‘Oh, the devil has come to Swag & Tucker!’ I laughed. ‘Never be saying that. As it is, I’m torn by my conscience.’
I squeezed her arm. ‘It’s not as if they’ll play for money. May I visit Bess when the young ones are settled? I long to know what she thinks of Thomas.’
‘Now, miss. Don’t you be match-making like you tried for Rowan. Bess will be upset if you do.’
I smiled, feeling sure of Bess’s gratitude if I did.
‘Away with you. I’ll come for a while later,’ she added.
Bess was laughing as I walked into their kitchen and I thought how happy she looked. We brought out our handwork but in spite of several attempts, I had no chance to ask her about Thomas.
RIPAPA ISLAND
Southern, manacled to another prisoner, leant over the lee rail of the small steamer, the Anderson, and was impressively sick. His companion uttered a string of oaths and glared at their warder who was watching with cynical amusement.
Southern wiped his mouth, replaced his spectacles with trembling fingers and, gripping the railing, moaned with apparent fear. His face had the whiteness of chalk as his stomach retched yet again. The hasty swallowing of the hidden potful of heated pork fat had worked by the time he had reached the wharf, much to the warders’ embarrassment.
They were now nearly halfway across the narrow harbour and his fear was proving most convincing.
‘Never seen the like. ‘Tisn’t as if there’s a big sea running,’ said one warder, scathingly. ‘He’s scared, right enough.’
‘I had an aunt what was scared of going outdoors. Used to faint before she crossed the porch.’
‘It’s all in the mind. Just as well we’ve got the barracks built on the island and no longer go to and fro each day.
He’d better make a quick recovery. Don’t fancy his preparing our meals.’
The steamer slid alongside the island’s jetty, bells ringing. Southern raised an apparently disinterested glance at the stone sides of the fortress but his eyes registered details: the slope of the walls, the narrow surging channel between island and shore, and the two armed sentries watching from above the iron bars of the entrance gate.
He took as long as he could to go down the short gangway, clinging to the rope handrail as if terrified of the drop to the water. His shackled mate dragged him up the ramp and through the entrance, boots stomping an echo from the stone walls.
The courtyard was edged with wooden and sheet-iron buildings with small windows, all barred. The main fort to seaward was nearly completed and he’d learnt that already one huge gun was in its concealed emplacement, as well as cells, on the lowest level. Fort Jervois, one of the strongest fortresses in the southern hemisphere, had been built to protect the port of Lyttelton from a possible foreign invasion, but this was of little interest to Southern.
Someone thrust a mug of water into his hand and he gave the warder a grateful nod. He was unshackled and told to sit against the wall of the barracks while his companion prisoners fell in with the thirty-five mustered on the grassed yard.
The prisoners being relieved tramped down through the archway under the alert eyes of the sentries on top of the wall. The steamer gave a toot and the transfer of men was completed as the roll-call began on the island.
Chapter
– Ten –
There was disappointment in store for July. Beanpole wanted to move inland where he was spending most of each week cutting the timber needed for Thomas’s building plans. Naturally, he hated leaving Katie and little Pennyweight Jane alone up on the rise here at Swag & Tucker.
Nikolas came out for stores and broke the news that the building of our cottage was to be delayed three months.
‘I couldn’t refuse when Beanpole asked if his cottage could be built next.’ He looked at me anxiously to see my reaction.
‘Oh Nik, surely …’ And then I thought of Katie’s loneliness, even though Bess and I spent much free time with her. I knew how I felt with Nikolas away for a week here and three weeks there. I gave a sigh. ‘No. You were right, Nik, though I’d have found it hard to do the same. Those two need to be together and we don’t know yet whether we’re to marry next April or October. I daren’t ask Father yet, but I’m on my best behaviour to influence him.’
Nik laughed. ‘With a model daughter, he may decide to keep you longer.’
My eyes widened at such a terrible thought, though knew he was joking. ‘When do the Rosses intend to move inland?’
‘As soon as the cottage is built. Simon’s one is all but finished because Agnes is as impatient as you are with your Irish temper.’
I glanced at him quickly. ‘Is Agnes pestering poor Simon?’
‘Aye, and Thomas also. It’s easy to see she’s the eldest of a large family. She knows how to give orders. And don’t say “poor Simon” again, because he seems not to notice, and is very proud of his capable wife. In fact, he probably says “poor Nik” when they discuss our marriage.’
He dodged my swinging hand and held my arms to my sides so that I couldn’t move. His laughter brought Mother onto the verandah and we fell apart as she said crisply but with a smile in her eyes, ‘You’ll have time enough for horseplay when you’re married. Nevertheless, I’m sad that you’ve both to wait longer to see your home completed. If it had been for anyone but Katie, I’d expect Thomas to honour your contract.’
‘We’ll still see our cottage finished by April for it surely won’t take more than three months,’ said I, glancing to see if Mother noted the ‘April’.
‘Now then, lass. Don’t you be setting your heart on an April wedding. You know full well that Father McManus comes south in winter when rivers are low: usually June or July.’
I hadn’t thought of that. Two disappointments! That was indeed bitter medicine.
The weeks of July and August slipped by with heavy frosts whitening ground that almost never saw snow. The lagoon spread a covering of cat-ice then froze over so that we could have skimming races with large flat rocks, making them rumble and hiss on the hard surface. None of us had the courage to walk on it for we all knew the dangers.
Bess settled happily to working at the O’Neills’ cottage, welcoming the winter visitors. The Winchester family looked on her as another daughter and she blossomed with the love and friendship. Every free moment we could share, was spent in exploring the bay, briskly walking the beach beside a pounding surf, or visiting Katie Ross.
When Mother needed my help for tasks such as salting beef, Bess would take over the lessons so that when I married, the children would accept her as teacher. She kept better discipline than I could, yet never raised her voice or used a ruler. I attempted to follow her example but Bridie knew me too well, and they all found it so tempting to ignite my short-fused patience. Bridie’s cheek and rebellion, or a parent’s decision, could make me flare up, so I’d escape to the sand hills to cool off, then make an apology if needed. I must admit, though, I’d learned to control my outbursts by a firm look at the culprit disrupting the class, and starting to count to ten. A few unpleasant after-school jobs produced good results, too. Perhaps I’m maturing now that I’m in my upper teenage years. Sadly, Mother doesn’t think so.
Father looked less worried as guests paid willingly for beds, meals, and feed for horses. ‘It’s astounding how the shillings have become pounds, even though they’re divided with the Winchester family,’ he declared.
Mother read pieces from Brendan’s letter at the end of August. ‘Read here, Michael. You’ve reason to be proud of your son for he’s gained high marks in his examinations and is now second highest in his class.’
‘It’s been worth the financial worries and I knew it would be. He’s a good boy.’ Father smiled.
Brendan’s letters made entertaining reading, but I always read between the lines as I had with Bess’s letters and I knew that he longed to be here with all the excitement of the new settlement inland. I wondered whether I would notice a different relationship between
us when he returned in mid-December. Would our close bond have altered after his year with men and boys?
I felt very thoughtful as I folded my part of the letter and placed it with the others in the tin box where I kept my diary. I smiled as I remembered my last entry in the latter, all of three weeks before.
I should have known better than to try to match-make for Bess.
Bren and I never had success with a marriage for Rowan.
Bess who was visiting looked up as if reading my thoughts and laid aside her knitting. She made room for me on the big bed that I shared with Bridie and Little One. ‘What were you smiling at just now?’
‘My attempts to find an eligible man for you when you first came here. Will you ever forgive me? I’m always acting on the spur of the moment.’
‘If the men had been eligible, I may have hugged you with gratitude.’
‘But they weren’t, were they?’ I said. ‘To think that I considered Sean who’s so surly and far too serious to be a Kendrick. But there’s still Thomas.’
Bess shook her head in mock exasperation, but she couldn’t hide the smile in her eyes.
RIPAPA ISLAND
John Southern, far away on Ripapa Island, had established a daily routine over the past two months. He set special times for collecting stores, preparing meals, scrubbing the kitchen and dining area, and he kept to those times exactly, much to the relief of warders who gradually gave him less supervision. They knew where he’d be at any hour of the day and, likewise, Southern knew where the warders and sentries would be.
The last duty of the day was to tip the rubbish down into the channel between the island and the shore. During the first three weeks, a warder had accompanied him, but by showing a constant fear of the sea below the wall, he was now allowed to do the task on his own.
And on this day, it was rubbish-dumping time.
‘Set the clock by him, we could,’ laughed one armed sentry up on the top of the fort as he about-turned on meeting his mate. His eyes flicked around the courtyard where a handful of prisoners were chipping at blocks of rock. He leant into the wind and added, ‘Quite warm for midwinter. Nor’wester. Rain tomorrow.’ He transferred his weapon to the other shoulder.
‘Less tension here, eh Jamie?’
‘Mind you, they’re a better class of prisoner … not ones likely to give trouble.’
They watched in silence as Southern trudged to the perimeter of the fort with the drum of rubbish, climbed the steps, paused as if to gain courage, and stepped out onto the wall. Holding onto the top end of a metal chute, he tipped out the rubbish and backed nervously down the steps, to vanish behind the warders’ quarters on his return to the kitchen.
‘He hates that channel. Harmless bloke but a bit queer. Hardly needs supervision when the sea’s set his boundary for him.’
‘He knows how to cook though.’
The sentries turned and marched away from each other. It would be roll-call very soon and the prisoners would be locked up for the night.
Next day, Southern had assessed the weather, the height of the tide, the movements of the sentries, and the fading daylight. It would be dark by the time the men were locked up. He felt a surge of excitement. There was a spring tide and the weather had deteriorated with a nor’west gale about to swing to the south.
He completed his duties and the meal was ready to serve. The duty warder had gone to the guard-house to write up his daily report, leaving Southern, as usual, on his own.
‘It’s now or never,’ he breathed, and with quick movements he prised back a loose board behind the rubbish drum. Inside was a slim packet wrapped in oilcloth that contained dried food and, of great value, a knife that had not been missed. With unsteady fingers he unbuttoned his jacket and strapped the package around his waist with a length of twine. His plan of escape was to slide down the rubbish chute into the water and hope that, being a strong swimmer, he could reach the section of the bay where the first cache of clothes had been hidden by Bert.
‘If they’re not there, I’ll be dead from exposure or recaptured, but this will be my only chance,’ he breathed.
The first hard drops of rain rattled against the south window as he refastened his jacket. The coming darkness should hide his bulky appearance but his fingers shook as he loosened his bootlaces then checked the position of the sentries. By the time he had picked up the rubbish drum and trudged at his usual pace out into the gathering dusk, the heavens had opened with torrential rain.
He reached the chute, stumbling in the force of the elements, then clung to the metal frame, shocked to see the sentry turn and double back to the slight shelter of the bank on the shoreward side. Southern had planned his move with the man’s eyes fastened on the courtyard. No time to change plans. He’d have to make it look like an accident, and what better witness to have than a warder?
He struggled with the drum, rain blinding his spectacles. Convincingly, he let his feet slip as the drum was raised, and next moment he was sliding down the ten-foot slope of grass and over the top of the stone wall into the surging waters of the channel. His scream was whipped away on the wind.
He hadn’t intended to descend at such a rate because rocks by the wall were scarcely covered by water, but luck was with him. The tide had turned and, with the gale behind it, was sweeping in great unbroken waves through the narrow channel, and one of these broke his fall.
The wave rolled him over and the shock of the cold water made him gasp as he resurfaced near the seaward end of the island. He raised an arm as if in panic and caught one fleeting glimpse of the sentry standing paralysed in the distance, before he went under again — this time of his own initiative. The package around his waist, and his jacket, obstructed his movements and he feared they would prevent his swimming far under water. He had already kicked off his boots. When he was forced to surface for air again, the island was a vague blur behind spray and sheets of rain.
Gasping with the cold, he kicked to escape the kelp-infested rocks off the headland on his right, and using a competent side-stroke began to veer into the bay itself. All his exercises at night and his prowess in swimming during his earlier years were in his favour, but the cold was bone-chilling. He knew the dangers of exposure and began to wonder if he’d be able to reach the shore.
He could hear waves breaking somewhere ahead and glimpsed the outline of low cliffs in the fading light. Too far to the left. He’d never make it onto rocks. His teeth were chattering and it took an effort to think clearly.
Vaguely he was aware of broken water around him and then his feet touched sand. He staggered upright and was swept to his knees by a wave. Forcing himself to battle the back-wash, he staggered the short distance to a line of driftwood and tussocks, then collapsed, gasping for breath. He lay in their shelter for several minutes until he gained enough strength to raise his head and look around.
There was the shell of the old hut by the single pine that he had seen from the island, closer than he had dared to hope. He could just make out its shape in the gloom.
‘If I don’t move, I’m dead,’ he thought. ‘They’ll have started a search by now. I must get to those dry clothes and cover my tracks.’
He rose weakly to his feet, glancing back to see if his tracks showed. The relief at finding them already washed away gave him the incentive to stumble to the hut. Within the scanty shelter of its walls, he moved out of sight of the sea.
He began the search for three horizontal nails sticking out three inches at waist height on the wall that was hidden from the island. They had to be here. The last of daylight made it impossible to see, so he felt his way along, tripping into timber stacked by the wall.
Almost paralysed with the cold, he moved on, then his fingers touched a protruding nail … two nails, then three.
Below the nails lay the pile of rotten timber. Numbly he pulled it aside, parts crumbling in his hand. Then his fingers touched canvas. Somehow he managed to haul the bundle out. Fingers almost useless, he struggled
with the cord, and weeping with exhaustion, fumbled for the oiled cape and the clothes that he knew would be inside.
It took precious minutes to remove his jacket and shirt and to fight his way into the seaman’s guernsey. He took valuable minutes to rub circulation into his limbs. Then he put on the warm serge trousers, the socks, and last of all the boots … the worrying part — would they fit?
They were too large but better that than too small.
‘Bert, you’ve done me proud, old cobber.’ He remained seated and his head drooped to his knees. ‘So cold. I’ll just stay here… No, I gotta keep goin’ … someone’s lookin’ for me. Dogs … somethin’ about dogs. Why bloody dogs?’
He tried to concentrate. He knew it was important. ‘Pepper! Pepper for the dogs.’ His eyes opened with shock, fully aware. Pepper to mask his scent. He felt in his old jacket and brought out a small bottle.
He pulled himself to his knees and stuffed the prison clothes into the canvas bag, plus his package of food, every movement taking twice as long as it ought. His mind kept wandering. He nearly forgot the pepper and then couldn’t work the cork loose from the bottle until he used his teeth. Moaning with his efforts to concentrate, he sprinkled the timber and his retreat to open ground with the contents. Again he hesitated. ‘Bottle in jacket.’ He sighed and obeyed his own warning before he staggered like a drunkard towards the hillside and turned seawards to find a creek. This would lead to a hideout both he and Sam had used years earlier.
Moving in and out of clear thinking, responding to dogged discipline, he eventually found the creek, almost turning downhill again, so confused and disorientated were his thoughts. The creek was a brown tumbling torrent but he was alert enough to clamber along the fringes of the water to clear his scent. His heart thumped with exertion and muddled anticipation.
‘The creek … somethin’ else … There’s a rock… Keep goin’.’
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