The hut erupted suddenly with the entrance of three men; large active limbs, the smell of hot working bodies, horses, leather and smoke. They took off their hats, acknowledged us with brief nods. Two sat at the table, where one produced a knife and begun cutting wedges from a large round damper Sal had put down beside the grey-brown slab of cold meat. The second man hacked slices from this. The third, evidently Dinah’s husband, came and shook hands with Bergman, nodded at me, and indicated that Bergman should sit at the table. The little girl clung beside her father until he hoisted her onto his lap with a ‘whhoa-hup, lass’ and fed her morsels from the point of a knife.
Dinah handed me the two-year-old. He sat on my knee, staring into my face, fingers in his mouth, nose running a greenish slime, shocked into silence by this betrayal. His mother wiped his nose with a rough pinch of a rag, swung the iron arm to bring the pot off the fire and dealt stew into the bowls Sal handed to and fro. The heat in the room grew even more stifling. The men ate, grunting a few phrases, cutting more meat and a second damper. Another man, lizardy and old, came slowly in. Bent and gnomish, he might have been a hundred. He sat, was served, sucked his stew noisily. Every time I looked towards the table he caught my eye, winked, and grinned gummily. I looked away. When the meal was ended, he limped slowly past me, chucked the toddler under the chin, and quick as a snake reached out a hand to pinch my upper arm between finger and thumb. I winced at the fierce nip.
‘No fa’aat on she,’ he cackled.
Dinah whisked at him with a cloth.
‘Git out, yer’ould divvil,’ she called after him.
The men left, taking Bergman with them. Dinah took the toddler and fed him damper crusts dipped in stew. Sal brought another baby from one of the curtained alcoves, unbuttoned her bodice and attached the infant to a nipple. Its little fists opened and closed. The small girl stood on tiptoe at the edge of the table, her eyes just above the level of it, humming softly and making hills out of the crumbs on its surface.
‘What is your name?’ I asked her gently.
‘Jane,’ she whispered.
They invited me to help myself to the stew, which was greasy but good. There was tea to follow, black and sugary. Sal put the baby back to sleep and went outside, calling little Jane to follow her.
Taking my chance, repeating that I did not mean to cause trouble, I drew the books from my bag and asked Dinah if she could tell me about them. She flushed and said she had not stolen them, she had found them at the inn, left behind. She went to the door and looked out, shut it and came back.
‘I knew this’d come,’ she said. ‘I said to Seth, this is a bad day’s work. It’s bin on my mind these two years. Why do you want to know?’
‘We are looking for a man called Mr Rowland Rochester. We thought he and George Fairfax might be the same man. Do you know the name Rochester?’
She shook her head and said, ‘Seth heard Mick Walker is dead? Constable Walker. Killed? That’s a right wicked thing, if it is so. He and Seth come out on the transport together, the Medina—a good man.’
‘I’m very sorry. It is true.’
She looked at me steadily, her eyes welling with tears, and spoke with great bitterness. ‘Poor Mick Walker. ’e never did harm to nobody. Dead all on account of Mr Henry Arthur, may he rot. It might of bin Seth.’
She seemed to come to a decision and began speaking so fast it was not easy to follow.
The real reason why Henry Arthur had come to New Norfolk was not to see his brother, nor for the meeting, but on account of a girl, a convict-assigned servant working at the inn. Nan. Poor silly girl. She believed he would marry her. Mr Henry made Nan sit beside him to bring luck in his playing, but it done him not a speck of good. He lost, and being drunk grew quarrelsome and said he did not like the way George Stephen looked at Nan. ‘What are you looking at?’ he said, and fired a pistol through the window—that was nothing new—but Nan got up and ran out the back. George Stephen told Henry he was a fool and should consider what his uncle the Governor would do if he heard of Henry’s goings-on.
Mr Henry quietened a bit but soon began again, saying George Stephen and Hugh Ross were cheating. She did not see who began the fight but they knocked over the table and bottles and glasses and cards. The gun was on the table and fell to the floor. Someone picked it up and fired twice just as Nan came back in, followed by Mr Charles Arthur and Mick Walker, returned from the meeting. Nan was suddenly on the floor lying there all bloody and Mr Henry on his knees beside her white as starch, blubbing like a schoolboy, pulling at her and moaning, ‘Come on, Nan, get up,’ and Mr Ross trembling so he couldn’t hardly stand.
Then Mr George Stephen picked Nan up in his arms and carried her into the back parlour just as Mrs Fairfax came downstairs to see what the noise was. At the same time the two Fairfax men came in from the meeting, and that was when the older Mr Fairfax, seeing the body and blood, took his fit. Mr Charles sent George Stephen to fetch the doctor and Mr Alfred Stephen from the Bush Inn. They told her, Dinah, and Mrs Fairfax too, that Nan had only fainted. But Dinah saw the way Nan’s head hung backward, her eyes and mouth open, and the blood. The poor girl was past help. Mrs Fairfax said nothing but rushed away upstairs to her daughter.
When Seth came back, he and Mick Walker carried the dead man up to his room. Alfred Stephen was in a terrible state, red-faced and sweating and mopping hisself with a great handkercher. Then younger Mr Fairfax said he and his family must leave at once. It seemed strange that they would go without waiting for a funeral. There was something strange about it all. He wanted to take his wife and the child away then and there, although it was just past midnight! Mick Walker persuaded them to wait a while, and later he took them down in a skiff to the Black Snake to catch the morning coach. Fairfax also gave Mick money for the burial of the older man, and for a headstone.
When the Fairfaxes were gone she had found the books left behind. She had thought they might do to teach Jane her letters, but she did not know how to begin and when Harry Bentley the pedlar came, she had given them to him in exchange for—she indicated the shelf by the fire. A chipped china plate with a border of painted flowers, propped standing up with a stone. The only object of beauty in the place. I suddenly wished I’d brought some more interesting gift than the jam and walnuts in the package.
And straight after, Dinah was continuing, Mick Walker was taken for housebreaking, which she did not believe—and Mr Henry came and told Seth to say nothing of what had happened or it might be blamed on Seth, and he didn’t want another sentence, did he? If they kept quiet, something might be done for them. Later they were offered this place. Seth had been wanting to breed horses and this run was on a good creek, but lonely, not like the inn.
Strangely lonely, I thought, to a woman used to the coming and going of an inn. And at night, the small clearing would be full of wild shadows, and the tall whispering crowding gum trees and the thick dark undergrowth alive with the scrabbling of unknown creatures. And if they took Seth away . . .
I promised Dinah I would do everything in my power to make sure no harm came to her from the story she had told me. I had brought nothing with me except what I took everywhere: the small sketchbook, now about a quarter used, a tiny watercolour box and a couple of brushes and pencils. I gave them to Dinah.
‘For Jane,’ I said.
The last barred gate was shut behind us by mid-afternoon, and as we rattled away down the track the humid afternoon was building to a storm, the air no fresher than in the hut. I was weighing up what to say, but need not have troubled. Seth had told Bergman the same story, with an added detail: Mick Walker had arranged for Nan to be buried in the same grave with Fairfax. The sexton was an old man, a heavy drinker. When he drowned in the river a month later, nobody was surprised.
‘Two Fairfaxes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where did they go afterwards? Wouldn’t the Carmichaels have had to account for losing a servant?’
‘They probably reported her “absent from her place of work�
��.’ Bergman, too, was clearly exhilarated by what we had heard. ‘Female convicts disappear from the records more easily than men. If they’re assigned outside the main townships they may not come under the eye of the authorities for years.’
‘You can’t blame the Carmichaels for keeping quiet,’ I said, ‘but why would the Fairfaxes agree to say nothing? Why did they want to leave so quickly? Do you suppose the younger man was Rowland Rochester?’
‘We don’t even know who George Fairfax is—or was. The younger man could simply be his son. But Rowland Rochester is almost beside the point now. This is the kind of thing people have been trying to prove against the Arthurites for years. No wonder Alfred Stephen and the rest were determined to prevent Arthur finding out. He’d have had no compunction about letting the law deal with all of them, even his chief officers. At any rate, St John Wallace now has the evidence he wants.’
‘But you can’t tell him?’ My voice was too harsh. ‘If he is half mad, as you say, he will use it and the Carmichaels will suffer.’
‘Of course I must tell him,’ he said, taking a sideways glance at me from his driving, his face suddenly serious. ‘This is exactly what he is looking for. Arthurites colluding to hide a death they have caused? Walker falsely accused? Imagine the outcry!’
‘But what about Dinah and the children?’ I was too hot, breathless. ‘How would they survive if Seth was sent back to prison like Walker?’
‘They will be safer if everything is out in the open.’
‘How can you say so? The Arthurites will take revenge on the Carmichaels and escape punishment themselves. Montagu and Forster are not directly involved. They will plead ignorance, twist the story . . .’
Bergman spoke impatiently. ‘They are accessories to murder! Or manslaughter at least.’
‘But Dinah, trying to survive in that hut . . .’
He looked at me sideways again. ‘You dislike the bush yourself, and therefore assume everyone feels the same. Sal and Dinah may be freer than you.’
I kept my voice as calm as I could manage. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They are working for themselves, on their own property. In England they must have worked for someone else all their lives. But England is always best with you.’
I had been hot already, now I was burning. I felt perspiration soaking my hair under my bonnet, trickling down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades. I knew I was red-faced, damp and ugly with heat.
‘Are you suggesting I should lie to Wallace?’ he asked.
‘You could tell him about George Fairfax’s death, about the other Fairfax. Not mention the girl.’
‘But the death of the girl is the crucial point!’ I could feel his growing exasperation.
‘It’s only hearsay! Unless the grave is exhumed to find the two bodies—and the Arthurites would never let that happen. The Fairfaxes must be found and induced to speak out, and then the Carmichaels will not need to. And we will know once and for all whether Fairfax is Rowland . . .’
‘If the Fairfaxes haven’t spoken before, why would they now?’ he said. ‘The Arthurites bought the Carmichaels’ silence with threats and gifts—they probably used the same means on the Fairfaxes . . . You speak of doing harm, but what about the harm you will do to Rowland Rochester and his family if he has a bigamous second wife and a child?’
‘Rowland counts for more than Dinah and the children?’
‘No! But Dinah, Sal and the children have more connection with the real evils the Arthurites have done in this colony. Grabbing land for wealthy absentee landlords in England, nepotism, a greedy disregard for every interest but their own. Wallace is right; they must be stopped or they’ll continue. Will you wait for others to fall victim?’
We jogged along in steaming irritable silence until he said, ‘You say, “find the Fairfaxes”—but by now they could be anywhere. Sydney, England, New Zealand, the Indies. In any case, Rowland Rochester is not the point. Can you not see beyond the personal? There are larger issues at stake.’
Everything was over. I was lectured like a child.
‘Perhaps,’ I said bitterly, ‘it’s because when men begin to talk about the larger view, it often seems to involve some loss or injury for women and children.’
What I now furiously, incoherently felt, was that I was powerless to save Dinah and her family, and so were he and St John. We could do nothing—only stumble along behind the Arthurites on the dark path their greed and secrecy had carved. They would destroy whomever they pleased, by accident or choice, to save themselves.
While I struggled to find words for this, he said in a hard voice, ‘Well, the whole matter has very little to do with me . . .’ he grimaced, made a dismissive gesture as he brushed a fly away from his face. ‘Against my better judgement, I’ll say nothing at present to St John about the girl’s death. But when he is more recovered . . .’
‘I shall leave the island soon,’ I said. ‘When I’m gone you can do as you like.’
We were only a silent, angry, suffering mile now from Forcett, an immeasurable gulf between us. Thunder rumbled behind the hills, roiling masses of purple-grey cloud spread across the sky, but the rain would not fall. We clattered back into the poultry yard and Yankey Tom helped me down. Bergman raised his hat, gave his attention to helping unhitch the cart, and rode away without a backward look. I spent the hot night tossing on the little cot, mulling over the painful mess of it all. The storm broke in the early hours of the morning. It brought rain and coolness and I wearily slept.
I did not see him next morning. It being a market day in Sorell, I travelled back with Yankey Tom and one of the Miss Driscolls, in a cart full of poultry dead and alive, and a strong, sickly odour of blood and feathers.
After my return to ‘Kenton’ I remained full of disgust and fury—with myself, Bergman, the island, and the whole Rowland matter. I vowed to wait no longer for Anna and Quigley; I would book my passage home as soon as I reached Hobart again; shake the dust of this quarrelsome, brutal little colony off my feet. But Mr Gregson, visiting ‘Kenton’, urged me again to paint views of his house, and I allowed myself to be persuaded. I went to ‘Risdon’ in late February, directly from the Chesneys by the back road over Grasstree Hill, sending a note of my whereabouts to the Post Office in Hobart.
The Gregsons’ household was like the Chesneys’ in being large and sociable, but elegant beyond compare, its setting an earthly paradise at the edge of the Derwent. Verdant gardens and orchards spread along the river and native bushland clothed the hill behind. Mrs Gregson and her two grown-up, unmarried daughters welcomed me kindly. Another daughter was married and expecting a child; their son had just sailed for England to study the law. Feeling empty on this account, the Gregsons had filled the house with six or seven guests.
Everything here was serenely well ordered and the scents of late summer filled the calm, light rooms. The company was cultivated and elegant but without formality. I was free to wander all day, drawing and painting. When I finished Mr Gregson’s commission, he and his wife encouraged me to stay on to add to the portfolio of works I could sell in England. In the atmosphere of kindness there, I began to think I’d be a fool to hurry into leaving on account of a fit of bad temper with the island and Bergman.
The trial of Walker’s six fellow-absconders was set for the first week of March, and Gregson went up to town to attend. He was due home on the Thursday, but a note came from him to say the trial was delayed, and it was not until late on the Friday evening after the family had dined that he came in, with Booth, who looked tired, but was full of good humour, as always.
‘No, my dear, we have not eaten,’ Gregson answered his wife, ‘we are indeed famished. We waited in town for the evening edition of the Courier—and might as well have saved ourselves the trouble—since they are no wiser than we, it appears. Will you sit again with us, my dear, while we eat? Harriet, will you take a glass of wine while we tell our news?
‘The hearing, as you know, was set d
own for Tuesday before both judges, Pedder and Montagu, but it was adjourned until the following day on account of the “absence of a material witness”. That was Booth here, of course, delayed in coming up to town.’
‘The Isabella came down,’ said Booth, ‘but she struck an obstacle in the water just before Wedge Bay . . .’
‘On Wednesday the trial was adjourned again until Thursday,’ continued Gregson, ‘by which time,’ he turned to me, ‘your friend St John Wallace was in a pitiable state of agitation. The man is a mass of sensibility.’
‘It was unfortunate,’ added Booth. ‘When we came to the courthouse on Thursday morning we discovered four men had been hanged an hour earlier and a great crowd was there to see it. I thought Wallace would collapse, but he didn’t say a word.’
‘. . . though to look at his face,’ Gregson said, ‘you’d have thought he’d seen the Gorgon’s head. And when the trial at last began, we expected days of evidence and debate—both their Honours being garrulous gentlemen. But what did we get? Nothing! All over and done in great haste. The charge was read, “absconding from Port Arthur”—no mention of other crimes—and a guilty plea recorded. And then the sentence! “To be severally transported for life.” There was great astonishment in the court, as you may imagine, both at the sentence and the manner of it. It was commonly believed they’d hang.’
‘Transportation means hard labour on a chain gang, as you know,’ said Booth, ‘or return to Port Arthur. Wallace is determined to negotiate for Port Arthur so they will come under my care again.’
‘Who will decide?’
‘John Price, or Spode, or both in consultation. If it’s Price it’s hopeless, I’d say.’
One of the newspapers had recently claimed Price had been seen in disguise in one of the lowest pothouses in town, trying to entrap an unwary sinner.
‘I’ve seen many an odd business here,’ continued Gregson, ‘but this is one of the oddest—and we haven’t yet come to the most curious thing. Look there in the newspaper. Do you see the names of the men? John Jones, Nicholas Head Lewis, George Moss, James Wolf and James County. No mention of Jack Thomas, the one they call Dido. He did not appear. Where is he? Wallace hopes it means they’ve accepted his plea that Dido should be charged separately because he is somewhat simple-minded—but nothing was said. Now there will be another wait I suppose, to see what happens next. Oh, bye the bye, I called at the Post Office, Harriet, and have letters for you.’
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