Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  Fallon was ashen. ‘Jesus, Quested! Did you have to torture him?’

  ‘Would you rather you went aboard the Tisiphone the day after tomorrow and found the crew were waiting to take you to Norfolk Island, not as a visitor but as a permanent resident? It’s no wonder your little rebellion was such a fiasco. You people have no stomach for what it takes to succeed in this world.’

  Quested and Fallon emerged from the office to see Gog and Magog carrying Wadrokal up the steps to the platform overlooking the try-pots. The black screamed and struggled furiously when he realised what his fate was to be.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, no!’ Fallon started to run across the floor after them, but at a signal from Quested two of the sailors working in the try-works intercepted him and held him fast between them.

  ‘Sorry, Johnny!’ Quested called to where Gog and Magog held Wadrokal between them on the platform. ‘But if I let you live I’ve got no guarantee you won’t go running off to the lime-juicers anyway.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Quested!’ pleaded Fallon. ‘You said you were going to let him live… you were going to put him back on the Lucy Ann.'

  Quested scowled at him peevishly. ‘Well, of course I said that. You think he’d’ve told me the truth if he’d thought I was going to kill him anyway?’

  On the platform, Gog and Magog grabbed an arm and a leg each and started to swing Wadrokal between them.

  ‘Please, Cap’n Quested!’ screamed the black. ‘I’ll tell no one, I swear!’

  ‘You’re darned tooting.’ Quested nodded to the twins, and they hurled the screaming Wadrokal headfirst into one of the try-pots. The black’s legs thrashed spasmodically for a second or two, and then became lifeless.

  Fallon staggered over to a dark corner of the try-works to be violently sick on the floor.

  Quested chuckled to himself. ‘Like I said, no stomach for this kind of work.’

  Fallon wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘Maybe you had to kill him, maybe you didn’t,’ he snarled. ‘But you didn’t have to kill him like that.’

  ‘That was for your benefit as much as his, Mr Fallon.’ Quested tapped the Irishman on the chest with his hook. ‘The remaining five thousand dollars waiting for me when we get to ’Frisco, just as we agreed; otherwise you’ll end up the same way.’

  Refusing to be cowed, Fallon glanced down at Quested’s hook. ‘You know you can get perfectly good prosthetic hands, Captain?’

  Quested grinned. ‘This is scarier.’

  Fallon shook his head. ‘You’re a bloody lunatic!’

  The captain nodded. ‘Bear that in mind, Mr Fallon, and you and I shall get along famously.’

  As Fallon staggered out of the try-works, the Lucy Ann’s second mate, Zecheas Forgan, entered. He glanced with amusement at the ashen-faced Irishman as he passed, and then turned to Quested. ‘Fallon?’

  Quested nodded.

  ‘What was he looking so sick about?’

  ‘I reckon the smell must’ve made him feel queasy.’

  Forgan glanced at the feet protruding from one of the try-pots. ‘Uh-huh. Wadrokal?’

  ‘Oil for the lamps of China, Mr Forgan.’

  The second mate grinned. ‘You sure are one loco sonuvagun, Cap’n.’ Although he spoke with the accent of South Carolina, like many veterans of the Mexican War, Forgan’s speech was laced with Spanish.

  ‘Did you have any luck finding replacements for Vasques and Squanto?’

  ‘Nada, Cap’n. I tried, but hands are hard to come by. These days everyone seems to be more interested in going to…’

  ‘California?’

  Forgan nodded. ‘Maybe when we get to ’Frisco we should try prospecting ourselves.’

  ‘Forget it. Most of the seams will be worked out by the time we get there. And with so many men heading to California, there’ll be fewer whalers working the South Seas. Supply goes down, the price goes up.’ He patted a cask. ‘This is liquid gold, Mr Forgan. With any luck we might catch a couple of fish on our way to California; Fallon’s agreed we can stop to chase any whales if we spy a fall on the way.’

  ‘It’ll be hard to catch any fish when we’re four hands short. We’ll only be able to put three of the boats into the water at a time.’

  ‘We can put in at Aneiteium or Thorpetown on our way to ’Frisco. We’ll need to touch somewhere for fresh water and fruit, and you can usually pick up a beachcomber or two at those sandalwood trading stations. They’ll jump at the chance when they hear we’re bound for California. Now, let’s look lively: we sail on the dawn tide, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before then.’

  In the try-pot above them, Wadrokal’s feet slid slowly out of view.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Who the Devil is Devin Cusack?’

  ‘Excuse me, I wonder if you’d be so good as to tell me which one of those boats is HMS Tisiphone?’ On the quayside at Sullivan’s Cove, Mrs Cafferty addressed a man working in a flory boat. She was well aware that the vessels she was referring to were ships, but is always amused her to see nautical gentlemen get in a froth when they heard their beloved vessels referred to as ‘boats’.

  The boatman snatched his cap off his head. ‘Uh… that one, your ladyship.’ He pointed to a paddle-ship with two masts and a funnel rising between them. At about a hundred and sixty feet from stem to stern, it was not much of a warship, but it was still the largest vessel in the anchorage.

  ‘I’m a “ma’am”, not a “ladyship”, but thank you anyhow. I wonder if you could take me out to it?’

  ‘It?’

  ‘The boat, man, the boat.’

  ‘Oh! You mean the Tisiphone. Begging your ladyship’s pardon, but she’s a ship, not a boat; and ships are called “she”, not “it”.’

  ‘Thank you for the lecture; here’s one in return: since I was referring to the ship in the dative case, the correct particle of the preposition would be “her”, not “she”.’ That would teach him not to argue semantics with a governess. ‘But frankly I consider this whole business of referring to ships as if they were women as a ridiculous affectation.’ She reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced a sixpence. ‘Could you take me out to her?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am! Step down.’

  ‘My trunk.’ She gestured behind her.

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ He climbed the stone steps to the quayside and blanched when he saw her trunk.

  ‘It is rather heavy,’ she admitted as he braced himself. ‘Perhaps I should give you a hand?’

  ‘No, no, ma’am. I can manage.’

  ‘Really, you’ll hurt yourself if you try to lift it by yourself.’

  ‘It’s all right, ma’am. I’m as strong as an ox. Besides, a fine lady shouldn’t have to go lifting heavy things.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, it’s… it ain’t ladylike.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s a commonly accepted fact that physical exercise is beneficial for health and wellbeing for men. Why should the female constitution be affected any differently? If you must insist on lifting that by yourself, might I suggest you lift with your knees rather than your back? Otherwise you’ll give yourself a hernia.’

  ‘Thanks, ma’am, but before I were a boatman I were a porter, and I think I know a thing or two about— Oh, Gawd!’

  ‘There now, you see? You’ve gone and injured yourself.’

  ‘Call a doctor…’ the man moaned weakly.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll have a surgeon on board the Tisiphone.’

  ‘Can’t… row…’

  ‘Well, how difficult can it be?’ She lifted the trunk, carried it down to the boat, and then came back for the boatman, laying him gently in the stern sheets. Then she cast off the painter and sat down on one of the thwarts amidships, pushing off with one oar.

  The boatman tried feebly to stop her. ‘Please, ma’am, you don’t know what you’re doing. It takes years of practice to learn how to row. If you sink us, you’ll sink me livelihood. ’Swelp me, I’ll starve. What if you
lose the oars? We’ll be adrift…’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be terrible? We might drift all the way to the other side of the harbour before we were rescued. That might not be for… ooh, minutes.’ She fitted the oars in the rowlocks and started to row across to the Tisiphone. It was awkward at first – she had never rowed a boat before – but she picked it up in a matter of seconds and before she knew it, she was propelling the boat across to the sloop at the rate of knots. ‘How am I doing?’

  In the stern sheets, the boatman groaned piteously.

  When she judged they must be getting near to the Tisiphone, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure the bow was aimed at the accommodation ladder suspended below the entry port. There was quite a crowd lining the sides to gape open-mouthed at the spectacle of a young lady rowing a boat. If the petty officers did not berate the seamen for neglecting their duties, it was because they were gaping alongside them. Mrs Cafferty gave them all a friendly wave, and rowed the last few yards to the accommodation ladder.

  A fellow in a scarlet tunic – he looked more like a soldier than a sailor, what did they call them, marines? – challenged her. ‘B… b… boat ahoy!’

  ‘Ship ahoy,’ she called back. ‘Permission to come on board?’

  The marine looked confused. ‘You’re supposed to say “Aye, aye!” if you’re a distinguished visitor – or “No, no” if you’re not.’

  ‘Then modesty demands I should respond: No, no. May I come on board?’

  An officer joined the marine at the entry port. ‘Well, I, uh… I don’t see why not, Miss…?’

  ‘Cafferty. Mrs Cafferty.’ She tied the rope to a wooden post and tripped lightly up the steps. After rowing the boat across the harbour, she was flushed and breathless when she set foot on deck, and quite exhilarated. ‘Are you Commander Robertson?’ she asked the officer.

  ‘No, I’m Hartcliffe.’ He bowed, and offered her his hand, obviously expecting her to curtsy, but she just shook it. He looked even more confused. ‘I’m, er… well, I’m the first lieutenant, ma’am.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Hartcliffe.’

  ‘Actually, it’s… er… Lord Hartcliffe. But everyone just calls me “Hartcliffe”.’

  ‘As you will. Do you have a surgeon who could take a look at the boatman? He seems to have injured himself lifting my trunk.’

  Hartcliffe peered down at the man who still lay supine in the bottom of the boat, and then snapped his fingers at a couple of seamen. ‘Yorath! O’Houlihan! Lift that fellow out of the boat and carry him down to the sick-berth. Mr Cavan, perhaps you’d be so good as to inform Mr Westlake that he has a patient.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ A fair-haired youth, barely seventeen – presumably a midshipman – hurried below. As the two ratings Hartcliffe had addressed hurried to help the boatman up the side ladder, Mrs Cafferty became aware of two other seamen, a blond man and a negro, staring at her. The blond sailor was combing his lank hair in a predatory manner.

  The negro nudged him. ‘Forget it, Seth. Above your station, shipmate.’

  ‘And above yours?’ Seth replied in a Liverpudlian accent.

  ‘Now I didn’t say that.’ The negro licked a fingertip and smoothed down his eyebrows. ‘It ain’t so much a question of class as of style. And you ain’t got none.’

  ‘Perhaps when you two gentlemen have finished preening yourselves, you’d be good enough to bring my trunk on board,’ called Mrs Cafferty.

  The two seamen looked embarrassed and confused. Hartcliffe quickly intervened. ‘Pardon me, ma’am. Did you ask to have your trunk on board?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, should I have asked through you?’

  ‘E… it’s not that… that is to say, it’s not just that… but… well, this is a ship of war. There seems to be some misunderstanding. ’

  ‘Then this should explain things.’ She drew the letter Sir William Denison had given her from one of the voluminous pockets of her skirt and proffered it to Hartcliffe. ‘Would you give this to your captain?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. Perhaps you’d like to come below out of the sun?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He gestured for her to precede him down the after hatch. ‘After you, ma’am. You may find it easier to go down backwards…’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m sure I can manage.’

  ‘Mind your head, ma’am.’

  She waited for him at the bottom of the companion ladder, and he led her round a corner and down a passageway. Another marine sentry stood on duty outside a door at the end of the passage. ‘A Mrs Cafferty to see the captain, Hawthorne,’ said Hartcliffe.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The marine crashed the stock of his musket against the deck. ‘Lord Hartcliffe and Mrs Cafferty to see the cap’n!’

  ‘Who the blazes is Mrs Cafferty?’ a voice from the other side of the door boomed back.

  Hartcliffe smiled awkwardly. Mrs Cafferty returned his smile, squeezed past the astonished marine and opened the door. In the day room within, she found three officers standing around a table, poring over a chart of the Tasman Sea.

  ‘I am,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘Mrs Cafferty, sir,’ said Hartcliffe, following her in. ‘She brought this letter from Sir William Denison.’ He held out the envelope to one of the officers, a burly figure in his mid-forties: Commander Robertson, she presumed. He took the letter from Hartcliffe and tore it open. Wordlessly, he read it through – twice, she guessed – and then folded it.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, it seems we are to make a stop at Norfolk Island on our way to the Fijis,’ he said with evident distaste. ‘We’re instructed to land Mrs Cafferty and two gentlemen there.’

  ‘Norfolk Island?’ said Hartcliffe. ‘That’s a penal settlement, isn’t it?’

  Robertson nodded. ‘It seems that Mrs Cafferty here has been offered a position on the island as governess to the commandant’s children, pending approval following an interview with the parents.’

  ‘They’re shipping you all the way out to Norfolk Island just so you can be interviewed by the parents?’ the youngest of the four officers present asked Mrs Cafferty in surprise. He was a tall, lean man roughly the same age as herself, with bruises all over his bronzed face.

  ‘That’s where the children are.’

  ‘There are children on Norfolk Island?’ Hartcliffe exclaimed in astonishment.

  ‘Why shouldn’t there be?’ asked Mrs Cafferty.

  ‘Oh, no reason I can think of,’ the young man with the bruised face said airily. ‘Except that from what I hear Norfolk Island is the most brutal establishment in the Crown’s penal settlements, reserved for the “incorrigibles”: the most persistent and vicious reoffenders amongst the transportees of the Australias. Hardly a suitable environment to raise children.’

  ‘Mr Price lives on the island with his entire family: his wife and five children, three boys and two girls,’ explained Mrs Cafferty. ‘Mrs Price has been delicate ever since she lost her sixth child, so Mr Price feels she needs a governess to help her raise the remaining children. All of the servants on Norfolk Island are convicts, but he thought it would be best to advertise the position elsewhere.’

  ‘Were there many applicants?’

  ‘I believe I was the only one.’

  ‘You astonish me.’

  ‘Irony does not become you, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ The officer looked disappointed. ‘I thought I was rather good at it.’ He offered her his hand. ‘Lieutenant Christopher I. Killigrew, at your service, ma’am.’ He introduced himself in the American fashion, including his middle initial without making any attempt to account for it.

  ‘What does the “I” stand for?’ she asked drily. ‘“Impertinent”?’

  Her retort left him at a loss for words, although he seemed more amused than put out to find himself in such a situation.

  ‘Obviously Mary Wollstonecraft was accurate in her assessment of naval officers,’ Mrs Cafferty said.

  ‘Mary Wollstonecraft?’ echoed Hartcliffe.
<
br />   ‘Mary Shelley’s mother,’ said Killigrew. ‘The author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. What was it she said? Something about us being “positively indolent”? Being confined to the society of our own sex, we “acquire a fondness for humour and mischievous tricks”?’

  Mrs Cafferty was startled to have any man quote Wollstonecraft at her, let alone a naval officer, but she quickly recovered herself. ‘“But Mind is equally out of the question, whether they indulge the horse-laugh or the polite simper.” ’

  ‘Oh, I prefer a horse-laugh to a polite simper any day of the week,’ Killigrew assured her.

  It was left to Hartcliffe to complete the introductions. ‘Commander Robertson, our captain…’

  Robertson grunted.

  ‘…And Mr Yelverton, our master.’

  ‘I thought the master of a ship was the captain?’ said Mrs Cafferty.

  ‘Not on navy vessels, ma’am,’ said Yelverton. A beefy-faced man in his late forties or early fifties, the master spoke with a hint of a Norfolk accent. ‘I’m the officer responsible for navigation, that’s all.’

  ‘Mr Yelverton does himself an injustice, ma’am,’ said Hartcliffe. ‘As the Tisiphone’s master, he may not be the most senior officer on board after the captain, but I hardly think any of us would deny he’s the most important.’ He turned to Robertson. ‘Who are the other two passengers, sir?’

  ‘Mr Nairn – the assistant comptroller-general of convicts – and some Yankee journalist who’s been given permission to inspect the conditions in the settlement. We’ll have to double up to make room. Mrs Cafferty can have your cabin, Second; you can sling a hammock in with Hartcliffe. Westlake will have to move in with Vellacott so Mr Nairn and this Yankee can share a cabin.’

  Killigrew took hold of a crutch which had been propped against the table and wedged it under his right armpit. ‘I’ll start moving my things so you can move in at once, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, sir?’ He hobbled out of the day room.

  Mrs Cafferty took her leave of Robertson, Hartcliffe and Yelverton and followed the second lieutenant. ‘Mr Killigrew – forgive me for asking – but what happened to your face?’