“I hope,” said Ross grimly, “that ye have a good crowd of men sawing, Mr. King?”
“Aye, as far as it goes.” King’s distraction increased, as did his sudden anxiety to quit Norfolk Island. “There are three sawpits, but I will have to find more men to saw—and that, as ye know, Major Ross, is not easily done.”
“There are Port Jackson sawyers among the new convicts.”
“And more saws, I hope?”
“His Excellency has sent all but three pit saws, as well as a hundred hand saws.” Ross dropped his arm from his son’s shoulders. “Is Richard Morgan sawing?”
King’s face lit up. “I could not do without him,” he said, “any more than I could do without Nat Lucas, my head of carpenters, or Tom Crowder, my clerk.”
“I told ye Morgan was a good man. Where is he?”
“Sawing while ever there is daylight.”
“Not sharpening?”
King grinned. “He puts women to sharpening, and it answers exceeding fine. His sawing partner is Private Wigfall—well, we ran out of suitable convicts. ’Tis an unenviable job, but Wigfall seems to thrive on it, as do Morgan and a few others. They enjoy rude health, probably thanks to the hard labor and good food.”
“And they have to be kept well fed, no matter who else goes hungry. The first thing,” said Ross, temporarily forgetting that King was still nominally in charge, “is to build barracks for my marines. Living under canvas is Hell—if and when Hunter gets off his royal arse to unload the tents.” He added, though not by way of an apology, “D’ye have any idea whereabouts the barracks ought to go?”
“Over there on the far side of the swamp,” said King, nobly swallowing his displeasure. “The land along the base of the hills behind Sydney Town is free of water, though I must tell ye that the Norfolk pine rots quickly if put in the ground. ’Twould be best to use stone for the foundations—did any stonemasons come?”
“Several, and a few stone chisels. Port Jackson is not in need of new buildings at the moment, whereas His Excellency knows Norfolk Island will need them desperately. He was, incidentally, delighted to get the lime—we have not found one pebble of limestone on our travels through Cumberland County.”
“Then when I see him I can tell him not to worry. We can produce a hundred bushels of lime a day if pushed to it,” said King, longing for a glass of port and acutely aware that the Major did not approve of more than a daily half-pint of anything intoxicating. He caught sight of Ann in the doorway of the house and decided to leave the Major to his own devices; after all, Ann was carrying a second child and might be in distress. “Must go!” he said, and bolted.
Along came the delicate figure of Second Lieutenant Ralph Clark, whom Ross had despised until he realized that the mawkish, immature Clark had a rare touch with children, actually seemed pleased to take care of Little John. Useless as a marine, but a wonderful nursemaid.
“I will be dashed glad, sir,” said Clark politely, smiling at Little John, “to have a clean shirt to put on my back. As, I am sure, will you. They might at least have sent our baggage ashore.”
“I doubt Sirius will ever manage to unload,” said Ross dourly, “though I note that Supply makes light enough work of it.”
“Supply has Ball and Blackburn, sir. They know the place.”
While Hunter of Sirius, said Ross to himself, is a crotchety fool. Aloud he said, “Take charge of Little John, Lieutenant. I need to do some walking.”
The scars of the mighty hurricane were still visible more than a year after it had happened, though the usable trees had been stripped of their bark and reduced to appropriate lengths. Those too large for the pit saws and those already rotten had been disposed of in various ways: their branches were lopped off to be made into torches and firewood, their trunks lopped into sections and dropped into craters for burning or heaped into piles for burning. The settlement was still, King had explained, sawing timber felled by the wind, though clearing of the hills around the vale and Sydney Town was continuing and that timber was being stockpiled. In winter, thought Ross, I will have a bonfire every night. Too much precious flat land is being wasted on pine detritus.
To Ross, the island was even worse than Port Jackson; how it could support more than 400 people in some degree of comfort he did not yet know. Of vegetables there were plenty despite the grub armies, but humankind could not live on vegetables alone if they were required to labor hard—people needed flesh and bread as well. The size of the wheat crop in the granary had astonished him, as did the amount of Indian corn. Only the constant presence of some of MacGregor’s and Delphinia’s offspring around the granary kept the rats at bay, King had explained, but with the new arrivals had come a dozen more dogs and two dozen cats to help control the rodent hordes. The pigs here were thriving far better than at Port Jackson. They dined on Indian corn, mangel-wurzel, fish scraps and whatever else was fed them, including the pith of the palm and tree fern. They also dined off some sort of sea bird which came in to nest in burrows on Mount George between November and March.
“A fool of a thing,” King had said, “that gets lost and cannot find its burrow. Waaaah! Waaaah! It howls like a ghost all night when it is here, frightens the living daylights out of newcomers. Take a torch and ye can catch it easily. The pigs just scamper up on top of Mount George and feast. We tried to eat ’em because they are so nearby, but they are fearsome fatty and fishy—ugh!”
Therefore, thought Ross as he walked, porkers will loom large in my calculations.
The wheat, good crop though it was, would never feed 424 people until the next harvest came in; sowing happened in May or June, reaping in November or December. According to King, Indian corn grew all year round. His technique in dealing with the rats and grubs was to plant wheat just at the conclusion of a grub wave and Indian corn continuously. Wheat in ear was too frail for rats to climb, whereas corn was a ladder. But the ripe ears of both were ravaged by the green parrots, which came out of the skies in vast flocks. Taming Nature, the Major reflected, was a constant war.
He toured the sea-level shelf from end to end and front to back, thinking, thinking. No more people up Arthur’s Vale; that was clearly where the produce flourished best, must be reserved for cultivation. Therefore Sydney Town would have to house everybody for the time being—but only for the time being. He would have to visit Robert Webb and his woman and the time-elapsed convict Robert Jones, who had taken up land halfway between Sydney Town and Cascade. Oh, Cascade—what a place to have to come ashore! And how Hunter must have sniggered as he watched the new Lieutenant-Governor, baggageless, in a longboat full of poultry. Ross glowered, concentrated all his energies upon ill-wishing Captain John Hunter of Sirius; practical and down-to-earth Scotchman though he was, the Major believed that a curse held great power. Hunter would not prosper. Hunter would come to grief. Hunter would fall. A murrain on him, a murrain on him, a murrain on him. . . .
Feeling much better, he paused on the far side of the causeway and turned to look east down the cleared but unoccupied land which ended at the sea along the beach beyond Turtle Bay. This end plus the road down to the landing place, he decided, would accommodate the marines and their officers, thus effectively cutting off the convicts from access to Arthur’s Vale and the food, which was now stored in King’s huge barn and the mezzanine of the granary. He would house the convicts eastward of the troops, ten to a hut, and bugger the Reverend Johnson’s strictures about keeping male and female felons from fornicating. In Ross’s opinion, freedom to fornicate meant a certain degree of content. God would forgive them, for God had sent them many other trials.
