Storeship Gorgon from England, which had been expected in New South Wales for months, had not arrived. Nor had any other ship save Supply on the 19th of November last from Batavia with a piddling amount of flour and a great deal of everybody’s least favorite food, rice. The chartered vessel Waaksamheid had followed in her wake from Batavia to reach Port Jackson on the 17th of December, loaded with tons more rice, plus tea, sugar and Dutch gin for the officers; the salt meat she carried proved to be a putrid mess of mostly bones.
According to Lieutenant Harry Ball of Supply, His Excellency was going to hire Waaksamheid to carry Captain Hunter and the crew of Sirius to England. In a hurry to get back to Port Jackson, Supply sailed on the 11th of February. Among those who went on her but intended to return as settlers were the three Sirius men who had helped guard and run Major Ross’s distillery, now closed, the contents of its kegs nicely maturing in a secret place. John Drummond had fallen in love with Ann Read off Lady Penrhyn. She was living with Neddy Perrott; though Drummond understood that he could not have her, he could not bear to sail to England either. William Mitchell had taken up with Susannah Hunt off Lady Juliana and they planned to stay in this part of the world. Peter Hibbs was caught in the toils of another girl off Lady Juliana, Mary Pardoe, who had been a sailor’s “wife” and borne a little girl toward the end of the voyage, whereupon the wretch had abandoned her, left her to be transferred to Norfolk Island.
On the 15th of April Supply was back again. Her first cargo ashore was a detachment of the New South Wales Corps, specially commissioned in London to police the great experiment and free up the marines to go home, though any marine on finishing his three-year term was at liberty to join the New South Wales Corps rather than go home. Captain William Hill, Lieutenant Abbott, Ensign Prentice and 21 soldiers were to replace the same number of marines, save that four marine officers were to leave: three were intentional, the fourth an evil necessity. Captain George Johnston was taking his convict mistress Esther Abrahams and their son, George, to Port Jackson; the affable Lieutenant Cresswell, discoverer of pineless Charlotte Field, went as he had come, alone; Lieutenant Kellow, so odious to his fellow officers, departed with his convict mistress Catherine Hart and her two sons, the younger belonging to him; and Lieutenant John Johnstone was carried on board Supply desperately ill. Of the old brigade, only Major Ross, First Lieutenant Clark and Second Lieutenant Faddy were left. And Second Lieutenant Little John Ross, of course.
Ominously, Supply brought two more surgeons: Thomas Jamison, after a vacation in Port Jackson; and James Callam off Sirius. As D’arcy Wentworth and Denis Considen were already on the island, that brought the medical complement up to four—four to treat a population reduced by over 70 persons?
“This tells me,” said Major Ross grimly to Richard Morgan, “that as soon as more convict transports arrive from England, we are to receive many of their tenants. His Excellency has also given me to understand that he intends to ship some of his multiple offenders here. In Port Jackson, he says, they escape to kill the natives, plunder the outlying settlements, and rape women left alone. In this much smaller place he feels they will be easier to control. I must therefore build a stouter gaol than the old guardhouse, and I will have to start it now—no one knows when the next transports will arrive, only that they will arrive. It seems London cares more to be rid of England’s felons than London cares whether or not they will survive here. So keep sawing, Morgan, as hard and fast as ye can, and do not even think of such whimsies as closing down a pit.”
“How seem the men of the New South Wales Corps?” Richard asked.
“I see little difference between their enlisted men and my own—a rascally lot who by accident escaped the attention of the English courts. The officers are a cut above them, but I am not inspired to rave about their efficiency. What I would not give for a decent surveyor! Here I am to allocate sixty-acre grants to Sirius men like Drummond and Hibbs as well as some of my own time-expired marines, yet I have no surveyor. Bradley was pathetic, Altree even worse.” His eyes gleamed. “I do not suppose, Morgan, that amongst your many hidden talents is surveying?”
Richard laughed. “Nay, sir, nay!”
The yield of Indian corn from Charlotte Field had been huge; dozens of convict women were put to husking and scraping the grain off thousands upon thousands of cobs, and the wheat harvest had also come in much bigger than the blighting winds and gnawing grubs had promised. But Port Jackson was back on two-thirds rations, which meant that Norfolk Island was ordered to follow suit. Luckily when she sailed on the 9th of May, Supply had been so laden with departing people that she had no room for a cargo of grain. What Norfolk Island had, it would keep—for the time being, at any rate. A commodious house of young pine logs had been built at Charlotte Field for D’arcy Wentworth and his family, who were sorely missed in Sydney Town. Though this western village was no longer named Charlotte Field; on Saturday the 30th of April, Major Ross officially announced that it was to be called Queensborough, and that Phillipburgh would become properly possessive as Phillipsburgh.
Sufficient time had elapsed since the arrival of Surprize to enable the 700-odd people of Norfolk Island to get to know each other. The entire island hummed with gossip; Lieutenant Ralph Clark snipped the first two bunches of grapes ever to form in the Antipodes, but the gossip grapevine was much longer and stronger than the real thing, bore bigger fruit. Mrs. Richard Morgan was not averse to disseminating interesting tidbits garnered in the Lieutenant-Governor’s house; Mistress Mary Branham in Lieutenant Ralph Clark’s house also contributed her mite. From highest to lowest, the doings of everyone were examined, speculated upon, and judged. If a convict abandoned his Lady Penrhyn woman in favor of a newer, younger female off Lady Juliana, it was known; if a marine secretly philandered with a convict’s wife, it was known; if private marines Escott, Mee, Bailey and Fishbourn were brewing beer from island barley and Justinian hops, it was known; if Little John Ross was off color, it was known; and everybody knew the identity of the third man who broke into Stores and tried to steal saleable items. Mr. Freeman’s servant John Gault and convict Charles Strong were sentenced to 300 lashes each from the meanest cat: 100 in Sydney Town, then, upon recovery, 100 in Queensborough, then, upon recovery, 100 in Phillipsburgh. Even in the face of this terrible punishment—it would partially cripple them for life—they would not divulge the name of the third man. But everybody knew.
Despite the intermeshing relationships established between those who guarded and those who were guarded, the camps were very much divided when it came to totting up grievances. This meant that when rations were reduced and his enlisted marines looked like mutinying, Major Ross held no fears that the convicts would take advantage of a suddenly perilous situation. Led, as always, by men like Mee, Plyer and Fishbourn, the marines refused to take their rations from the Stores, complaining that their flour supply was already eroded because they had to use some of it to barter for fresh produce from the convicts. The insurrection was short-lived and unsuccessful; Major Ross, confronted, told them that they were a fucken lazy lot of fucken scum for whom he had neither time nor pity. If they wanted to keep the flour ration intact, then they ought to grow their own fresh produce. They had more leisure and more fish than the convicts, so what was stopping them? Ross’s ex-servant Escott and a group of other privates crumbled; the threat of mutiny faded. Shortly afterward, a daily allowance of a good mug of rum was issued again. If nothing else would pacify them, rum would. How could he deprive half his marines of their muskets? Ross asked himself. The answer was that he could not. Therefore keep them sedated and the hell with conscience.
Naturally the departure of Johnny Livingstone was noted. All eyes became riveted upon Stephen Donovan to see who Johnny’s replacement was going to be. Nobody permanent and nobody from among the convicts; since Donovan carried on superintending his gangs in the same cheerfully ruthless way, the final assumption was that Johnny had not mattered much.
Another inter
esting situation was that between Richard Morgan and his house girl, Kitty Clark, who was locked out of that strange man’s bed. Locked out!
“Fitting,” said Mrs. Richard Morgan, whose maiden name was Lock.
Richard was famously friendly with Stephen Donovan, but those who knew him from Ceres and Alexander days swore that he had no Miss Molly leanings; though Will Connelly and Neddy Perrott continued to ostracize him, they could not be brought to admit that he lifted Donovan’s shirt. If anyone peeked furtively through Donovan’s unshuttered windows, all the inquisitive individual saw was the pair of them bent over a chessboard, or sitting companionably side by side at the fire, or eating at the table. Never with Kitty Clark there. She stayed home, guarded by Lawrell and MacTavish.
Stephen had been in a quandary ever since he had seen Kitty blush on Christmas Day of 1790. Eyes opened, he noticed after that how her attention was always fixed upon him, though her attitude to Richard had subtly changed. Before that picnic he had utterly intimidated her—she was a natural mouse, and not a very bright mouse either. Very sweet, very humble, very dull. Had she not owned William Henry’s eyes, Stephen was sure that Richard would have passed her by without a glance. Therefore Richard’s strength, his intelligence and his reticent nature made him appear in her eyes as a God the Father kind of person, immensely old and the fount of all authority. Fear and obey. After the picnic Kitty had definitely lost a little of her terror of him, Stephen presumed because of the gold necklet she never left off—how women adored sparkling gewgaws! Or was it that sparkling gewgaws cost precious money, and were thus an indication of esteem? But it was he, Stephen, who fueled her dreams of love. That was unmistakable. Precisely why he had no idea, though he was used to attracting women. Probably, he thought, I give off emanations of unattainability; women inevitably want what they cannot have. Though it has not occurred to Kitty that Richard is hers for the lifting of a finger, so there must be more to it than that.
What to do for the best? How to channel her feelings away from himself and toward Richard?
Tobias, curled in his lap, got up, stretched, repositioned himself. A weeny marmalade bundle with gigantic paws that promised he would one day be a lion. What a cat Olivia had given him! Brilliantly clever, scheming, tough, stubborn, and irresistibly charming when he wanted to be worshiped and fussed over. The kittens he might have sired! But Stephen, wanting a pet which slept alongside him in his hammock rather than roamed abroad in search of sexual conquests, had castrated him without qualm or regret.
The answer to his quandary had not yet appeared when Supply sailed for Sydney in May. May of 1791 already! Where did the years go? Over four years since he had met Richard Morgan.
Stephen had been put to surveying, since he knew the rudiments of the art; those who had returned on Supply to take up land were anxious to do so, and Major Ross wanted them out of town post-haste. The Sirius seamen would probably last the distance, Stephen thought, but the marines were not so enthusiastic. Men like Elias Bishop and Joseph McCaldren—incorrigible troublemakers in their day—were principally interested in being deeded their land, then selling it. Having gotten what they could out of Norfolk Island, they would then return to Port Jackson and apply for land there, also to sell. They wanted hard money, not hard labor. And in the meantime they lolled around Sydney Town making mischief with those marines not yet due to retire. Poor Major Ross! An enormous kettle of trouble was brewing for him in Port Jackson and England. With backbiters like George Johnston and John Hunter—not to mention that mental-case Bradley—whispering in Governor Phillip’s receptive ear, Ross would see little thanks for his work. Stephen respected him as much as Richard did, and for the same reasons. Faced with a virtually insoluble predicament, Ross had proceeded without fear or favor. Always a dangerous thing to do.
“The trouble is,” Stephen said to Richard over a mess of fried chicken and rice Kitty had flavored splendidly with sage and onion from her garden and pepper from her pestle, “that one has to have a line of sight to survey, and Norfolk Island is a dense forest of trees which all look the same. I can survey wherever there is cleared ground, but a lot of these sixty-acre blocks will not be on cleared ground. I can put Elias Bishop at Queensborough, but Joe McCaldren refuses to go so far out of Sydney Town, and Peter Hibbs and James Proctor want adjoining pieces right in the middle of the island. Danny Stanfield and John Drummond want to be near Phillipsburgh. By the time I am through, I swear I will need to be confined in a strait-waistcoat and chained to a gun in the shade. Supervising the likes of Len Dyer is a holiday compared to this.”
“Is Danny Stanfield coming back, then?”
“Aye. He went off to marry Alice Harmsworth. A good man.”
“The best of all the marines.”
“With Juno Hayes and Jem Redman, aye,” Stephen agreed.
Kitty interrupted. “Is the supper tasty?” she asked anxiously.
“Magnificently so!” Stephen responded, wishing he could snub rather than encourage her, but too fair to do so. “Such a change from eternal Mt. Pitt bird too! I admit they save our salt meat—I admit that the Major’s pessimism about how many future mouths we will be feeding is well founded—but I confess that when I heard the birds had flown in to nest in apparently unreduced numbers, I was near sick to my stomach. However,” he said blandly, “Tobias is very partial to Mt. Pitt bird.”
“Oh, dear! I thought it was forbidden to give them to our pets,” said Kitty, looking frightened. “Please do not get into trouble, Stephen!”
Richard went into God the Father mode. “The wastage of Mt. Pitt birds,” he said ponderously, “is shameful. Stephen has no need to catch any to feed Tobias, Kitty. All he needs is to pick up carcasses strewn along the tracks. The greedy ingrates pillage the poor females of their eggs, then throw the rest away.”
“Oh, yes, quite!” squeaked Kitty, retreating in confusion.
“Richard,” said Stephen after she disappeared through the door with an empty bucket and a flustered explanation that she needed to fetch water from the stream, “sometimes ye’re an absolute looby!”
“Eh?” asked Richard, startled.
“When the poor little creature ventures a remark, ye squash her flat with logic and good sense! She makes us a delicious repast—out of fucken rice, of all things!—yet how d’ye thank her? By donning the snowy vestments of God the Father!”
Mouth open, Richard sat stunned. “God the Father?”
“That is what I call you these days. You know—as in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost? God the Father is the one sits on the throne and dispenses whatever-it-is He deems just reward or punishment, though it seems to me that He is quite as blind as every other judge in or out of Christendom. Kitty is the most harmless of all His creatures—for a man in love, Richard, ye’re as inept as a hobbledehoy! If you want her, why in fucken Hell d’ye not act as if you want her?” Stephen demanded, his exasperation fanned because of his own predicament with her.
Face a study might have made Stephen laugh were the situation different, Richard heard this diatribe through, then said flatly, “I am too old. Ye’re right—she thinks of me as a father, which is not unreasonable. My daughter would be her age.”
Stephen saw an even brighter shade of red. “Then make her think of you otherwise, you fool!” he cried, shaking with rage. “Damn you, Richard, ye’re one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen! There is no flaw—I know, because I have searched for one. I have been in love with you since before I was born and I will be in love with you until long after I die. The fact that I am a Miss Molly and you are not is irrelevant—no one chooses whom to love. It simply happens. Somehow you and I have managed to cope with our different preferences and forge a friendship too strong ever to break. Yes, I know the silly child thinks she is in love with me, so shut your mouth and stop looking noble! Just as well for her that she does fancy herself in love with me. Did she not, she would come to you a complete child—and that no man in his right mind want
s!” He ran down, hiccoughed, looked spent.
“But you said it, Stephen. No one chooses whom to love, it simply happens. And she has chosen you, not me.”
“No, no, you miss the point! Jesus, Richard, where Kitty is concerned ye’re an ass! To her, I am the transition between child and woman—I am her first girlish passion, unrequited because they always are. She is a plum ripe for the picking, man! I saw her walking down the vale to Stores the other day, dangling an empty basket. The wind was blowing straight in her face and plastered her shapeless slops against her—were I a man for women, I would have snatched her away that instant. And do not think that other men did not notice! Apart from her eyes, her face does not have much to recommend it, but in the body she is Venus. Long shapely legs, swelling hips, tiny waist and superb breasts—Venus! If ye do not lay claim to her, Richard, someone else will in spite of his fear that ye’ll tear him in half.”
Stephen got to his feet. “Now I am going home to Tobias before she returns from her errand. Tell her that I remembered some urgent business.” He went to the door. “Ye’re too patient, Richard. ’Tis an admirable virtue, but while the cat crouches for an hour watching the mouse, a hawk may swoop down from the sky and steal it.”
* * *
Kitty shrank into the shadows beneath the unshuttered window, but Stephen Donovan looked neither to left nor to right; he strode off down the path between the vegetables and disappeared into the darkness. The moment he vanished, she crept back to the stream. Why was it not deep enough to drown in? Stephen’s calling Richard an absolute looby had stilled her footsteps, aroused her curiosity; forgetting adages about eavesdroppers, she placed herself beneath the window and listened.
How was that possible? How could Stephen say he was in love with Richard? Mind reeling, she could not get beyond that. Stephen, a man, was in love with—desired—another man. Richard. And he had called her love a girlish passion. He had called her a child. Spoken of her with tender sympathy but no love whatsoever. Could recount the details of her figure with the same sort of remote admiration she felt for Richard. Who, Stephen had said, was in love with her. But Richard was her father’s age! He had said it! She fell to her knees and rocked back and forth, tearless. I want to die, I want to die. . . .
Morgan’s Run Page 66
