‘Hm? Oh, I was defenestrated a few nights ago.’
‘Defenestrated? Oh, you mean… oh! You’re the fellow who was thrown out of that window at the Harbour View Hotel.’
Killigrew blushed. ‘You heard about that?’
‘My dear Mr Killigrew, let me assure you that everyone has heard about that. You are to be congratulated, sir. You are the talk of the town.’
‘Capital!’ he said brightly; her mocking tone seemed to cheer him up. ‘I’ve wanted to be the talk of the town ever since I was a boy.’
‘Do you often find yourself cast through windows?’
‘Not as often as you might expect.’ He opened a door to their right and motioned for her to precede him through it. ‘The wardroom. This is where we dine.’ He led her across to one of the doors that opened off the far side of the room. ‘And this is my cabin, where you’ll be accommodated.’
She surveyed the cramped cabin: a bunk, a washstand, a fold-down desk beneath some shelves weighed down with a motley miscellany of books. The latest novels of Dickens and Currer Bell vied for space with Latin poetry, historical romances by Dumas, philosophical works in English and French, and Edward Lear’s A Book of Nonsense. The cabin was plain and functional, but she had stayed in worse. ‘Cosy,’ she remarked.
‘Sorry it’s such a mess,’ he said, quickly moving so his body blocked her view of the bottle of whiskey on the desk. Behind his back he opened the drawer and slid it out of sight. She pretended not to have noticed. ‘Of course I’ll clear my stuff out of here, and there will be clean sheets on the bunk.’
She glanced at the mess on the desk: some paperwork Killigrew had been working on, a peacock feather with a double-eye, and a small, framed calotype of a darkly pretty young woman. ‘Your sweetheart?’
‘One-time,’ he said curtly.
‘But still you hold the torch of love for her. What happened? Did she break off the engagement?’ she asked archly. ‘Leave you standing at the altar?’
‘She was murdered.’ He tried to sound dismissive.
She had always hated going through life being terrified of saying the wrong thing, so she had never worried about it. As a policy it had worked fine, but now, of course, the inevitable had happened and she had well and truly put her foot in her mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He shrugged. ‘You weren’t to know.’
Fortunately, the awkward moment was ended by the voice of the marine sentry on the deck above them: ‘Boat ahoy!’
‘Aye, aye!’ came the reply.
Killigrew stood on tiptoe to peer out of the porthole. ‘Ah-ha! It looks as though your fellow travellers have arrived. I’d better go up on deck to greet them.’
She followed him up on deck and they emerged from the hatch to find Hartcliffe and a bespectacled young officer greeting two gentlemen. One of them was a small, brisk, fastidiously neat man with a businesslike manner.
‘Ah, Mrs Cafferty,’ said Hartcliffe. ‘May I introduce Mr Nairn, the assistant comptroller-general of convicts?’
‘Mrs Cafferty and I have already met,’ said Nairn, beaming as he shook Mrs Cafferty’s hand. ‘So, you didn’t have second thoughts, ma’am?’
‘My mind is quite made up, Mr Nairn. I’m determined to see this through.’
‘Good for you, ma’am. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ He gestured to his companion, who touched the gold head of his ebony cane to the rakishly curled brim of his top hat. ‘Mrs Cafferty, gentlemen: may I present Mr Malachi Fallon, a reporter for The Irish-American?’
‘The Irish-American?’ queried Killigrew.
‘A political newspaper published in New York,’ explained Fallon, tipping his hat.
‘Mr Fallon writes articles about how beastly we British are to our Irish subjects,’ Nairn explained enthusiastically, as if he heartily approved.
Fallon smiled. ‘There’s no need to tell our readers how beastly the British are to the Irish, Mr Nairn. Most of them emigrated to New York when the famine was at its worst, as I did myself.’
‘Now that’s hardly fair,’ protested Killigrew. ‘The famine was an act of God. I’m the last person in the world to speak in defence of the British government, but you can hardly—’
‘The last person in the world to speak in defence of the British government?’ Fallon echoed with an amused smile. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but that seems like a peculiar sentiment for a British naval officer to be expressing.’
‘One can love one’s country without caring for the poltroons who call themselves the government of the hour, Mr Fallon,’ retorted Killigrew. ‘At any rate, one can hardly blame them for what happened. When they realised the extent of the suffering in Ireland, they did try to alleviate the situation.’
‘Too little too late, Mr Killigrew; and no consolation to the hundreds of thousands of men, women and children who died in terrible agony.’
‘If I could turn the clock back, Mr Fallon—’ Killigrew said tightly.
‘But you can’t, can you?’
‘In Killigrew’s defence, I should point out that he was very active in raising money for Irish famine relief,’ said the bespectacled young officer who had been on deck with Hartcliffe. ‘He squeezed a hundred pounds out of my guv’nor; how he managed that I’ll— Yeow!’ The officer hopped up and down, clutching his foot.
‘Sorry, Strachan,’ said Killigrew. ‘My crutch slipped.’
Mrs Cafferty gave the lieutenant a curious look before turning to Fallon. ‘If you are so keen on Irish politics, may I ask what interest you have in penal institutions? Is penal reform another of your editorial lines?’
‘In a manner of speaking. It so happens that Devin Cusack is a prisoner on Norfolk Island.’
‘Who’s Devin Cusack?’ asked Strachan.
Everyone on deck turned to stare at him incredulously. He might as well have asked who Queen Victoria was. ‘Who’s Devin Cusack?’ echoed Killigrew. ‘The Battle of Boulagh? The Widow Cormack’s cabbage patch?’
Strachan blinked at him.
‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’
‘No.’
‘What, not ever?’
‘Not unless you count The Lancet and Curtis’ Botanical Journal. Killigrew, in light of the fact I’m not interested in finance, politics, foreign intelligence, what the Queen’s been up to, buying a carriage or looking for a position as a servant, I can’t think of a singularly more futile pursuit than reading the newspapers. Now will you please tell me: who the devil is Devin Cusack?’
‘Who the devil indeed! Devin Cusack is a rebel and a traitor who can count himself fortunate that the government saw fit to commute his sentence of death by being hanged, drawn and quartered to one of transportation for life.’
‘I beg to differ, sir,’ said Fallon. ‘Devin Cusack is one of the leading lights of the Young Ireland movement, a man who courageously risked his life for the repeal of the Act of Union between Great Britain and Ireland, along with William Smith O’Brien and the others in the rebellion at Ballingarry.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m still none the wiser,’ said Strachan. ‘Mrs Cafferty, since you appear to combine an Irish name with an English accent, I wonder if I might turn to you for an unbiased explanation?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll certainly do my best. Along with William Smith O’Brien, Devin Cusack is one of the leaders of the Young Ireland movement, dedicated to repealing the Act of Union.’ Ever since the Act of Union of 1800, the Irish Parliament had been abolished and Ireland ruled from Westminster by the British Parliament. Ireland returned its own MPs to Westminster, but they formed a minority in the House of Commons, which meant that unless one of the British political parties at Westminster supported the Irish, they could never get any laws passed in their favour.
‘Two years ago, when the famine was at its height, they gave up on the political process,’ explained Mrs Cafferty. ‘Or rather, attempted to continue it by other means, as Herr von Clausewitz would have put it. In fine, they publicly declared their w
illingness to take up arms against the British government. When the government heard this, they suspended the law of habeas corpus to allow them to arrest the Young Irelanders without a charge and to hold them indefinitely. The Young Irelanders felt they were left with no choice but to start a rebellion. They marched around Tipperary trying to raise an army. When they reached the town of Ballingarry they had a small force of just over a hundred men and women, a few of them armed with muskets or pikes. While they were there, they learned that a large force of policemen was marching to meet them. They built a barricade across the main street of the town, and when the police saw it they beat a hasty retreat to a large house a short distance from the town. The rebels pursued them and besieged the house.
‘While O’Brien was trying to parley with the policemen, fighting broke out. I don’t know which side opened fire first, although I dare say at least two gentlemen present have their own opinions. In any event, two men were killed – both of them rebels – but after a couple of hours the rebels realised they could not capture the house and they melted away when they received reports of an even larger body of policemen approaching the town. Smith O’Brien and the other leaders were arrested trying to flee the country. They were tried for treason and sentenced to death. Those, at least, are the facts as I understand them.’ Mrs Cafferty glanced challengingly at Killigrew and Fallon. ‘Would either of you care to dispute them?’ They shook their heads, quailing like naughty children before a… well, a governess.
‘None of which explains what Devin Cusack is doing in a place like Norfolk Island,’ said Hartcliffe. ‘I thought only hardened criminals were sent there? Even the British government accepts that O’Brien and the other rebels were political prisoners.’
‘I can explain that,’ said Nairn. ‘When O’Brien, Cusack and the other rebels arrived here in Hobart Town last year, I went on board their ship to meet them. Acting under instructions from Sir William, I offered them a chance to live in relative comfort. They were to be kept separate but, as long as they gave their word of honour that they would make no attempt to escape, they were to be allowed to live normal lives and to move about freely within the respective districts to which they had been confined. After debating the offer amongst themselves, they all decided to give their parole: all except William Smith O’Brien and Devin Cusack.
‘O’Brien was sent to live under guard in a cottage of his own on Maria Island and remains there to this day; Cusack was sent to the Salt Water River penal station. Not having given his parole, of course, Mr Cusack felt under no moral obligation to stay, and so in spite of the extensive security precautions put in place he contrived to depart within two weeks of his arrival. He only got two miles before he was picked up by the local yeomanry, of course, but it was felt that in order to forestall any further such harebrained attempts to abscond it would be wisest to remove him posthaste to a location from which there would be no possible chance of escape…’
‘Norfolk Island,’ concluded Killigrew.
‘The Isle of Mis’ry,’ put in Fallon. ‘Where Satan never sleeps.’
Nairn smiled. He seemed to find Fallon’s attitude amusing. ‘Mr Fallon is under the impression that Mr Cusack is being held in general circulation and is being subjected to the same indignities and punishments as the other inmates of Norfolk Island. Indeed, he wrote a number of inflammatory articles in The Irish-American to that effect earlier this year. These articles were brought to the attention of the British consul in New York and a rather heated correspondence between the two of them ensued in the pages of The Irish-American. Finally the consul invited Mr Fallon to go to Norfolk Island to see for himself that Mr Cusack, far from being held in durance vile, has a cottage to himself on the north side of the island and lives in not inconsiderable comfort. For a prisoner, that is.’
Fallon smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. ‘I don’t believe the consul imagined for a moment that I would call his bluff.’
They went down to the wardroom where they made small talk over a pot of tea while they waited for the cabins to be prepared. At last her cabin was ready, and Mrs Cafferty entered it, carefully closed the door behind her, and heaved a sigh of relief.
She unpacked enough things from her trunk to see her through the voyage. Then she took a small double-barrelled ‘turnover’ pistol from amongst her undergarments and slipped it into one of the pockets of her skirt.
Chapter 4
Passage to Purgatory
‘You may order Mr Muir to stop the engines and let the fire die out, Mr Killigrew,’ Robertson said once the Tisiphone had cleared soundings. ‘And I believe we shall unrig paddles.’ Removing the paddles from the wheels reduced drag, but it was a dirty and difficult task, usually reserved for any defaulters.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Killigrew passed the word on to Midshipman Cavan, who hurried below to inform the chief engineer, and Robertson turned to the master.
‘Lay me a course for Norfolk Island, Mr Yelverton.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. We should be able to fetch it on a course of north-east.’
‘Very good. All plain sail, Second, course north-east.’
The sloop had weighed anchor and steamed out of Sullivan’s Cove on the dot of noon. Now she had emerged from the Derwent Estuary and crossed Storm Bay to the open sea beyond. Robertson went below, and Hartcliffe came on deck shortly before four o’clock to take over from Killigrew as officer of the watch.
Supported by his crutch, Killigrew hobbled down to the log room to update the ship’s log with the sailings of the afternoon watch, and then he was his own man; until the end of the first dog watch, at any rate.
He entered the wardroom on his way to his cabin. Mrs Cafferty and Fallon were there, making polite small talk over another pot of tea. Their presence reminded Killigrew that he had to go to Hartcliffe’s cabin now, to which Private Hawthorne had already moved all his things.
As soon as he entered the wardroom, Fallon rose to his feet. ‘Settling in nicely?’ Killigrew asked him, propping the crutch in one corner.
Fallon seemed distracted by the question. ‘What? Yes, thank you. Mr Killigrew, why have the engines stopped?’
‘Don’t concern yourself: it’s nothing to worry about. We’re proceeding under sail. We’ve only got enough coal in the bunkers for two weeks’ steaming, so we like to reserve it for emergencies, difficult manoeuvres or navigating busy waterways when the wind’s against us.’
‘You mean, we’re going to sail all the way to Norfolk Island? How long will it take us?’
‘Less than two weeks. We’ve got the Westerlies behind us; we should reach the island early next month.’
‘Next month! If I’d known it was going to take so long, I’d… Is there no way you can persuade Captain Robertson to proceed under steam?’
Killigrew smiled. ‘I’d rather not try, if it’s all the same with you; he doesn’t care for extravagance. Why? What’s the hurry?’
‘Oh, no hurry, no hurry,’ Fallon said quickly. He paced up and down a couple of times, and then stepped out of the wardroom without another word.
‘Well! I don’t imagine anyone’s ever been in a hurry to get to Norfolk Island before.’ To preserve his right ankle, Killigrew hopped rather than walked across to the sideboard. Mrs Cafferty struggled to suppress a giggle, prompting him to smile.
‘It’s all right, do feel free to laugh.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologise. I must present a pretty comical sight, mustn’t I? Twisted ankle.’ He poured himself a glass of whiskey from one of the decanters. ‘Can I offer you a drink, ma’am?’
‘It’s a little early in the day for me.’
‘Sun’s well over the foreyard.’
‘I never drink before six o’clock in the evening.’
‘As you will. Chin-chin!’ He drained the whiskey in one, poured himself a second, and then sat down at the far end of the table from her so as not to crowd her. A copy of the Hobart Town Daily Courier lay on the tab
le and he picked it up, leafing through to the gossip columns; not that they made much sense to an outsider, but it was that or the shipping intelligence.
He found he could not concentrate on the print, however: he was conscious of Mrs Cafferty’s gaze burning through the paper. He lowered the paper and found that she was indeed staring at him.
‘What is it?’ he challenged.
‘Why didn’t you want Mr Strachan to tell me about your charitable work, Mr Killigrew?’
He blushed. ‘Not the sort of thing a fellow talks about, is it? I know plenty of would-be philanthropists who wear their charity work like laurels; but I’ve always felt that if one is going to do good work, one should do it for its own sake, not to win the praise and admiration of your peers. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I don’t really care a jot about the starving Irish, you know. I only do charity work because it means I get to spend time with Baroness Burdett-Coutts.’
Mrs Cafferty placed her elbows on the table, intertwined her fingers and rested her chin on the backs of her hands. ‘And why would you want to do a thing like that?’
‘The wealthiest, most beautiful unmarried heiress in the world… I can’t imagine, can you?’
She laughed. ‘What am I to make of you, Mr Killigrew? You despise the Irish rebels, and yet raise money for Irish famine relief – and then try to laugh it off as an infatuation with Baroness Burdett-Coutts. You have a passing familiarity with the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, and yet you become the talk of Hobart Town by engaging in street brawls. You laugh everything off as a joke, and yet you’re the unhappiest man I’ve ever met.’
‘What makes you say that? No, wait, let me guess: you’ve been speaking to Mr Strachan, haven’t you? I suppose you asked about that calotype in my cabin and he mentioned that business in Hong Kong?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s none of my business.’
‘You’re right, it is none of your business.’ He said it without malice. ‘Have a care, ma’am. I fear Mr Strachan is endeavouring to play cupid between us.’
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 7