“How seem the men of the New South Wales Corps?” Richard asked.
“I see little difference between their enlisted men and my own—a rascally lot who by accident escaped the attention of the English courts. The officers are a cut above them, but I am not inspired to rave about their efficiency. What I would not give for a decent surveyor! Here I am to allocate sixty-acre grants to Sirius men like Drummond and Hibbs as well as some of my own time-expired marines, yet I have no surveyor. Bradley was pathetic, Altree even worse.” His eyes gleamed. “I do not suppose, Morgan, that amongst your many hidden talents is surveying?”
Richard laughed. “Nay, sir, nay!”
The yield of Indian corn from Charlotte Field had been huge; dozens of convict women were put to husking and scraping the grain off thousands upon thousands of cobs, and the wheat harvest had also come in much bigger than the blighting winds and gnawing grubs had promised. But Port Jackson was back on two-thirds rations, which meant that Norfolk Island was ordered to follow suit. Luckily when she sailed on the 9th of May, Supply had been so laden with departing people that she had no room for a cargo of grain. What Norfolk Island had, it would keep—for the time being, at any rate. A commodious house of young pine logs had been built at Charlotte Field for D’arcy Wentworth and his family, who were sorely missed in Sydney Town. Though this western village was no longer named Charlotte Field; on Saturday the 30th of April, Major Ross officially announced that it was to be called Queensborough, and that Phillipburgh would become properly possessive as Phillipsburgh.
Sufficient time had elapsed since the arrival of Surprize to enable the 700-odd people of Norfolk Island to get to know each other. The entire island hummed with gossip; Lieutenant Ralph Clark snipped the first two bunches of grapes ever to form in the Antipodes, but the gossip grapevine was much longer and stronger than the real thing, bore bigger fruit. Mrs. Richard Morgan was not averse to disseminating interesting tidbits garnered in the Lieutenant-Governor’s house; Mistress Mary Branham in Lieutenant Ralph Clark’s house also contributed her mite. From highest to lowest, the doings of everyone were examined, speculated upon, and judged. If a convict abandoned his Lady Penrhyn woman in favor of a newer, younger female off Lady Juliana, it was known; if a marine secretly philandered with a convict’s wife, it was known; if private marines Escott, Mee, Bailey and Fishbourn were brewing beer from island barley and Justinian hops, it was known; if Little John Ross was off color, it was known; and everybody knew the identity of the third man who broke into Stores and tried to steal saleable items. Mr. Freeman’s servant John Gault and convict Charles Strong were sentenced to 300 lashes each from the meanest cat: 100 in Sydney Town, then, upon recovery, 100 in Queensborough, then, upon recovery, 100 in Phillipsburgh. Even in the face of this terrible punishment—it would partially cripple them for life—they would not divulge the name of the third man. But everybody knew.
Despite the intermeshing relationships established between those who guarded and those who were guarded, the camps were very much divided when it came to totting up grievances. This meant that when rations were reduced and his enlisted marines looked like mutinying, Major Ross held no fears that the convicts would take advantage of a suddenly perilous situation. Led, as always, by men like Mee, Plyer and Fishbourn, the marines refused to take their rations from the Stores, complaining that their flour supply was already eroded because they had to use some of it to barter for fresh produce from the convicts. The insurrection was short-lived and unsuccessful; Major Ross, confronted, told them that they were a fucken lazy lot of fucken scum for whom he had neither time nor pity. If they wanted to keep the flour ration intact, then they ought to grow their own fresh produce. They had more leisure and more fish than the convicts, so what was stopping them? Ross’s ex-servant Escott and a group of other privates crumbled; the threat of mutiny faded. Shortly afterward, a daily allowance of a good mug of rum was issued again. If nothing else would pacify them, rum would. How could he deprive half his marines of their muskets? Ross asked himself. The answer was that he could not. Therefore keep them sedated and the hell with conscience.
Naturally the departure of Johnny Livingstone was noted. All eyes became riveted upon Stephen Donovan to see who Johnny’s replacement was going to be. Nobody permanent and nobody from among the convicts; since Donovan carried on superintending his gangs in the same cheerfully ruthless way, the final assumption was that Johnny had not mattered much.
Another interesting situation was that between Richard Morgan and his house girl, Kitty Clark, who was locked out of that strange man’s bed. Locked out!
“Fitting,” said Mrs. Richard Morgan, whose maiden name was Lock.
Richard was famously friendly with Stephen Donovan, but those who knew him from Ceres and Alexander days swore that he had no Miss Molly leanings; though Will Connelly and Neddy Perrott continued to ostracize him, they could not be brought to admit that he lifted Donovan’s shirt. If anyone peeked furtively through Donovan’s unshuttered windows, all the inquisitive individual saw was the pair of them bent over a chessboard, or sitting companionably side by side at the fire, or eating at the table. Never with Kitty Clark there. She stayed home, guarded by Lawrell and MacTavish.
Stephen had been in a quandary ever since he had seen Kitty blush on Christmas Day of 1790. Eyes opened, he noticed after that how her attention was always fixed upon him, though her attitude to Richard had subtly changed. Before that picnic he had utterly intimidated her—she was a natural mouse, and not a very bright mouse either. Very sweet, very humble, very dull. Had she not owned William Henry’s eyes, Stephen was sure that Richard would have passed her by without a glance. Therefore Richard’s strength, his intelligence and his reticent nature made him appear in her eyes as a God the Father kind of person, immensely old and the fount of all authority. Fear and obey. After the picnic Kitty had definitely lost a little of her terror of him, Stephen presumed because of the gold necklet she never left off—how women adored sparkling gewgaws! Or was it that sparkling gewgaws cost precious money, and were thus an indication of esteem? But it was he, Stephen, who fueled her dreams of love. That was unmistakable. Precisely why he had no idea, though he was used to attracting women. Probably, he thought, I give off emanations of unattainability; women inevitably want what they cannot have. Though it has not occurred to Kitty that Richard is hers for the lifting of a finger, so there must be more to it than that.
What to do for the best? How to channel her feelings away from himself and toward Richard?
Tobias, curled in his lap, got up, stretched, repositioned himself. A weeny marmalade bundle with gigantic paws that promised he would one day be a lion. What a cat Olivia had given him! Brilliantly clever, scheming, tough, stubborn, and irresistibly charming when he wanted to be worshiped and fussed over. The kittens he might have sired! But Stephen, wanting a pet which slept alongside him in his hammock rather than roamed abroad in search of sexual conquests, had castrated him without qualm or regret.
The answer to his quandary had not yet appeared when Supply sailed for Sydney in May. May of 1791 already! Where did the years go? Over four years since he had met Richard Morgan.
Stephen had been put to surveying, since he knew the rudiments of the art; those who had returned on Supply to take up land were anxious to do so, and Major Ross wanted them out of town post-haste. The Sirius seamen would probably last the distance, Stephen thought, but the marines were not so enthusiastic. Men like Elias Bishop and Joseph McCaldren—incorrigible troublemakers in their day—were principally interested in being deeded their land, then selling it. Having gotten what they could out of Norfolk Island, they would then return to Port Jackson and apply for land there, also to sell. They wanted hard money, not hard labor. And in the meantime they lolled around Sydney Town making mischief with those marines not yet due to retire. Poor Major Ross! An enormous kettle of trouble was brewing for him in Port Jackson and England. With backbiters like George Johnston and John Hunter—not to mention that mental-case Bradley—whispering in Governor Phillip’s receptive ear, Ross would see little thanks for his work. Stephen respected him as much as Richard did, and for the same reasons. Faced with a virtually insoluble predicament, Ross had proceeded without fear or favor. Always a dangerous thing to do.
