once the hearing of testimony was over. His evidence was all the more damning because he also told of a plan aboard Golden Grove to take her over—a plan foiled when he informed Captain Sharp. The blame for the Norfolk Island revolt fell upon William Francis and Samuel Pickett, who were to be kept permanently in double irons and permanently locked up. Noah Mortimer and Thomas Watson were put in light fetters at the Commandant’s pleasure, and the rest of those questioned were dismissed.
The most tragic consequence of the January plot concerned the beauty of tiny Sydney Town, graced by the presence of tall pines and leafy “white oaks.” Lieutenant King took every last tree away, even cleared lower vegetation; a marine could stand at either end of the settlement and see any coming and going between the huts, even after dark. Tom Jones, an intimate of Len Dyer’s, received 36 lashes from the meanest cat for contemptuous sexual references aimed at Stephen Donovan and Surgeon Thomas Jamison.
“The climate has changed,” said Richard to Stephen as they dealt with muskets preparatory to the first shooting practice, “and it saddens me. I like this little place, could be happy here were it not for other men. But I do not want to live in this village any longer. The trees are gone and so is the privacy—a man cannot piss without a dozen others watching. I want to be somewhere on my own so that I can mind my own business and confine my contacts with my fellow convicts to the sawpits.”
Stephen blinked. “D’ye dislike them so much, Richard?”
“I like some of them very well. It is the villains always spoil things—and for what? Can they never learn? Take poor Bryant. They have vowed to get him, you know, and they will.”
“As Superintendent of Convicts I will exert every effort to make sure they do not get him. Bryant has a very nice little wife and they love each other madly. Were anything to happen to him, she would become a lost soul.”
1789 was
not coming in well. There had been intermittent rain and gales which ruined the rest of the barley, spoiled some casks of flour, made fishing impossible on most days, and life in the denuded collection of wooden huts a jeremiad of wet clothes, damp bedding, mold on precious books and precious shoes, summer colds, sick headaches and painful bones. Halfway through February the Commandant released Francis and Pickett from their storehouse and returned them to their huts free of manacles but heavily ironed on their legs. Of Supply there was no sign; the last ship to call had been Golden Grove, and that was now four months ago. Were they never going to see another ship? Had something happened to Supply? To Port Jackson?