Wild Island (47 page)

‘But you can't tell him?' My voice was too harsh. ‘If he is half mad, as you say, he will use it and the Carmichaels will suffer.'

‘Of course I must tell him,' he said, taking a sideways glance at me from his driving, his face suddenly serious. ‘This is exactly what he is looking for. Arthurites colluding to hide a death they have caused? Walker falsely accused? Imagine the outcry!'

‘But what about Dinah and the children?' I was too hot, breathless. ‘How would they survive if Seth was sent back to prison like Walker?'

‘They will be safer if everything is out in the open.'

‘How can you say so? The Arthurites will take revenge on the Carmichaels and escape punishment themselves. Montagu and Forster are not directly involved. They will plead ignorance, twist the story . . .'

Bergman spoke impatiently. ‘They are accessories to murder! Or manslaughter at least.'

‘But Dinah, trying to survive in that hut . . .'

He looked at me sideways again. ‘You dislike the bush yourself, and therefore assume everyone feels the same. Sal and Dinah may be freer than you.'

I kept my voice as calm as I could manage. ‘What do you mean?'

‘They are working for themselves, on their own property. In England they must have worked for someone else all their lives. But England is always best with you.'

I had been hot already, now I was burning. I felt perspiration soaking my hair under my bonnet, trickling down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades. I knew I was red-faced, damp and ugly with heat.

‘Are you suggesting I should lie to Wallace?' he asked.

‘You could tell him about George Fairfax's death, about the other Fairfax. Not mention the girl.'

‘But the death of the girl is the crucial point!' I could feel his growing exasperation.

‘It's only hearsay! Unless the grave is exhumed to find the two bodies—and the Arthurites would never let that happen. The Fairfaxes must be found and induced to speak out, and then the Carmichaels will not need to. And we will know once and for all whether Fairfax is Rowland . . .'

‘If the Fairfaxes haven't spoken before, why would they now?' he said. ‘The Arthurites bought the Carmichaels' silence with threats and gifts—they probably used the same means on the Fairfaxes . . . You speak of doing harm, but what about the harm you will do to Rowland Rochester and his family if he has a bigamous second wife and a child?'

‘Rowland counts for more than Dinah and the children?'

‘No! But Dinah, Sal and the children have more connection with the real evils the Arthurites have done in this colony. Grabbing land for wealthy absentee landlords in England, nepotism, a greedy disregard for every interest but their own. Wallace is right; they must be stopped or they'll continue. Will you wait for others to fall victim?'

We jogged along in steaming irritable silence until he said, ‘You say, “find the Fairfaxes”—but by now they could be anywhere. Sydney,
England, New Zealand, the Indies. In any case, Rowland Rochester is
not the point
. Can you not see beyond the personal? There are larger issues at stake.'

Everything was over. I was lectured like a child.

‘Perhaps,' I said bitterly, ‘it's because when men begin to talk about the larger view, it often seems to involve some loss or injury for women and children.'

What I now furiously, incoherently felt, was that I was powerless to save Dinah and her family, and so were he and St John. We could do nothing—only stumble along behind the Arthurites on the dark path their greed and secrecy had carved. They would destroy whomever they pleased, by accident or choice, to save themselves.

While I struggled to find words for this, he said in a hard voice, ‘Well, the whole matter has very little to do with me . . .' he grimaced, made a dismissive gesture as he brushed a fly away from his face. ‘Against my better judgement, I'll say nothing at present to St John about the girl's death. But when he is more recovered . . .'

‘I shall leave the island soon,' I said. ‘When I'm gone you can do as you like.'

We were only a silent, angry, suffering mile now from Forcett, an immeasurable gulf between us. Thunder rumbled behind the hills, roiling masses of purple-grey cloud spread across the sky, but the rain would not fall. We clattered back into the poultry yard and Yankey Tom helped me down. Bergman raised his hat, gave his attention to helping unhitch the cart, and rode away without a backward look. I spent the hot night tossing on the little cot, mulling over the painful mess of it all. The storm broke in the early hours of the morning. It brought rain and coolness and I wearily slept.

I did not see him next morning. It being a market day in Sorell, I travelled back with Yankey Tom and one of the Miss Driscolls, in a cart full of poultry dead and alive, and a strong, sickly odour of blood and feathers.

After my return to ‘Kenton' I remained full of disgust and fury—with myself, Bergman, the island, and the whole Rowland matter. I vowed to wait no longer for Anna and Quigley; I would book my passage home as soon as I reached Hobart again; shake the dust of this quarrelsome, brutal little colony off my feet. But Mr Gregson, visiting ‘Kenton', urged me again to paint views of his house, and I allowed myself to be persuaded. I went to ‘Risdon' in late February, directly from the Chesneys by the back road over Grasstree Hill, sending a note of my whereabouts to the Post Office in Hobart.

The Gregsons' household was like the Chesneys' in being large and sociable, but elegant beyond compare, its setting an earthly paradise at the edge of the Derwent. Verdant gardens and orchards spread along the river and native bushland clothed the hill behind. Mrs Gregson and her two grown-up, unmarried daughters welcomed me kindly. Another daughter was married and expecting a child; their son had just sailed for England to study the law. Feeling empty on this account, the Gregsons had filled the house with six or seven guests.

Everything here was serenely well ordered and the scents of late summer filled the calm, light rooms. The company was cultivated and elegant but without formality. I was free to wander all day, drawing and painting. When I finished Mr Gregson's commission, he and his wife encouraged me to stay on to add to the portfolio of works I could sell in England. In the atmosphere of kindness there, I began to think I'd be a fool to hurry into leaving on account of a fit of bad temper with the island and Bergman.

The trial of Walker's six fellow-absconders was set for the first week of March, and Gregson went up to town to attend. He was due home on the Thursday, but a note came from him to say the trial was delayed, and it was not until late on the Friday evening after the family had dined that he came in, with Booth, who looked tired, but was full of good humour, as always.

‘No, my dear, we have not eaten,' Gregson answered his wife, ‘we are indeed famished. We waited in town for the evening edition of the
Courier
—and might as well have saved ourselves the trouble—since
they are no wiser than we, it appears. Will you sit again with us, my dear, while we eat? Harriet, will you take a glass of wine while we tell our news?

‘The hearing, as you know, was set down for Tuesday before both judges, Pedder and Montagu, but it was adjourned until the following day on account of the “absence of a material witness”. That was Booth here, of course, delayed in coming up to town.'

‘The
Isabella
came down,' said Booth, ‘but she struck an obstacle in the water just before Wedge Bay . . .'

‘On Wednesday the trial was adjourned again until Thursday,' continued Gregson, ‘by which time,' he turned to me, ‘your friend St John Wallace was in a pitiable state of agitation. The man is a mass of sensibility.'

‘It was unfortunate,' added Booth. ‘When we came to the courthouse on Thursday morning we discovered four men had been hanged an hour earlier and a great crowd was there to see it. I thought Wallace would collapse, but he didn't say a word.'

‘. . . though to look at his face,' Gregson said, ‘you'd have thought he'd seen the Gorgon's head. And when the trial at last began, we expected days of evidence and debate—both their Honours being garrulous gentlemen. But what did we get? Nothing! All over and done in great haste. The charge was read, “absconding from Port Arthur”—no mention of other crimes—and a guilty plea recorded. And then the sentence! “To be severally transported for life.” There was great astonishment in the court, as you may imagine, both at the sentence and the manner of it. It was commonly believed they'd hang.'

‘Transportation means hard labour on a chain gang, as you know,' said Booth, ‘or return to Port Arthur. Wallace is determined to negotiate for Port Arthur so they will come under my care again.'

‘Who will decide?'

‘John Price, or Spode, or both in consultation. If it's Price it's hopeless, I'd say.'

One of the newspapers had recently claimed Price had been seen in disguise in one of the lowest pothouses in town, trying to entrap an unwary sinner.

‘I've seen many an odd business here,' continued Gregson, ‘but this is one of the oddest—and we haven't yet come to the most curious thing. Look there in the newspaper. Do you see the names of the men? John Jones, Nicholas Head Lewis, George Moss, James Wolf and James County. No mention of Jack Thomas, the one they call Dido. He did not appear. Where is he? Wallace hopes it means they've accepted his plea that Dido should be charged separately because he is somewhat simple-minded—but nothing was said. Now there will be another wait I suppose, to see what happens next. Oh, bye the bye, I called at the Post Office, Harriet, and have letters for you.'

The first was from Sophy.

The other letter was a reply from Padgett & Marshall, The Universal Shipping Company, 23 George Street, Sydney, in answer to my questions about Quigley's ship:

Had they changed to another ship? Been delayed there for repairs? Where were they now?