Wild Island (48 page)

When Nellie Jack and I at last returned to the cottage at the beginning of April, there was a parcel waiting for me. A manservant had brought it to the door weeks ago, Ada Sweet said. She had not sent it on because she thought I would return before this. It was the painting by Madame Vallayer-Coster that I'd seen at Duterrau's studio, and a letter from Gus Bergman dated in February, a week after our meeting with the Carmichaels.

I shed tears then, at the same time laughing with pleasure at such a perfect, clever gift. He must have known that every time I looked at it I would think of him—which made me hope that he was not so entirely indifferent to me as he had seemed at our last meeting. But the parcel had lain here so many weeks! It would seem I had not troubled to reply! I had removed my bonnet and gloves, but now I put them on again hastily, and wiping my eyes and calling to Nellie that I was going for a walk, I set off to Bergman's cottage. I would knock and ask for him, or at least explain to his servant Durrell that
I had only just returned. But the place had a closed, empty look. A woman sweeping the path next door said Mr Bergman was away. He had taken Durrell with him. She was to air and dust the place each week. They would return in late autumn.

I returned to the cottage, shrugged off my outdoor wear, sat down, and throwing caution to the winds, wrote Gus a letter. I poured into it the burden of what I had thought and felt since his proposal. I said that if it were possible he still felt the same, my answer must be different now.

Before I could change my mind I sealed it and took it round again to Bergman's cottage. After knocking on two doors I found the woman who was to air the house and gave her a coin to put the letter in a place where Mr Bergman might find it the moment he returned.

On my first visit to the Franklins again, Sophy took me by the arm as we went in to tea, and with a look of eye-rolling significance drew me across the room to meet Mr Gell—who was indeed, as she had said in her letter, a pale, underdone-looking youth of imperturbable composure. I said I hoped his voyage out had been tolerable, and received in return a brief sermon on Duty—but not brief
enough
, as I said to Sophy later. She listened to him with the satisfaction of a ringmaster showing off a performing seal. Jane Franklin came over and teased Gell for his erudition. He, clearly knowing himself a favourite with her, replied with easy confidence. Eleanor hung beside them, cow-eyed and prickly with jealousy.

24

‘
SO FORSTER HAS GOT HIS HARPOON INTO ME
,'
BOOTH THOUGHT
, ‘and now he will never let it out.'

Forster sat opposite him at the table in the small meeting room at Government House—no informal breakfast session now—explaining there was to be yet another enquiry into escapes from Port Arthur.

‘. . . deplorable affair of Walker and the whale boat last year. It should not have been possible in my opinion . . . was never properly explained. And another escape this summer. We must account to London.'

Sir John sat at the head of the table saying little. Forster was doing all the talking. Josiah Spode, Chief Superintendent of Convicts, sat next to John Price, who looked . . . pleased with himself, Booth thought. Smug. On Price's other side sat a man who had no right to be there, a former convict, Stringer Wynn. While he was at Port Arthur he'd been known as Tickler Wynn, or ‘Stinger' or ‘the Butcher', because of his former role as flagellator at Sarah Island. He was Constable Wynn now, some sort of bullyboy handmaiden of Price's. Outside the window a breeze shook white blossom from a bright, tossing tree. The sky was forget-me-not blue. Booth would have liked to be striding along a beach, singing. A junior clerk wrote rapidly in shorthand.

Forster continued. ‘We must determine why escapes have become more frequent.'

‘With respect, sir,' said Booth. He spoke rapidly because he knew Forster would soon stop him. ‘I have addressed that question in several reports. There is no mystery about it, as I have tried to explain. We are receiving new prisoners at an impossible rate, which has created severe difficulties in accommodation and provisioning. Newcomers must be put to building work or cultivation in ever-enlarging gangs with too few experienced overseers.

‘At the same time, as a result of the first two enquiries, I am required to punish even the smallest misdemeanours.' His sittings as magistrate took up far too much time now. ‘Prisoners under such strict rule become all the more eager to escape. The mood is infectious, and greatly increased by the agitation of continual newcomers. I have also been ordered to reduce those little rewards and incentives—extra rations and so forth—which to my mind are essential to keeping a well-ordered . . .'

Forster raised his hand in a brusque gesture, giving Booth a hostile look—or perhaps it was just his ruined face or the pain of his gout. He had been ill again.

‘Am I to understand, Captain, that in your view, attempts to escape can best be reduced by ceasing to punish offenders? You argue that we are to provide them with inducements to remain in prison?'

John Price snorted.

‘Sir . . .' said Booth.

‘Write down your opinions, Captain. The new enquiry will consider them,' Forster said, his bulging eyes magnified by the lorgnette.

‘Sir . . .' Booth began again, but Forster glared, did not stop.

‘With sufficient vigilance, escape is impossible. That is my opinion, as I have made abundantly clear. But this is not the time for discussion. The enquiry . . .'

Booth turned to Sir John.

‘Your Excellency, again I must protest. Mr Forster has raised the matter of the Walker escape. It is the talk of the town that the penalties
meted out to Walker's men were hardly such as to deter others. Their trials were long-delayed and Walker's death has been a matter of public comment. All this, and yet I am instructed to allot twenty-five lashes for the merest . . .'

Booth clasped his hands over his papers, did not want them to shake in case it looked like fear or weakness rather than the fury it was. Forster's face was purple. He slammed his fist down on the table.

‘Mr Forster?' said Sir John uncomfortably. ‘Do you wish to . . . ?'

‘We are not met to hear your opinions, Booth!' shouted Forster. ‘You will be silent or quit the room, sir. We are here to advise you of the new enquiry and to remind you of your obligations—as it appears you need reminding. And . . .' he paused briefly, ‘to acquaint you with the news that under orders received from London, the assignment of male prisoners ceases from today. Henceforth, all male prisoners will be confined in Probation Stations. You have submitted sites for these, Captain, and have known it was in prospect. The stations must now be built with all speed.

‘Transportation to New South Wales will cease before the end of the year, and Van Diemen's Land will receive an increased number of felons. You are required to provide immediately a detailed scheme for the disposition and employment of prisoners of various classes.

‘We must have, I insist on—all speed, without delay.'

‘Delay!' Booth fumed to Lizzie back at the peninsula the following night. ‘They ask the impossible. We are building as fast as we can go—have been for years—and now we are to go faster! And to compound everything, England sends no instructions as to how the new system is to be managed! Merely, “Cease assignment. Begin probation.” And Forster, well aware of the difficulties, simply repeats the order to me. When I pressed for details he could not avoid admitting—or rather it was Sir John who said—that there are no details. The Colonial Office in London protects itself by specifying as little as possible. If they wish to criticise later or change their minds, they will say it was not ordered to be done in that way!'

He paced. Lizzie spooned yellow mush into little Amelia, nestled on her lap and in the crook of her arm. Amy's round brown eyes followed him. She did not look at the approaching spoon, but at him, and yet as the spoon came near, her mouth opened in a little circle, closed on it, mumbled and pursed gently.

‘What does Sir John say?'

‘He is in difficulties too. Before Montagu went to England it was agreed that he should try to persuade London to retain the assignment system, but if they would not, he should at least argue that the new Probation Stations must be widely spread around the island. We were all in accord—the outskirts of the small inland townships would be best: Bothwell, Ouse, Kempton, Jericho . . .

‘Prisoners could maintain local roads, bridges, public buildings. They'd have access to existing Churches and chaplains, and at least some small contact with civilians. But all that is gone overboard. Boyes says that when Montagu reached England he found the tide of opinion against him and changed sides without a murmur. “At Mr Montagu's recommendation”, we now hear, all Probation Stations are to be on the peninsula, away from settled areas. Disastrous in every way!

‘No provision for chaplains. The Archdeacon, Wallace, Lillie, the Wesleyans—they're all furious. They say it's a sign that ideas of Christian reform have vanished. From now on it will be punishment only. The irony of it! The Molesworth Committee ends by bringing about a harsher system than the one they decried—and poor Maconochie becomes known as the instigator of a method he never intended. But the crowning insult is that Sir John hears none of this directly from Montagu. Everything is sent to Forster, who doles out scraps to the Governor.'

Tonight Lizzie was sympathetic. Sometimes she was bored and impatient when he spoke of such things. He knew she wondered if he was partly at fault. He should somehow be able to manage it all better. She wanted him to put in a request to leave the peninsula; he was more than willing now. And it was not only these new irritations; sometimes lately, when he looked at little Melly, his work struck him
as strange; a life spent imprisoning other men. Even a few years ago he had believed he was on the side of the angels, working for the general good, but he no longer had that confidence. Perhaps it was the stupidities required of him as a magistrate, or a greater recognition of his own failings, but he no longer felt easy with judging others. It had to be done, of course; but he did not want to be the one to do it. Walker's death and the escape had contributed to his dissatisfaction, too.

Why, Lizzie asked again, couldn't Booth be transferred to the Richmond gaol? Her sister and brother-in-law were settled outside Richmond. Booth explained again that the places there were filled. And he knew it suited Forster to keep him here. Getting the work done, a useful scapegoat for whatever objections turned up later from Home.

Some nights now he was visited by a dream in which he lay flat on his back on hard ground, tied down, pegged out and anchored with guy-ropes, like an illustration from
Gulliver's Travels
, which he had loved as a boy. Only it was not the tiny people of Lilliput who swarmed disgustingly over him, but heavy-bellied, rat-like creatures, dragging a dark slime, weighing on his chest until he could not breathe. In these dreams he struggled to rise, to accomplish something desperately urgent, though he could never remember what it was, only that some horror would ensue if it were not done. But he could never get free, and woke in a fever, sweating and gasping.