Lieutenant King’s talents shone at full brilliance in dealing with concrete peril; it was all over and done with before one of the ringleaders knew he had been detected.
Armed with their rusted muskets, the marines took the dangerous men into custody—William Francis, Samuel Pickett, Joshua Peck, Thomas Watson, Leonard Dyer, James Davis, Noah Mortimer and Charles McClellan. Exhaustive examination winnowed out the real villains; though almost every convict on the island had indicated a wish to be in the coup provided it succeeded, only a handful were actively involved. Francis and Pickett were put into double irons and confined in the stoutest storehouse; Watson and Mortimer were fettered and released until Monday’s full enquiry brought the whole story out.
A startled Richard Morgan was told to walk at once to Ball Bay and fetch its three custodians into the Sydney Town fold, while King arranged his scant supply of free men and marines around his end of the beach and the convicts were ordered on pain of being shot to remain in their huts.
“And as if that were not enough,” said King to Donovan in huge indignation, “Corporal Gowen found Thompson pilfering Indian corn in the vale! From which, given what Robert and Bryant have told me, I gather that men like Thompson thought the island would be taken over by Francis before I could flog him for theft. He is mistaken.”
“They should have waited until Supply was in the roads and our attention was taken up in that direction,” said Stephen thoughtfully, too tactful to add that King’s conduct in the Mary Gamble business was the reason for the plot’s advancement in time. “What of the women, sir?”
King shrugged. “Women are women. They are neither the cause nor the trouble.”
“Whom will ye punish?”
“As few as I can,” King said, looking worried. “Otherwise I stand no hope to keep control of Norfolk Island, ye must surely see that, Mr. Donovan. Hardly a musket fires and there are many more of them than of us. But most of them are sheep, they need leaders. That is our salvation provided that I do not punish the sheep. I will have to wait until Supply comes, send word to Port Jackson on her, and then wait for her to return before I will be able to ship the ringleaders to stand trial in Port Jackson.”
“Why,” asked Stephen dreamily, “do I have a feeling that ye’ll not solve Norfolk Island’s difficulties by shipping them to Port Jackson and the Governor’s justice?”
King’s eyes flashed angrily. “Because,” he said grimly, “I am well aware that most of those on Golden Grove were sent here to rid Port Jackson of them. His Excellency will not want them back, especially branded as mutineers. He would have to hang them, and he is not a man likes to see others at the end of a rope. If he is forced to hang, he would rather that the crime was committed under the gaze of those around him, not a thousand miles away in a place he has been using as an example of felicitous success. Norfolk Island is too isolated to prosper under a system which delegates the real authority to men who are not here, to men who are more than a thousand miles away. The Government in Norfolk Island ought to have authority over Norfolk Island’s affairs. But I am strapped. I must first wait months, then no doubt will not get answers which improve Norfolk Island’s lot.”
“Just so,” sighed Stephen. “It is a cleft stick.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Sir, ye have a master gunsmith right here in the island who was not implicated in the plot—Morgan the sawyer. May I humbly request that ye set him at once to fixing our firearms? Then on every Saturday morning the free men, marines and Morgan will shoot for two hours. I will undertake to set up a proving butt beyond the eastern end of Sydney Town, and also undertake the supervision of firing practice. Provided that ye give me Morgan.”
“An excellent idea! See to it, Mr. Donovan.” The Commandant grunted. “If, as I expect, His Excellency does not want any of our mutineers sent to trial in Port Jackson, then he will have to send me a bigger detachment of marines under the command of a proper officer, not a mere sergeant. And I want some cannons. Plus powder, shot and cartridges aplenty for the muskets.” He looked brisk. “I shall draft a letter this instant. And from now on, Superintendent of Convicts, ye will see a stricter discipline enforced. If flogging is what they want, then flogging is what they will get. I am hurt! Wounded to the quick! My happy little family has serpents in its midst, with many more serpents to come.”
It was John Bryant the fanatically devout Catholic who bore the brunt of convict resentment once the hearing of testimony was over. His evidence was all the more damning because he also told of a plan aboard Golden Grove to take her over—a plan foiled when he informed Captain Sharp. The blame for the Norfolk Island revolt fell upon William Francis and Samuel Pickett, who were to be kept permanently in double irons and permanently locked up. Noah Mortimer and Thomas Watson were put in light fetters at the Commandant’s pleasure, and the rest of those questioned were dismissed.
The most tragic consequence of the January plot concerned the beauty of tiny Sydney Town, graced by the presence of tall pines and leafy “white oaks.” Lieutenant King took every last tree away, even cleared lower vegetation; a marine could stand at either end of the settlement and see any coming and going between the huts, even after dark. Tom Jones, an intimate of Len Dyer’s, received 36 lashes from the meanest cat for contemptuous sexual references aimed at Stephen Donovan and Surgeon Thomas Jamison.
“The climate has changed,” said Richard to Stephen as they dealt with muskets preparatory to the first shooting practice, “and it saddens me. I like this little place, could be happy here were it not for other men. But I do not want to live in this village any longer. The trees are gone and so is the privacy—a man cannot piss without a dozen others watching. I want to be somewhere on my own so that I can mind my own business and confine my contacts with my fellow convicts to the sawpits.”
Stephen blinked. “D’ye dislike them so much, Richard?”
“I like some of them very well. It is the villains always spoil things—and for what? Can they never learn? Take poor Bryant. They have vowed to get him, you know, and they will.”
“As Superintendent of Convicts I will exert every effort to make sure they do not get him. Bryant has a very nice little wife and they love each other madly. Were anything to happen to him, she would become a lost soul.”
1789 was not coming in well. There had been intermittent rain and gales which ruined the rest of the barley, spoiled some casks of flour, made fishing impossible on most days, and life in the denuded collection of wooden huts a jeremiad of wet clothes, damp bedding, mold on precious books and precious shoes, summer colds, sick headaches and painful bones. Halfway through February the Commandant released Francis and Pickett from their storehouse and returned them to their huts free of manacles but heavily ironed on their legs. Of Supply there was no sign; the last ship to call had been Golden Grove, and that was now four months ago. Were they never going to see another ship? Had something happened to Supply? To Port Jackson?
Everybody was grumpy thanks to the foul weather, none grumpier than the Commandant, who was engineer enough to realize that he did not dare commence building a dam in the midst of such downpours, and had a crying baby in the house. Most of the work had to be postponed and too many people had little to do beyond grumble. The only truly happy persons were the three men at Ball Bay, snug under the pine trees in a good house, well provisioned, and able to rock fish no matter how hard it rained.
