‘Alice, whatever is the matter?’
My mother comes into my room and sits down beside me on the bed. She puts her arms around me and draws me close.
Her presence is comforting, but I cannot speak. My tears fall faster, although I no longer know if I am mourning my own loss or weeping over the desperate plight of the convicts, made so blindingly clear to me this afternoon.
‘You miss your music, and your friends in Hobart Town?’ my mother says.
I nod. I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and give my nose a loud and unladylike blow.
‘Perhaps we might find some musicians here with whom you can play? You know we are to attend a soiree on Saturday night?’
I dare not get my hopes up and so I say nothing. I am convinced that I shall never find a company of musicians such as I enjoyed in Hobart Town.
My mother gives me a comforting pat. ‘We have to make the best of our time here,’ she says. ‘Your father is on a mission, and there is so much to do that I fear we may be here for several years yet.’
My heart sinks further. My tears begin anew.
‘Let us wait and see who provides the music at the soiree.’ My mother’s voice is bright, encouraging. ‘It might be possible for you to join a group here, as you did in Van Diemen’s Land.’
Her enthusiasm is infectious. I nod, feeling a small spark of desperate hope ignite in my heart. Conscious of my mother’s concern, I attempt a watery smile.
‘That’s better.’ My mother stands. ‘Now, dry your tears, bathe your face in cold water and look forward to all that tomorrow will bring. I thought we might take a drive in the morning. Some fresh air and good company will lift our spirits. We shall call on Mrs Robertson and her daughters over at Longridge.’
I am surprised, but try not to show it. There was some scandal attached to Gilbert Robertson while they lived in Van Diemen’s Land and as a result we did not socialise with his family. I had not thought anything of it at the time, being busy with my own life and my own friends, but it seems that living here on the island, in isolation, alters the situation.
Evidently my mother thinks so too, for she says briskly, ‘Gilbert Robertson holds a responsible position here as superintendent of agriculture at Longridge. As the commandant’s wife, it behoves me to treat his family with respect. So there will be no reference to the unfortunate incident in Hobart Town, do you understand me, Alice? It is best, I think, to pretend it never happened.’
‘Yes, Mama. Of course.’ What unfortunate incident? Perhaps the Robertson girls will enlighten me. I am looking forward to meeting them.
Thursday
We set out for Longridge in our carriage, accompanied by an armed guard and a convict driver. The agricultural station is something over a mile from the Settlement, a steep drive inland through folding hills. As we come closer, I notice a large flock of sheep grazing peacefully on lush green grass under the watchful gaze of a shepherd. He is alone but is obviously a convict judging by the loose grey shirt he wears. Other convicts are visible in the fields, some laboriously tilling the dark earth with hoes and spades, others planting the maize that makes up the bulk of the convicts’ diet.
The walls of the prison barracks rise beyond a scatter of barns and sheds to our left. On our right, the house of the superintendent is set within a wide sea of green garden beds, where convicts are hard at work tending the rows of burgeoning vegetables that will augment the diets of the officers, their families and other civilians in our community. The men raise their straw hats and bob their heads as we drive by. I note that they look more robust and far more cheerful than the poor wretches who work down in the Settlement.
We are warmly welcomed by Mrs Robertson, and if there is any awkwardness between her and my mother, it is soon smoothed over. She introduces us to her daughters, although we already know each other by sight. The eldest is Elizabeth, whom I surmise to be about four and twenty, some six years older than I. She has three sisters: Meg, Aggie and Ann. Their brother, George, is the youngest. He is some years older than William, which is a pity for I am sure my little brother would welcome a playmate. It is probably as well we have left him behind with Billy, one of the convict servants who look after us.
Tea is brought in by a young man; an older convict carefully sets down a tray of dainty sandwiches and little cakes. I wonder how they can bear to see this food when their own diet is so poor. And yet they look well-fed and seem reasonably content.
It is not long before my mother and Mrs Robertson are huddled together swapping confidences. I notice that there is fresh colour in my mother’s cheeks and a new brightness in her eyes. It seems I am not the only one who finds our confinement oppressive.
After tea, the younger girls whisk Susannah off to inspect their gowns and plan what to wear at the soiree. ‘For there will be lots of officers in attendance,’ says Meg.
Being not in the least interested, I stay seated.
‘It’s far too nice a day to stay inside. Would you like me to show you around Longridge?’ Elizabeth offers.
‘Yes, indeed.’
I am glad to have the freedom to walk outdoors in apparent safety without an escort. I am also curious to question Elizabeth about the convicts under her father’s care now that I am aware of the difference between them and the cowed, emaciated men down at the Settlement.
‘Over the road are the barns and other storehouses, along with the prison, the bakehouse, the officers’ quarters and so on,’ Elizabeth tells me as we start walking. ‘The officers’ gardens are next in line, and the overseers’ huts. Behind are the gardens of the prisoners — but I don’t know how much longer they will be allowed to keep them.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
Elizabeth shrugs. ‘Your father does not approve.’
I remember the conversation I overheard, and am filled with dismay.
‘It is a pity,’ Elizabeth continues. ‘The convicts benefit from an addition of vegetables to their diet, while the work itself calms them and gives them a sense of purpose.’
I agree, but it seems disloyal to say so and I remain silent as we walk on.
‘They were also allowed to grow a little tobacco to put in their pipes, but your father has denied them even that small pleasure.’ She indicates the wide sweep of green I had noticed before. ‘The government gardens are on this side of the road. Would you like to visit the stockyard and stables?’
Without waiting for a reply, Elizabeth turns to walk back the way we came. I am conscious of the smell from the pig yard before we cut down the side of the house. A horse pokes its head out as we approach its stall, and I cautiously rub its nose.
‘It all seems very peaceful here,’ I say.
‘Yes, indeed. My father still follows Captain Maconochie’s system, insofar as he is allowed.’ Elizabeth’s tone is somewhat tart.
‘What exactly do you mean by Maconochie’s system?’ I am curious to know what she thinks of the man my father was sent to replace.
‘He was here before your father. I expect you know that?’
‘I have heard about him, yes.’ Mostly to his detriment, but I do not say that to Elizabeth.
‘Maconochie believed that cruelty brutalises and debases men, whereas giving them hope leads to rehabilitation and redemption. His aim was to give them the ways and means to attain salvation and regain their self-respect.’
‘How? What did he do?’
‘He established a school for convicts to learn trades that would sustain them when once they were free to find work. He was also concerned for their souls so he built the two chapels down at the Settlement, one for Catholics and one for Protestants and Anglicans. Even Jewish prisoners were given space to worship.’
Elizabeth pauses, perhaps to gauge my reaction, but I remain silent. In spite of my father’s condemnation of Maconochie’s methods, I am impressed by what she is telling me.
‘To give the convicts hope that they might eventually leave this Ocean Hell, as they call it, Maconochie d
evised a system based on marks or merit points awarded for things such as hard work, taking on extra tasks or being helpful — for good behaviour, in other words. If the convicts did wrong, they weren’t flogged but lost points and privileges instead.’
I nod. What she is telling me makes sense of the complaints I overheard.
‘Later, the men were encouraged to work in groups of six. If one man earned points, they all did; likewise if a man lost points, so did they all. It meant that each convict took responsibility for his companions’ actions and good conduct as well as his own,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘It taught them to be responsible, to think of others as well as themselves, you see. And the marks they earned went towards a remission of their sentences, so their good conduct was ultimately in their own best interests.’
‘It sounds like an excellent way to treat convicts.’ I believe what I am saying, but I feel like a traitor to my family admitting it.
‘I think so too.’ Elizabeth produces a couple of lumps of sugar that she must have taken from the tea tray and holds them out in her open palm. The horse eagerly snuffles them up, and she scratches its ears. ‘Maconochie brought a group of prisoners from England with him — the “new hands” they were called. They were the subject of his experiment. They were housed here, at Longridge, and also at Cascade. But he quickly discovered that it was impossible not to involve the old hands down at the Settlement as well, and so he did. And that was his downfall.’
‘What do you mean?’
Elizabeth’s expression reveals a mix of annoyance and amusement. ‘We celebrated Queen Victoria’s birthday shortly after Maconochie arrived; that was the start of it. As a mark of faith, he allowed the men to roam free all day and provided a concert and plays and a display of fireworks for their entertainment. He gave them extra rations of pork and wheaten bread, and, worse, each man was allowed a tot of rum to drink our Queen’s health.’
I stare at Elizabeth, mouth open in amazement.
She laughs. ‘The drink was well diluted with water and lemon juice, and some sugar to sweeten it. It was a token, no more. But from the row it caused among the authorities in New South Wales when they heard about it, you would have thought he had led all the men down the rocky road to depravity and perdition. In reality, the day was quite peaceful and every convict returned to his barracks in time for lockup. The same thing happened here at Longridge. Once the celebrations finished down at the Settlement, the men came up here to provide us with the same entertainment. It really was a most enjoyable day. And it did wonders for the men’s morale.’
In the silence that follows Elizabeth’s description, I suspect we are both thinking the same thing: never in a thousand years would my father permit such leniency.
‘How do you like living on the island?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject.
‘I like Longridge well enough. But I hate visiting the Settlement now that …’
Elizabeth stops, but I can fill in the gap easily enough. Now that your father has taken over.
‘I really miss my sister, Fanny,’ she says, hurrying to fill the awkward moment. ‘We have always been close, but she is married now and still living in Hobart Town. I write to her constantly, but her letters come so infrequently it is not the same as having her here with us. Sometimes I despair of ever seeing her again.’
‘Surely you will. Being on the island isn’t a life sentence for us as it is for the convicts!’ I am trying to cheer myself as well as Elizabeth.
She makes no comment, instead picking up her skirt to avoid the mud and puddles as she walks on to the next stall. I steal a glance at her, noticing for the first time how pale and thin she is, and how drawn her face. I am worried that her remark reflects a concern about her health, but I do not like to ask. Nor may I ask if she is glad to have escaped the gossiping tongues in Van Diemen’s Land, not after my mother’s warning. It seems to me that our conversation is hedged around with things we cannot say to each other, and so we are forced to stick to banal pleasantries.
‘My father has done wonders to increase production since he came to Longridge.’ Elizabeth’s tone is deliberately cheerful as she produces more sugar for the next stall’s occupant. ‘The convicts work well for him and the crops are flourishing, although the yield has decreased since your father forbade the use of the plough.’
‘But why? Surely a plough would be quicker and more effective?’
‘Your father won’t allow it. After the mutiny he forbade the use of any agricultural machinery, or axes or knives — anything that might be used as a weapon.’
We are back to something we cannot discuss. I begin to despair of this conversation.
Perhaps Elizabeth does too. She gives the second horse a final pat and picks up her long skirts once more. ‘The day is unseasonally warm. Let me show you our garden. It really is delightful at this time of year.’
She leads me back towards the house and around to the garden at the front. She has not exaggerated its charms: it is bedecked in all the colours of early spring. Myriad flowers have opened their petals to the sun, their sweet nectar plundered by bees that flicker and shimmer in the sunlight. At the centre of the garden is a small summerhouse covered over with a passionfruit vine. Elizabeth leads me up the steps onto the verandah, where we find two seats in the shade. An uncomfortable silence settles between us. Before I can think of a safe topic, Elizabeth speaks first.
‘Are you looking forward to the soiree on Saturday night?’
‘Indeed I am!’ It occurs to me that Elizabeth might know the answer to my question. ‘I love to play the violin and I am looking forward to meeting the musicians. Do you think I may be able to persuade them to invite me to make music with them, as I used to do with a small group in Hobart Town?’
Elizabeth gives a wry smile. ‘There is no-one with any musical ability to speak of other than the convicts. It is a convict band of musicians you will hear at the soiree, but there are a couple of gifted players among them.’
‘Oh.’ All my expectations are expelled in that single breath.
‘You will enjoy the music,’ Elizabeth says, ‘but you should know that these occasions are really an excuse for us young ladies to dress up and parade ourselves in front of the officers and free settlers.’
In spite of my disappointment, I can’t help laughing at her observation.
‘But you have probably already worked that out for yourself, given my sisters’ obsession with what gowns they plan to wear.’ Elizabeth surveys me with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘I hear you have already made a conquest. Apparently, Lieutenant Cartwright is quite smitten with you.’
‘I hardly know him, I have only met him a couple of times!’ A vision of a tall man with blue eyes and black hair dances into my mind and I hastily dismiss it. In its place I summon a picture of Jack Cartwright. Stocky. Sandy hair. A cheerful demeanour. But nothing outstanding.
‘… you will find that relationships blossom quickly on the island.’ Elizabeth is still talking and I concentrate on her words.
‘Jack seems a good sort, Alice. I have no doubt he will dance attendance on you at the soiree.’
I would far rather see the convict than Jack, but I cannot say so. Instead, I summon a smile for my new friend and, together, we leave the garden and go in search of our sisters.
Saturday
The room is already crowded when we arrive at the officers’ mess. Although my hopes have been dashed, I look about for the musicians who will be entertaining us. A sole violin begins to play, and I stand still and close my eyes. The clear notes sing to my heart. I recognise the music: it is the Chaconne, the last movement of Bach’s Partita in D minor; too difficult for me, although I have tried and tried to learn the notes.
Susannah’s sharp elbow in my ribs jerks me back to our surroundings, and I follow her as she pushes her way towards some empty seats. Once seated, I have an uninterrupted view of the violinist. His head is bent in fierce concentration over his instrument, but even so I would have k
nown him anywhere. I draw a ragged breath and grip my hands together to contain my excitement.
The mud and grime have been washed away. His hair is tied in the same tidy tail and he is wearing a clean grey shirt and trousers. He looks older than I first thought: in his mid to late twenties perhaps. Beside him is his brother, Padraic. He holds a hornpipe but is not playing it, obviously waiting for his brother to finish. The Chaconne draws to its solemn and stirring close, and everyone except me claps. I am too stunned to move, but I marvel at the convict’s talent.
Now he starts on a merry jig, and Padraic joins in with his reedy pipe; a jolly tune that speaks of the sea and freedom. As he plays, the violinist raises his head and looks straight at me. Has he recognised me? I blush.
I sneak another glance at him, noticing how deftly he fingers the strings and how sweetly the violin responds to his touch. He is a far better musician than my tutor in Van Diemen’s Land. There is so much I could learn from him, if only he could teach me.
Reluctantly, I cast that idea aside, recognising its futility. My father will never allow me to take lessons from a convict on an island that houses only the most desperate and depraved. And yet, watching the Irishman making music, I find it impossible to believe ill of him. Perhaps he has been unfairly condemned? I am convinced that, whatever his conviction records, his crime must be a trivial one if crime it was at all.
He is playing a solo again, something I have never heard before: wild gypsy music that swoops and soars, carrying me to a crescendo of emotion. Excitement zings through my blood like lightning. I am filled with elation, with the sudden sense that anything and everything is possible.
All too soon the tune comes to an end. As he bows the last notes, the Irishman looks at me again. Our eyes meet and I silently try to convey my appreciation, my gratitude for this gift, but his gaze has already moved on. I understand the danger and tear my attention away from him with difficulty.
A Ring Through Time Page 7
