‘I understand that your family lives with you on the island, your wife and children,’ remarked Fallon. ‘That many of the officers of the garrison also have wives and children living with them. Have they signed such a waiver?’
‘These are Mr Price’s terms and conditions,’ said Nairn. ‘He has the last word.’
‘Do you not have authority over him?’
‘The Convict Department employs Mr Price because it has confidence in his ability to control the convicts here and run this establishment. The responsibility for all that happens here lies with him. I should need good reason before I overrule him in any matter relating to the security of the island.’
Fallon blew smoke in Price’s face. ‘Where do I sign?’
Nairn turned to Robertson. ‘Commander, perhaps your clerk would be good enough to assist us in drawing up the necessary documentation?’
‘But of course.’
Robertson guided Nairn, Price and Fallon down to his day room. They re-emerged fifteen minutes later, all parties seemingly satisfied with the conclusion of negotiations.
‘We’ll be staying at Norfolk Island for two nights,’ the commander told his two lieutenants. ‘Apparently the officers of the garrison are holding a ball at the civilian hospital tomorrow night, and Mr Price has cordially invited the senior officers of the Tisiphone to attend. Tonight we’ll be dining at Government House.’
‘I do hope you’ll join us, Mrs Cafferty,’ said Price. ‘I’m well aware that most governesses find themselves in an awkward position in an alien household, being neither servants nor family members. For as long as you’re on Norfolk Island, I’d be grateful if you’d think of yourself as one of the family.’
‘Thank you. I only hope I can prove myself worthy of the honour you extend to me.’
‘Be so good as to inform the other wardroom officers about dinner tonight, Second,’ said Robertson. ‘Full dress.’
‘You might like to wear your undress uniforms until you’re ashore, and then change into your number-one rigs,’ said Price. ‘The passage through the reef can be a mite rough at times.’
Chapter 5
The Isle of Mis’ry
The oarsmen bent furiously over their oars and propelled the whaleboat into the boiling maelstrom. They had to cross the reef with the breaker, or else the hidden rocks would rip the bottom out of the boat. The next wave hit them astern, drenching Killigrew and the other officers in the stern sheets, and the boat was lifted on the breaker. It was desperate work for a few seconds. The oarsmen struggled to find purchase with their oars in the foaming waters while the swirling cross-rips appeared to spin the boat this way and that. Then, just when it seemed the boat must surely be capsized, they were through; gliding forwards over the calm, clear waters of an aquamarine lagoon. Glancing over the side, Killigrew could see red snappers darting amongst the coral at least two fathoms down, the water was so clear.
‘A mite rough, did he say?’ grumbled Strachan.
‘Buck up, man,’ said Killigrew, unperturbed. ‘The sun will soon dry us out. Besides, I’ll lay odds you’re the first ever palaeontologist to visit Norfolk Island. Perhaps you’ll find some interesting fossils while we’re here.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snorted Strachan, trying to dry the lenses of his spectacles with a linen handkerchief that was scarcely less sodden than the rest of him. ‘For fossils you need a sedimentary geological structure. Any fool can see that this island is predominantly igneous.’
‘But of course,’ Killigrew said with a wry grimace.
The first whaleboat had already reached the jetty and the crew held it steady while Price, Nairn, Fallon, Robertson and Mrs Cafferty climbed out. Then the convict crew of the first boat rowed it into the surf before carrying it up to the boat-house on the beach beyond, while Price and the others waited for the second boat on the jetty.
A detachment of a dozen soldiers in scarlet tunics stood on the jetty, watching over three-dozen convicts who worked up to their waists in the water alongside. The men of the work-party were mostly white, but there were enough men of other races to remind them that Norfolk Island’s inmates came from all over the British Empire: a Chinese with a pigtail, a turbaned Sikh, a Maori with a tattooed face. The whaleboat bumped against the jetty on the far side and one of the oarsmen jumped out and tied up the painter.
Once they were all safely on dry land, Price was about to stride towards the foot of the jetty but Fallon paused to watch the men working in the wet quarry. ‘Thirteen guards standing watch over three dozen men,’ he remarked. ‘That’s rather a high proportion, isn’t it, Mr Price?’
‘That’s another reason why there’ve been no mutinies since I took over as commandant, Mr Fallon,’ Price responded with evident self-satisfaction. ‘Because I take no chances. Those men belong to the gaol-gang. That’s why we have soldiers from the garrison to watch them, rather than the usual warders and convict-overseers. The men who are sent to Norfolk Island are the worst scum of the Empire; the men assigned to the gaol-gang are the scum of the scum. I put them to work here, on the wet quarry, cutting coral from the reef to burn in the limekilns ashore. Iron men, they’re called. Give ’em three hundred lashes on the triangles and they won’t so much as whimper, though you can see their ribs.’ If Killigrew had not known better, he would have guessed that Price was proud of the convicts’ stoicism.
‘Three hundred lashes?’ said Mrs Cafferty. ‘That’s a little harsh, isn’t it? My husband was careful to make sure I never had to witness a flogging with my own eyes, but I’ve seen what fifty lashes can do to a man’s back. Three hundred…’
‘This is a harsh place, ma’am,’ said Price. ‘I shan’t try to pretend otherwise. You should know what you will be letting yourself in for if you accept my offer of a job as governess to my children. Oh, you’ll be safe here – on that I give you my word of honour. But only because I know how best to handle the likes of this scum.’ He indicated the men working on the wet quarry.
‘Three hundred lashes!’ exclaimed Robertson. ‘Good God! We shouldn’t be punishing men like that, we should be recruiting them into the navy!’
‘You wouldn’t want them,’ said Price, and pointed to one of the men working in the water alongside the jetty. ‘See him? That’s Edmund Wyatt, also known as Flummut Ned. Wyatt! Come here, you dog!’
Wyatt scowled and stopped what he was doing to wade across to the jetty. He moved slowly; more slowly than the resistance of the water could account for.
‘Climb out,’ Price told him. ‘I want these fine gentlemen and the lady to see what a real desperado looks like!’
Wyatt placed his palms on the surface of the jetty and tried to heave himself out of the water, scrabbling against the stonework with one leg while letting the other hang straight down. He seemed to be struggling, his brick-red face turning redder with the effort, but at last he got his backside on the pier and turned to grab the chain fettered to his right leg. When he pulled up the chain, Killigrew saw why he had moved so slowly through the water, and why it had taken him such an effort to climb out: a thirty-six-pound iron shot was bolted to the other end of the chain.
He dropped the shot on to the pier, stood up, and straightened. Killigrew could not help noticing that one of the soldiers kept his musket constantly trained on the convict, following his every move.
‘Tell the lady and these gentlemen what you were transported for, Ned,’ ordered Price.
Wyatt hawked and spat on the ground, dangerously close to one of Price’s boots. ‘Bit-faking.’
‘You’re too modest, Ned.’ Price turned to his guests to explain. ‘Ned here was one of the most notorious coiners the London underworld has ever known. That may not sound like much of a crime to you, but believe me, it’s big business. The police inspector who brought Wyatt to heel reckoned he and his gang had flooded the British economy with thousands of pounds’ worth of false coins. And don’t try to tell me it’s a crime without a victim: the production of false coins o
n that scale debases the currency and can do severe damage to the economy. Not that that would worry a vicious brute like Wyatt. Isn’t that right, Ned? You’re quite the pebble, aren’t you?’
Wyatt shrugged.
‘When the police raided the house in Shoreditch where he was running his coining operation, he and his gang put up a fight,’ explained Price. ‘Four policemen had to be hospitalised: one had an arm and three ribs broken from being struck with a crowbar, another had concussion and a suspected fractured skull from being hit by an iron saucepan. A third had his hand badly burned when one of the coiners threw molten metal at them, while the fourth was blinded in one eye and scarred for life when someone dashed the acid they used for electroplating in his face. The only reason no one was hanged for that was because Wyatt and his pals had a good lawyer, and none of the policemen could remember who had done what to whom in the mêlée.’
‘They deserved it,’ said Wyatt. ‘They were peelers.’
‘What about the sailors who died in that mutiny on the convict ship you were lagged on? Did they deserve it?’
Wyatt looked insouciantly at each of the naval officers present, until at last his eyes came to rest on Killigrew. The two of them looked one another up and down. ‘There’s only one thing I hate worse than peelers,’ he drawled. ‘And that’s laggers.’
Price chuckled. ‘You’d better believe it, Mr Killigrew. Ned here would kill you as soon as look at you if I weren’t here to protect you. Isn’t that right, Ned?’
Wyatt grinned. ‘Sooner.’
‘Very brave, aren’t you, Ned?’ Price moved closer to him. ‘Like to kill me too, wouldn’t you? Go on – why don’t you try to take one of the pistols from my belt?’
Wyatt looked tempted, but glanced at the soldier levelling his musket at him.
‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ offered Price. ‘Private Wilkins! Shoulder your musket. There now, Ned. Here – I’ll clasp my hands on top of my head. Go on, Ned. It’d be worth it, wouldn’t it? To be the man who cramped John Giles Price? You’ve often said you’ll kill me if it’s the last thing you do. Well, here’s your chance.’
Wyatt’s hand hovered inches from the grip of one of the pepperboxes tucked in Price’s belt. For a moment Killigrew thought the convict was actually going to go for it, even though he must have known that he himself would die seconds later, but then Wyatt lowered his hand to his side once more. ‘Go to hell,’ he muttered sullenly.
Price laughed. ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet, Ned? This is hell – and I’m the Devil, here to punish you for your sins! All right, my joker. Back to work.’
The convict sat down on the edge of the pier, lowered the round shot into the water until it was at the full extent of its chain and his ankle took the strain, and then eased himself off, landing in the water with a splash.
Price led his guests off the pier and they made their way along the sea wall. Price pointed out the different buildings as they passed: the new gaol, the convict barracks, the lumber-yard, the limekilns.
‘What do you use the lime for?’ asked Lord Hartcliffe. ‘Cement?’
Price nodded, and gestured about them. ‘All the buildings you see here were built by convicts using only the raw materials we find here on this island. We have our own quarry, and there are plenty of pine trees on the island for timber. It’s sawn into planks at the lumber-yard. We’re self-sufficient in food now too: sheep and cattle graze on the island, and we grow our own vegetables and corn at the agricultural station at Longridge, about a mile inland from here.’
‘And the convicts do all this?’ asked Fallon.
Price nodded. ‘It keeps them out of trouble. You know what they say: the Devil makes work for idle hands! At present I’ve got them building a new gaol for my more recalcitrant guests. We’re desperately short of cells for solitary confinement: a much less brutal method of punishing convicts than flogging, I’m sure you’ll agree. But as things stand at present, when I sentence a man to solitary confinement, I have to put him in a cell with a dozen others.’
Government House stood apart from the rest of Kingston, a two-storey villa on a low knoll to the east of the settlement. Two eighteen-pounder brass cannon stood on the greensward in front of the house, glowering over the rest of the settlement. Price ordered his butler – a convict-trusty – to prepare rooms for his guests, where Fallon and Nairn might stay while they were on the island, and the officers of the Tisiphone could get dressed for dinner. Then he showed his guests into the parlour, and Mrs Price and her children were sent for.
‘This lazar house of crime is no place for children to be raised,’ said Price. ‘Last year I even offered my resignation, so that Mary and I could return to VDL and raise the children in a more becoming environment. But Dr Hampton insists that no one can run Norfolk Island as well as I, and I have my public duty to think of.’
The children paraded into the room, three boys and two girls, their ages ranging from four to ten. They were followed by their mother, a handsome woman in her mid-thirties. Introductions were performed, but instead of dismissing the children back to the nursery immediately afterwards, they were suffered to remain. With a child’s unerring sense for finding the one man in the room who could not abide infants, the youngest, Anna Clara, at once homed in on Strachan and started trying to crawl into his lap. The assistant surgeon squirmed in his chair until Price stood up and rescued him, lifting up the girl and returning to his seat to dandle her on his own knee.
‘You’re not one of those who thinks children should be seen and not heard, are you, Mr Strachan?’ he asked jovially.
‘Not at all,’ said Strachan. ‘I don’t think they should be seen either.’
Mr and Mrs Price both laughed, thinking the assistant surgeon spoke in jest.
‘You gentlemen must tell us all the latest intelligence,’ said Mrs Price. ‘Here on Norfolk Island, we hear so little of the outside world. Is there any news of my uncle?’
‘Your uncle, ma’am?’ asked Robertson.
‘Sir John Franklin,’ explained Price.
There was no need to explain further. Everyone knew of Captain Sir John Franklin, the renowned Arctic explorer who had sailed in search of the North-West Passage five years earlier, and had not been seen since.
‘We’ve heard no news,’ said Killigrew. ‘But you mustn’t abandon hope. It’s not uncommon for the navy’s exploring ships to overwinter in the Arctic; and if anyone could survive in those frozen waters for five years, it’s Sir John.’ On returning from a previous expedition in search of the elusive passage, Franklin had become famous as ‘the man who ate his boots’.
They spent an hour making small talk about Arctic exploration over tea and cakes. None of the officers of the Tisiphone was part of the Royal Navy’s circle of polar explorers.
At six o’clock they broke up and went to their rooms to get changed for dinner. Hartcliffe, Killigrew and Strachan were changing into the full-dress uniforms that had been laid out on their beds for them when Killigrew heard a carriage pull up outside, and crossed to the window. Looking out, he saw a man in convict-grey fatigues step down from a coach and four in the light from the front of the house. The carriage was Price’s own: Killigrew recognised the Trengwainton coat of arms monogrammed on the door.
But for the fatigues, Killigrew would never had recognised the man as a convict: he carried himself with an air of arrogance, as if he disdained to be in a place like Norfolk Island. He was about to disappear out of sight beneath the verandah when something made him pause and look up.
He met Killigrew’s eyes. The lieutenant recognised him at once from the caricatures in Punch: the broken nose, the broad shoulders, the narrow eyes and the low, sloping forehead. But there was something else about this man that the cartoons failed to capture – something in his eyes, a hint of a razor-sharp intellect that belied his rough-hewn appearance. Then his rugged face cracked into a grin, and he did not seem so ugly after all. He touched the brim of his convict cap mockingly
to Killigrew, and stepped out of sight below.
‘What is it?’ asked Hartcliffe, lacing his half-boots.
‘It seems we’re to have a surprise guest to dinner tonight,’ said Killigrew. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, I just saw Devin Cusack arrive.’
They finished changing into their full-dress uniforms: navy-blue tailcoats, white pantaloons and kid gloves, and cocked hats tucked under their arms. They met Robertson and Westlake on the landing and the five of them made their way down to the drawing room. Cusack was studying a painting of winsome Nereides mourning over the body of Icarus, while Price sat in a chair reading a copy of The Hobart Gazette that Nairn had brought from the Tisiphone. Cusack turned away from the painting and Price rose to his feet as the naval officers entered.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Price. ‘May I present Mr Devin Cusack? Cusack, these gentlemen are Commander Robertson, Lieutenants Lord Hartcliffe and Mr Killigrew, and Mr Westlake and Mr Strachan, respectively the surgeon and assistant surgeon of HMS Tisiphone. I trust you gentlemen have no objections to dining with a rebel and a traitor? I thought that tonight’s supper would be an ideal opportunity for Mr Fallon to meet Cusack.’
The five visitors shook hands with the infamous rebel; it seemed rude not to. Indeed, if there was any standoffishness, it came from Cusack, who looked down his nose at the naval officers, as if the Irishman were intently aware of his own aristocratic background. ‘Killigrew, Killigrew…’ he mused. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’
‘You’re probably thinking of my grandfather, Rear Admiral Killigrew.’
Cusack shook his head. ‘No, that wasn’t it. Wait a moment, now I remember. Last year. Hong Kong, wasn’t it? I seem to recall something about a young lady being killed by Chinese pirates, thanks to your negligence.’
‘There was no formal charge of negligence,’ Robertson said sharply. ‘Mr Killigrew did everything in his power to save that girl’s life; and he’d be well justified in calling out any man who dared to suggest to the contrary.’
Killigrew and the Incorrigibles Page 9