Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  Callie was far too busy with the house, Jamie, and the dairy to continue worrying about Natalie when Natalie was both quiet and happy in her own way.

  For Stephen, it was easy to put Natalie out of mind. He was discovering that Peter's end of the business was more involved than he had thought. He found it necessary to be in New York and Albany more often than he expected. The accounts were taskmasters that demanded to be served. Their one advantage over some of the clerical tasks was that tending to them combined easily with pleasure. Stephen was too hon-

  est not to admit that he welcomed a chance to get away from the house, Natalie, and even Callie.

  Stephen had one advantage that Peter hadn't had. He was a bachelor. Often he found prospective clients welcomed him into their homes for purposes other than the sale of hops and grain and brew. While he didn't take it too seriously, he enjoyed meeting a variety of unmarried female cousins, daughters, and sisters. And he thought one day perhaps Callie would notice him, not as a brother, or someone she counted on, but as a man, the way other women did.

  Callie broodingly continued to adjust his cravat for him, and to his dismay had stopped complaining about his late hours or asking where he had been.

  Callie had never felt so ashamed. She had no idea how to control the terrible anger that welled up in her toward Stephen. But she did now admit to its cause. She was miserably, horribly jealous and lonely for him. The thoughts she had of him now brought her nothing but shame. She had pledged herself to wait for Peter, and she watched Stephen working sixteen or more hours every day to try to keep Peter's business flourishing. That she had somehow allowed her feelings for him to continue to develop into something that was never meant to be, she couldn't bear. She thought of Natalie, and of Jamie, and most of all, she thought of Peter. All this she and Stephen had accepted as a part of their lives. At the end of it, she would have Peter, but if she ever dared let Stephen know her feelings, he'd remain faithful to her. She knew he would. And then when it was over, Stephen would be left with nothing. She'd die before she'd do that to him.

  She helped him get ready to go out, and listened as patientlv as she could manage when he talked about the people he met. But she kept seeing him, tall, hand-

  some, and appealing, and in someone else's arms. He'd be with people she reallv knew nothing about and had never met. There were times when she was so overwhelmed with her thoughts, she was sure everyone he ever met was female and reeked of perfume for as often as not Stephen did when he came home. Then, sternly, she would tell herself that is what she wanted. He had to meet someone one day and marry. If Callie felt at a low ebb, Jack was riding the high tide. Naturally reserved, Stephen had never before been so willing to meet people, attend the theater, dances, and gaming houses as he was now. Jack didn't question, though he suspected he knew the cause of Stephen's sudden gregariousness. He lived one glorious day at a time. For the moment he had the best of companions and an endless stream of cold winter nights to warm and fill with all manner of frivolity.

  Callie remained generally resentful of the entire situation. She felt cut off from Stephen and lonely. It seemed to her that her whole life was duties and obligations, when all she wanted was fun and gaiety. At night while Stephen was out and she was upstairs in her room unable to sleep, she often imagined herself dressed in a magnificent gown, walking queenlike beside Stephen as she charmed all his clients and devastated the hopes of the women who had set their caps for him.

  But all Stephen had to do was to ask her to join him, and her conscience betrayed her. She had a basketful of excuses. There were Jamie and Natalie to care for. She had to be up early to tend to the dairy. She succeeded at last in convincing Stephen that she cared less for him than she did for Natalie and Jamie.

  By the end of January, Stephen was tired of seeing her mope about the house, and he was angry. He ordered her to have fun. "I don't give a damn if your

  face cracks like crazed china, you're going to smile and laugh and dance or I'm going to dump you in the bloody river. They still have dunking stools for women, you know!"

  She agreed to attend one of the local Saturday night socials. It was a disaster. Callie couldn't make the two warring halves of herself merge. She could neither relax and have fun with him, nor close off the girl inside her who wanted to shed her responsibilities and dance in the moonlight.

  She behaved as though she were Stephen's sister, constantly at his side, shying away from all young men who showed an interest in her. Every spark of response that rose in her seemed a vague betrayal of faith. No matter what, she wouldn't let Peter down. She couldn't forget what Rosalind had done to him, and whatever it cost her she would never become the sort of woman Rosalind had been. She just wished she knew how to become a woman at all.

  Suddenly she felt like crying. She couldn't. Not here, not in front of all these people. She moved closer to Stephen, slipping her hand under his arm.

  He smiled. "Will you dance with me now?"

  She shook her head. "I like watching the others." She looked out at the dance floor, then she looked contritely at Stephen. "Don't let me keep you, if you'd like to ask someone to dance."

  "I did ask the lady I want to dance with. She said no."

  She didn't hear the annoyance in his voice beneath his lighthearted delivery. "Oh, Stephen . . . really, you don't have to look after me like this. I'm fine. I really like to watch. You don't need to cosset me."

  Stephen removed her hand from his arm. "For God's sake, Callie, shut up. I can't stand to hear you

  talk. You sound like a damned saint bragging about her martyrdom."

  Hurt, Callie blinked back tears. "You never used to talk to me like that. What have I done?"

  Stephen laughed mirthlessly. "You haven't done a damned thing. Sometimes I wonder if you ever will."

  "What? I don't understand . . ."

  "Oh, you understand! You just won't . . ." he began, then fell silent, looking at her pensivelv. Then he sighed, saying, "I only meant there's no point in your coming to the social if you refuse to enjoy yourself. Did you ever think that it might be natural to want to meet people and dance and have fun?"

  "But it isn't the same for me now. I can't be silly and . . . you know. I gave my word . . ." She stopped talking, having to look out across the crowd, push the longings and the threatening tears back. She lowered her eyes and spoke in a whisper. "I told you I shouldn't come. Maybe you'd better take me home."

  "Maybe I'd better." He stood up, impatient for her to rise from her seat. "Come on. I'll take you home. You want to leave."

  Callie's heart sank. She didn't know what she wanted from him. What did she expect from him? She didn't want to leave, and she looked up, hoping he would see the denial of her words in her eyes. "I don't—not if you'll stay with me."

  Stephen didn't even want to look at her. His eyes were looking somewhere over her shoulder. "And keep you safe? No, thank you. I'm not in the mood to play your guardian angel, Callie—not even for Peter." He walked her to the back of the meeting hall to get their coats.

  She began to protest, ready to tell him she wanted to dance. She wanted to stay. But the words wouldn't come. They were locked inside, fighting to be said,

  yet she couldn't say them. She felt heavy and sad when she said, Tm sorry I spoiled your evening, Stephen."

  "So am I."

  She was quiet on the way home, and he didn't dare say anything because he felt like hitting her.

  The ride seemed twice as long as it really was. She had made a fool of herself. When she had tried to be loyal to Peter she sounded too pious to stomach. And Stephen despised her for it. She despised herself.

  She crossed her arms ovei; her chest, her face severe and determined. This romantic tomfoolery of hers had to stop. And she would stop it! These strange disturbing feelings she was giving into were ruining everything. Stephen was barely talking to her, and she was miserable. For everyone's sake it was important for her to keep her mind fixed firmly on her duties
at home, on Jamie, and on the man for whom she'd promised to wait.

  Chapter 34

  In 1826, when the convict barracks were completed at Hobart Town, a system of classifying the convicts was devised. It attempted to evaluate the character of the prisoner and encourage those most likely to become a part of the growing settlement once their prison terms were served.

  England did not want her native soil cluttered with petty thieves, forgers, and highwaymen; but she had learned from experiences in America, Jamaica, and Australia that some men who leaned toward crime in England often made admirable and durable settlers once rehabilitated. And England did need settlers. Van Diemen's Land was still unconquered. Aside from Hobart Town, it could boast little real civilization.

  To this end it was made easy for a reformed convict to settle after his sentence was served, but nearly impossible for him to return to England. He seldom had the cost of transportation back, and the Crown provided him with a one-way ticket only. Not all ships entering the ports in Van Diemen's Land were authorized to carry ex-convict passengers. And more often

  than not, the only life to which a convict could return in England was the same one which had caused his arrest and imprisonment. From the beginning of a man's term, it was made clear that he would most likelv never see England again.

  Those prisoners sentenced only to seveif years and whose conduct record was good were entered into the first class of convicts. These men were as nearly free as a convict could be. They were permitted to sleep outside the barracks and to work for themselves on Saturday nights. At the end of his term a man could expect to have a little money, be familiar with life and work in the settlement, and, of course, be prepared to enter fully into that life when he was freed. The second and third classifications of prisoners were given less freedom and privileges, but their lots could be considered lives of ease compared to the classifications that followed theirs.

  Beginning with the fourth classification, the convicts were considered refractory and disorderly. They worked in irons.

  The sixth class was for those convicts considered socially dead. They were a collection of murderers, bandits, and villians untamed by chain or lash. These men were shipped to Hell's Gate at Macquarie Harbor, or to Maria Island.

  There was little in Peter's record to recommend him to the first few classifications. He was a convicted murderer; his record aboard the hulks and later aboard the George HI was poor. And last, but perhaps most important in the determination of his prison class assignment, Peter was educated. It was firmly held by prison and clergical authorities that an educated man who had turned to crime had abused his advantages more than the uneducated man and was more depraved and degraded as a result

  Most of the educated prisoners were sent to Port Arthur, a penal settlement established only the year before. At first it seemed the proper place for Peter Berean, but a controversy arose. Peter was not the usual educated convict. He was also considered an incorrigible. While there was little question that the educated prisoners were debased, flawed creatures of the Devil, they were not usually violent. Peter Berean was considered violent by nature.

  After some deliberation, it was decided that Peter's prison record dictated he be placed in the sixth classification. He would be sent to Sarah Island, and if he proved too difficult to handle there, he would be sent to the most severe of all the penal settlements, Norfolk Island, a place of no hope and no return. For the moment the commandant decided to look on the brighter side of things. Perhaps this Berean man could be reclaimed. Sarah Island had broken many hardened criminals. It might do the same for Peter Berean.

  Sarah Island was at the southeast corner of Mac-quarie Harbor. When Peter first saw it, the prison complex looked like a fortified town with its lines of palisades encircling the settlement. He assumed the palisades were built to keep the prisoners from escaping. All the complexes had their own means of security. Port Arthur's was considered among the best—a guard of soldiers at Eagle Hawk Neck, only one hundred twenty feet wide at high tide, a barrier made more secure by nine watch dogs with nine lamps between them at even intervals. Only the most rebellious or suicidal dared attempt running that gauntlet. By comparison, Peter considered the Sarah Island palisades tame.

  As the prisoners were taken from the ship each of the buildings was identified. While the Port Arthur convicts were still living in primitive bark huts, Sarah

  boasted a barracks, a jail, and two penitentiaries. The commandant's house stood in the center of the complex. The chaplain's house and the prison barracks stood between the commandant's house and the jail. To the west, near the shore, was the hospital, flanked by the two penitentiaries. Attached to the penitentiary was a treadmill, a replica of the one Peter remembered too well at Newgate.

  On Peter's first night on the island the wind rakqd the land, howling like an animal in pain over the sea and the rocks. The palisades were never constructed as a barrier to the prisoners, but as a barrier against the brutal wind. The rocks surrounding Sarah, with waves roaring and dashing them with primal force, were guarantee that no man would ever leave the island without a boat to carry him. Nature was Sarah Island's fortress.

  Furious gales made navigation dangerous. The entrance to Hell's Gate in Macquarie Harbor was not attempted except in calm weather. Sarah's shores and Macquarie Harbor were marked with the carcasses of wrecks. Sunken rocks bore the names of ships they had ripped asunder. Icy winds from the South Pole lashed the island. From the northwest the wind churned and blew toward Sarah and Macquarie, driving salt as far as twelve miles up the river Gordon. The turbulent Gordon, indigo blue and undrinkable, was fed by several rivulets that oozed through swampy ground and decaying vegetation. Sarah Island was not the most hospitable land for either the settler or the convict, vet it had its own harsh beauty.

  By the time Peter was assigned to his place in the barracks, he was too tired to give thought to what life would be like on this raw, windswept island. That it would be unpleasant, he had no doubt. Already he was in chains again, and the older prisoners told him

  he would wear them permanently. He'd eat, sleep, and work with the irons on his body. He fell asleep thinking of the irons, but it was the barren, inhospitable land he dreamed of.

  At five thirty Peter was awakened. He opened his eyes to the dreary morning light, sleepy and irritated at the clanking of his fellow convicts' chains as they shuffled toward the dining hall. He was among the last to eat. A bowl of colorless, tasteless mash was given him. He looked at the men on either side of him slurping the mess as quickly as they could. The man to his right ran his dirty finger around the bowl, then lifted it to his face, licking it clean. Peter stared at the bowl, then began to eat the skilly, a mixture of flour, water, and salt. It all but made him sick, but he didn't need anyone to tell him it was all he was going to get.

  After breakfast, there was a forty-five-minute period. The week's food rations were given to each prisoner. Peter took his packet thankfully and went off alone to search through it for something to add to his meager breakfast. He had just bitten into a piece of hardtack when the shadow of another prisoner fell across him.

  "You're one o' the new ones they brung in, ain't you?"

  Peter ignored him, taking another bite of the hardtack.

  "Alius can tell the new ones. They eat up their rations the first days. They're alius the fat happy ones on Monday an' the lean hungry ones t'rest o' t'week. Take some friendly advice. It's best to be hungry seven days than starvin' for two or three." The man spat at Peter's feet, then walked back to his friend before Peter could answer.

  Peter watched the man sit down and begin to mend his torn trousers. Then he looked around at the other

  convicts. It was easy to pick out the newcomers. Without exception they were raiding their ration packets. The older convicts used the time to wash their clothes or mend. Many of them gathered in groups talking, their voices gruff, their laughter coarse and too loud. With one last look into his rations packet, Pe
ter closed it up, keeping out the piece of hardtack he had started to eat. Still hungry, he put the packet in his bunk.

  He came back outside just as the guards ordered the chain gangs formed. Each gang was comprised of a hundred men. They were lined up, boarded on boats, and ordered to row to the woodcutting station near the mainland. A section of Huon pine was to be cleared there.

  Peter looked at the virgin forest and marveled at giant-trunked ancient trees. What ships these pines would build! For a moment he forgot why he was there and felt the surging challenge that nature gives to some men. He staggered as the guard butted him in the small of the back for holding up the gang as he gazed at the trees.

  Trees felled by yesterday's work gang lay waiting to be launched into the river. Peter touched the weather-beaten bark fondly, then put his davdreams aside and bent his back to the task. Men stationed themselves along the log. At the unison call of "heave!" they lifted the log to their shoulders. Stumbling through the marshy ground, cursing as they tramped through tangled scrub and underbrush, they carried the logs to the water's edge, placing them carefully. One log at a time they began to build a road a quarter mile long.

  Before noon the muscles in Peter's back were on fire. His shoulder was raw and his empty stomach gnawed at him like a rabid rat. He stripped the trees of branches, carried them, and placed them in the roadway until a "slide" was formed. Once the slide

  was made, the heavier logs were shunted down it into the water. Then they were floated into an arrangement to be transported to Hobart Town where they would be used in construction and the building of ships.