Kitty stared at him in shocked surprise, and her heart missed a beat and then started to pound furiously as she watched him unwind the canvas wrapping of a bundle of papers that, instinct told her, could only be the diary Marcus O’Brien had kept during his imprisonment.
“I … I …” Taken completely off her guard, she sought vainly for words, forgetful of Patrick’s advice. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Broome,” she managed at last.
“Do you not?” John Broome countered, his tone reproachful. “You can trust me, I promise you.
I would never do anything to hurt you or cause you trouble.”
Kitty made an effort to recover her composure. The gunroom was deserted, and they were quite alone, the rest of the
Galah’s
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company, judging by the thud of feet on the deck above and the shouted orders, fully occupied in taking the ship to sea.
“I’m sure you would not,” she conceded unhappily.
“But you don’t know, you cannot know what-what is involved.”
“I can hazard a guess, Lady Kitty, and a pretty accurate one.” He gestured to the little pile of papers in front of him, offering two at the top of the pile for her perusal. “This is a record, in the form of a diary, kept by one of the convicts imprisoned here. I went ashore just before we were due to sail in the hope of finding out who the diarist was. And the storekeeper, Stewart-the man who is remaining as caretaker-gave me a name.
Perhaps you already know it?”
Prevarication was of little use, Kitty recognized. She bowed her head. “Yes-it’s O’Brien, Marcus O’Brien.”
John Broome nodded in satisfaction. “That was the name Stewart gave me. O’Brien was released, having served his sentence, in January 1853.” His big brown hand gestured to the first page of the diary. “Read this, if you will-it explains why he did not take the diary with him.”
She did as he bade her, conscious of a feeling of impotence. “I knew why he left it hidden-he told us. Pie … that is, he came to see us when he returned to Ireland. He had been a seaman, and he worked his passage home from Hobart.
The ships were losing men-they were deserting to the goldfields-and the masters did not ask questions.
O’Brien returned illegally”
“Yes, I see.” John Broome’s
expression changed, and Kitty read compassion in his eyes as he said, very gently, “On the next page he mentions a man he calls Big Michael.
Perhaps you should read it, or-was He saw that she was in tears and offered quickly, “I’ll read it for you, shall I? The ink has faded, and it’s not easy to decipher.”
Kitty put out a hand to take the yellowing sheet of paper from him, but her hand was trembling and he ignored the gesture, commencing to read in a low, expressionless voice.
“November fourteen, 1850. Arrived the Lady Franklin
from Hobart, with an ensign and twenty men of the Ninety-ninth Foot and sixty-seven convicts.
One of these caused
quite a stir, so much so that Commandant Price had him brought ashore ahead of the rest and heavily ironed.
I chanced to see him, as I was with the unloading gang on the jetty. He is a big, striking-looking fellow, with the manner and appearance of a gentleman-and he is taller, by several inches, than Price, who-was
Kitty was unable to suppress a sob, and John Broome broke off. “I’m sorry-if it pains you, I’ll stop. Your brother can read it, and-was “No.” She shook her head, teeth closing fiercely about her lower lip. “Please go on.”
He picked up the page again, holding it to the light.
“I was reliably informed that the new addition to our thrice-damned ranks is a special-category prisoner, condemned to transportation for life for high treason. He goes by the name of Michael Wexford, which is not his real name, and rumor has it that he is titled and once served in the Royal Navy as a midshipman. Needless, perhaps, to add that he is Irish and that he hails from rebel country in the South.
“The commandant-was
Kitty interrupted him, unable to stop herself.
“That was how you guessed, was it not?” she asked bitterly. “The name Wexford and the-the rebel South?”
“Yes,” John Broome admitted. He
smiled faintly. “I was puzzled, you see-and curious as to why you and Patrick were so anxious to come to Norfolk Island. And when I read that …
well, it all became clear. Michael Wexford is your brother, isn’t he?”
“My half-brother,” Kitty said, a catch in her voice. She had a swift vision of Michael’s face, the last time she had seen him, standing in court, deathly pale as he heard the red-robed judge pronounce his sentence, but proud-Michael had always been proud-and he had made no plea for mercy. He had lifted his handsome head a little higher and flashed a smile to Patrick and herself in the public gallery, refusing to be intimidated by the savage sentence or by the sour old judge’s censure.
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But she had been intimidated by it, Kitty recalled. She had clung to Patrick,
weeping her heart out, hiding her face against his chest; and then, sobbing too, the old aunt who had brought them up after their parents’ death-Aunt Dorcas-had led them out into the dark, rain-wet Dublin street. They had not been allowed to bid Michael farewell, for there had been a convict transport waiting to receive him and the other so-called traitors who had been condemned with him, and he had been taken aboard that very night.
“He escaped-absconded, did he not?” she asked huskily. “That was why he was sent to Norfolk Island?”
“Yes,” John Broome confirmed. “According to O’Brien, he did.”
He started to replace the pages of the diary in their wrapping, and Kitty, mindful of what Patrick had suggested to her earlier, as they waited on the jetty, added uncertainly. “We-Patrick and I-want to appeal for clemency on Michael’s behalf. The diary-Marcus O’Brien said if we could recover it that it would —well it would provide grounds for an appeal. He told us that Commandant Price singled poor Michael out for particularly brutal treatment and (hat he exceeded his authority, because Michael was guilty of no crime whilst he was here.”
“It is possible,” John Broome said. “A pardon, of course, can be granted only by the Crown. Clemency, a remission of sentence, might be granted out here.” He hesitated, and Kitty guessed that he was anxious not to dash her hopes of such an outcome. Finally he offered, his tone encouraging, “I’d like to show the diary to Patrick and discuss it with him before we reach Hobart. Parts of it are … Lady Kitty, truly, they are not for your eyes.”
Kitty did not attempt to argue. It was best that Patrick should deal with details of an appeal, she told herself; she had done as much as she could without overstepping the bounds she had imposed on herself.
But-she had to ensure that John Broome, who was a journalist, would respect her confidence and not betray the secret he had uncovered. “Mr. Broome,”
she began, “you-was As if he had read her thoughts, he put in quickly, “I gave you
my word that you could trust me, and I offer it again, so you need have no fear on my account. Or on Red’s.
He-was
“He knows? You told him?”
“Yes. But he too is, I assure
you, fully to be trusted. He’s read this diary, and that is guarantee enough. The treatment meted out to your brother by the former commandant was-well, suffice it to say that it turned Red’s stomach, as it turned mine. Price undoubtedly
did
exceed his authority.”
Kitty was silent for a long moment, endeavoring to banish the images his words had conjured up, tears aching in her throat. Poor Michael, she thought miserably. Poor, poor Michael-as a
fifteen-year old midshipman on board the flagship
Princess Charlotte,
he had earned Admiral Sir Robert Stopford’s commendation for gallantry in action against the Viceroy of Egypt, and only eight years later he had been found guilty on a charge of high treason. .
. .
She said, in a choked voice, “My brother Michael has been transferred to the Port Arthur prison, Mr. Broome. Captain Day told us so.”
“Yes,” John Broome answered. “I
learned that from Mr. Stewart.” He reached for her hand. “I thought I was Boy Broome, not Mr. Broome, Kitty.”
Kitty felt the warm, embarrassed color rising to flood her cheeks. The touch of his strong brown hand was oddly comforting, and she did not withdraw her own from its clasp. Yet, feeling ashamed because of the underlying reason for the nickname she had given him, she felt constrained to apologize.
“I … I’m sorry. I should not have called you that. It was arrogant of me.”
“I probably deserved it,” he asserted.
“No, you didn’t. You-was
“Let’s call a truce, shall we?” He was smiling broadly, refusing to take offense. “My given name is John Angus. You may take your pick, but … most people, most of my friends call me Johnny.”
“Yes-yes, I know. Johnny it will be, from now on,” Kitty promised. “You-was The sound of approaching footsteps heralded the appearance of Henry and Caroline Day and their eldest daughter, Catherine Mablon, and Johnny freed her hand.
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He rose, gathering up the loosely
wrapped pages of the diary, and said, lowering his voice, “I’ll go and find your brother and show him this. And-you can count on me to give you all the help I can when we reach Hobart. It is just possible that I might be able to arrange a visit to Port Arthur, in my professional capacity, and perhaps even for Patrick also. I intend to try.”
He did not wait for her reply but, with a smiling greeting to the Day family, left her with them.
Kitty felt renewed hope rising in her heart as she watched him go.
“We’re under way,” Henry Day announced cheerfully. “Which, in my book, is cause for celebration. Even the convicts are singing-can you hear them? I think we should drink to the demise of the Norfolk Island penal settlement and good luck to the Pitcairners! Steward!”
The steward brought the drinks asked for, and Day solemnly raised his glass.
Kitty drank with him, echoing the toast, and from the orlop deck below came the muted sound of men’s voices raised in song. They were, she realized after a moment or two, singing a hymn … and singing it joyfully.
In the stone-built church at Port
Arthur Penitentiary, close on six hundred convicts joined lustily in the closing hymn. It was not that they were seized by religious fervor; but because hymn singing in church was the only occasion when they were permitted to raise their voices, to a man they took advantage of the official approval to bellow the words as loudly as their lungs would allow.
From the boxlike stall in which he stood, the prisoner known as Number 9467, Michael Wexford, could see only the pulpit and the two rows of seats occupied by the military guard. Like the other fifty or so occupants of the wooden stalls, he was locked in and would not be able to leave until, at the conclusion of the service, the iron rod that secured each stall door was removed by one of the overseers or a constable.
It was as if he were a dangerous animal, he thought bitterly, only allowed the privilege of Sunday worship provided he was safely caged.
The civil commandant, James Boyd, together with the superintendent of convicts, the prison surgeon, and the military officers with their families, sat in pews to the right of the altar, screened from the convicts’ view by curtains, so that even those trusted to occupy the second-story galleries were unable to see them.
It was a curious arrangement, Michael reflected, and one that an all-seeing God might well have viewed with sadness, if not disapproval.
Nevertheless, he raised his powerful tenor voice with those about him and sang as lustily as they, enjoying the sound, as the choir led into the last verse and the harmonium pealed forth its slightly off-key accompaniment. After seven long days of silence in the confines of a punishment cell, the noise and the human contact came as a pleasurable change.
“Jesu! Jesu!” he sang. “Advocate for sinners pleading, with the Father interceding; We beseech Thee, we beseech Thee, from every ill defend us! Thy grace and mercy send us … Amen!”
It was a singularly appropriately chosen hymn, Michael told himself cynically, and he repeated “From every ill defend us” before closing his hymn book, and-because the chaplin’s gaze was ranging round the open fronts of the stalls, he bowed his head dutifully in readiness to receive the blessing.
It was strange, he thought, head still submissively lowered, how much he had come to look forward to the Sunday church services. They were Anglican, and he had been brought up in the Roman Catholic faith, but the priest appointed by John Price-or rather, the priest Price had caused to be appointed during his final year on Norfolk Island-had been a man of similar kidney to the commandant, wont to threaten with hellfire and damnation any poor wretch who dared show even a spark of defiance. And he, of course-Michael’s cracked lips curved into a wry smile-he
had shown more than a spark. He had defied Price to break him and, on arrival at Port Arthur, had stated firmly that his religion was Anglican.
And, since he had already suffered the torments of hell at Price’s sadistic hands, the threat of continuation in the hereafter held no terrors for him.
Indeed, he would have sought escape and oblivion in death a long while ago were it not for the stubborn determination to
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avenge himself on the former commandant of Norfolk Island. That determination had become an obsession now, which he recognized for what it was-the sole reason for his survival and for his recently taken decision firstly to be accepted as a reformed and model prisoner at Port Arthur and secondly to abscond therefrom.
The iron bolt on his stall was withdrawn, and the overseer bawled at him to march back to his cell.
Michael did as the man bade him and emerged, cap in hand, and the chain attached to his ankle fetters and running to his belt held in the prescribed manner, to enable him to walk without undue metallic clanking. He was clad in the yellow-and-black broad-arrowed livery of the convict “lifer,” with the word felon