Those convicts possessed of huts along the beach who had been evicted in favor of his officers would have to be returned to their dwellings; hard he was, but just he was. Those who had labored here—very few, when all was said and done—must have some sort of thanks for their efforts. They would go back to their huts as soon as his officers were properly housed, and they would also be the first convicts to receive land. For that, he had already concluded, was the only answer: break open the interior of this speck in the midst of an infinity of ocean and people it. Give those who were willing to work an incentive to work by dowering them with land—some around Sydney Town, a very few in Arthur’s Vale, and the big majority in the virgin bulk of the island. No more tracks: a proper road to Ball Bay, to Cascade, to Anson Bay. Once there were roads, people could move out and away. If there was one asset he owned, it was a huge laboring force.
Those resolutions tucked away, he turned then westward into Arthur’s Vale, grudgingly admitting to himself that, considering the tiny size of his work force, Lieutenant King had not loafed during the two years he had occupied Norfolk Island. The granary and the barn were gradually having their wooden foundations replaced by the lime-producing stone (it was not limestone, but calcarenite) King had discovered around the cemetery, the stockyard attached to the barn was roomy, and the dam was an inspiration. He found the second sawpit, sheltered from the sun, its men working frantically; gazed sourly at the gaggle of women under a roof busy sharpening saws; and passed on up the vale beyond the dam, where the hillsides were being cleared in preparation for yet more wheat and Indian corn. Here he located the third sawpit, and Richard Morgan atop a gigantic log. Far too sensible to attract the sawyer’s attention to him while that lethal instrument ripped inches at a time through the six-foot girth—he was down to heartwood and big beams—Major Ross stood quietly watching.
The air was humid, the weather finer than any since he had landed four days ago, and the men at the sawpit worked clad only in worn, tattered canvas trowsers. It is not right, thought Ross. Not one of them has the luxury of underdrawers, that I know from Port Jackson, where the last convict underdrawers fell apart a full twelvemonth ago. So they do this work with the rough seams of their trowsers chafing at their groins. Though I detest convicts, I have to admit that a fair proportion of them are good men, and some are superlative. King may rave about the likes of a Tom Crowder—a useful lickspittle—but I prefer the likes of Richard Morgan, who never opens his mouth save to voice common sense. And Nat Lucas, the little carpenter. Crowder will work indefatigably for himself; Morgan and Lucas simply work for the pleasure of a job well done. How strange are the machinations of God, Who makes some men and women genuinely industrious, and others lazy to the very marrow. . . .
The cut finished, Ross spoke. “Hard at it, Morgan, I see.”
Not troubling to conceal his delight, Richard turned on the log, leaped from it onto solid ground, and walked over. His hand went out automatically, but he caught the gesture in time to turn it into a salute. “Major Ross, welcome,” he said, smiling.
“Have ye been evicted from your hut?”
“Not yet, sir, but I expect I will be.”
“Where d’ye live, that it has not happened?”
“Farther up, right at the end of the vale.”
“Show me.”
On stone piers now and with its roof shingled, the house—it could not be called a hut—lay under the eaves of the forest. Ross noted that it had a stone chimney, as did some of the convict huts and houses on the shore; a sign that King thought Richard Morgan worthy of reward. Below it but up the hillside was a privy. A lush-looking vegetable garden surrounded it save for a path of basalt rocks to the door, and beyond the garden sugar cane waved. A few plantains flourished and the slope around the privy was planted with a bushy small tree that bore pinkening berries.
Entering, Major Ross thought the house a remarkably professional piece of work for a man not a carpenter; it was finished. The walls, ceiling and floor had actually been dully polished. Of course! Gunsmiths worked with wood too. An impressive collection of books stood on a shelf on one wall, another shelf held what looked suspiciously like a dripstone, the bed was sheeted with Alexander-issue blankets, and a very nice table and two chairs stood in the middle of the floor. The window apertures had been equipped with proper shutters.
“Ye’ve made a home,” said Ross, occupying one chair. “Sit down, Morgan, otherwise I will not be comfortable.”
Richard sat rather rigidly. “I am glad to see ye, sir.”
“So your face betrayed. One of the very few.”
“Well, folk dislike change of any kind.”
“Especially when the change is named Robert Ross. No, no, Morgan, there is no need to look squalmy! Ye’re a convict, but ye’re not a felon. There is a difference. For instance, I do not see Lucas as a felon either. What did he go down for, d’ye know? I am gathering evidence for a theory I have conceived.”
“Lucas lived in a London boarding house, in a room he was not allowed to lock because he was obliged to share it at a moment’s notice. Two other lodgers were a father and daughter. The father found some of his daughter’s property beneath Lucas’s mattress—some muslin aprons and the like. Not items a perverted man would steal. Lucas denied he had put them there, but the girl and her father prosecuted him.”
“What d’ye think the truth was?” asked the Major, interested.
“That the girl coveted Lucas himself. When she could not have him, she chose revenge. His trial lasted not ten minutes and his master neglected to appear for him, so he had no one to speak for his character. But I gather that the London courts are such a mass of people and confusion that his master could well have been there, either lost or refused entrance. The magistrate questioned him and he denied the charges, but it was his word against two people. He went down for seven years.”
“Yet one more confirmation of my theory,” said Ross, leaning back in the chair until its front legs left the floor. “Such tales are fairly common. Though some of ye are recognizably villains, I have noted that most of ye keep out of trouble. ’Tis the few who make it difficult for all. For every convict flogged, there are three or four who are never flogged, and those who are flogged inevitably get flogged again and again. Mind you, some of ye are neither decent nor villainous—the ones who are averse to hard work. What the English trial boils down to is someone’s word against someone else’s word. Evidence is rarely presented.”
“And many,” said Richard, “commit their crimes sodden drunk.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Not exactly, though rum contributed. An excise fraud hinged upon my testimony, therefore it was expedient that I not be able to testify. It took place in Bristol, but I was removed to trial in Gloucester, where I knew no one.” Richard drew a breath. “But in all fairness, sir, I blame no one except myself.”
Ross thought he looked like a Celtic Welshman—dark hair, dark skin, light eyes, fine-boned face. The height he must have inherited from English forebears, and the musculature was the result of hard labor. Sawyers, stone-masons, smiths and axemen who threw their hearts into their work always had splendid bodies. Provided they had enough to eat, and clearly those in Norfolk Island had enough to eat. Whether they would in the future was not so sure.
“Ye look the picture of health,” Ross said, “but then, ye never were sick, were ye?”
“I managed to preserve my health, mostly thanks to my dripstone.” Richard indicated it affectionately. “I have also been fortunate, sir. The times when I have not had enough to eat have either been short enough or idle enough not to cause bone-deep illness. Had I remained in Port Jackson, who knows? But ye sent me here sixteen months ago.” His eyes twinkled. “I like fish, and there are many who do not, so I have had more than my share of flesh.”
