Morgan’s Run (75 page)

“It was not my fault!” gasped Hunter, face cut, skin so white that he looked about to faint. “We could not keep her in stays, we could not! The moment the wind shifted, the sails backed—it all happened so fast—so fast!”

“I have not convened this meeting to apportion blame, Captain Hunter,” said Ross crisply; he was in control, and for once the Royal Navy would have to bow to a member of a corps did not have the right to call itself “Royal.” “What we are here to discuss is the fact that a settlement which six days ago held one hundred and forty-nine people will now contain more than five hundred people, including over three hundred convicts and eighty-odd men off Sirius. The latter will not, as seamen, be of much use either in governing convicts or working land. Mr. King, d’ye expect that Governor Phillip will send Supply back here from Port Jackson?”

King’s expression was a compound of shock and bewilderment, but he shook his head emphatically. “No, Major Ross, ye cannot count on Supply’s returning. As I understand it, Port Jackson is starving and His Excellency very much fears that England has—for what reason no one knows—forgotten us. With Sirius gone, Supply is the only link he has with other places. She will have to go either to Cape Town or Batavia for provisions, and my bet is that His Excellency will choose Batavia because ’twill be an easier voyage for such an old, fair-weather ship. His chief concern is that somebody
must
get home to remind the Crown that conditions in both settlements are appalling. Unless, that is, a storeship should arrive. But that, gentlemen, grows less rather than more likely.”

“We cannot count on anything except the worst, Mr. King, so we will not entertain the hope of a storeship. There is wheat and Indian corn in the granary but planting is still at least two months off and harvesting eight or nine months off. If we manage to get all the provisions off Sirius before she sinks”—he ignored the look on Hunter’s face—“I estimate that we can feed everybody for three months at most. Fishing will have to be continuous, and whatever edible birds we find we will also consume.”

Brightening, King said eagerly, “I told ye of the summer bird wails like a ghost, but there is also a winter bird. It is a fat and tasty sea bird arrives about April and remains until August. It uses the mountain, which is why we have never bothered to try to eat it in any quantity—the walk is long and perilous without any paths. However, it is so tame that a man can walk straight up to it and grab it. There are thousands upon thousands of them. They fish out to sea all day and come in on dusk to their burrows, the same as the summer ghost birds. If things become desperate, they are a source of food. All ye’d have to do is cut paths.”

“I thank ye for that information, Mr. King.” Ross cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, what worries me most is mutiny.” He glared at his marine officers. “I do not necessarily mean a convict mutiny. Many of my enlisted men are ruffians who must be kept supplied with rum. And when I said that we have provisions enough to last three months, I include rum in that estimate. I must conserve enough rum for my officers, which will cut rations for the enlisted men. Not to mention that Captain Hunter’s seamen will also expect their rum—is that not so, Captain?”

Hunter swallowed. “Aye, Major Ross, I fear so.”

“Then,” said Ross, “there is only one solution. Law Martial. Theft of anything by any man, free or felon, will be punishable by death without trial. And, gentlemen, I will enforce it, have no doubts about that.”

This announcement was greeted with a profound silence. The noises of those toiling outside to retrieve men and supplies from Sirius percolated through the walls of Government House, a reminder of prevailing chaos.

“On Monday,” said Ross, “the entire complement of those on this island will assemble at eight o’clock beneath the Union flagstaff, when I will inform them of the new state of affairs. Until then, gentlemen, button your mouths as tight as a fish’s arsehole. I mean that. If news of Law Martial leaks out before Monday morning, I will have the offender flogged no matter how exalted his rank. Ye are at liberty to go.”

Property and
provisions continued to come off Sirius; the stock—pigs and goats—were simply thrown overboard and herded by boats and swimmers in the direction of the beaches, with surprisingly few casualties. Though her back was broken, the vessel showed no sign of coming apart or sinking; casks, barrels, kegs and sacks were ferried ashore. She lay sometimes stern off the reef, sometimes stern on, always pinioned by her midships and remorselessly pounded by gale-whipped seas, but somehow as each day passed she never seemed to look worse.

At eight on Monday morning every single soul was herded into position at the Union flagstaff, the marines and seamen lined up on the right, the convicts on the left, with the officers in the center right below the flag.

“As commandant of this English colony, I hereby declare that the Law Martial will come into effect as of this moment!” shouted Major Ross, his stentorian voice assisted by a wind west of southwest. “Until God and His Britannic Majesty send relief we are thrown upon our own resources. If we are to survive, then every last man, woman and child will have to work with two goals in mind—to build shelter from the elements and produce food. On my count, there are five hundred and four persons who will be remaining here after Supply sails—over triple the number a week ago! I am not about to disguise the fact that starvation stares us in the face, but of one thing I can assure ye—no one here—
no one!
—will have a scrap more to eat than all have to eat. God is trying us as He tried the Israelites in the desert, but we can lay no claim to the virtue of that ancient and admirable people. What happens to us rests squarely upon our own resourcefulness—our will to work hard, our will to behave with the interests of all at heart, our will to survive in the teeth of terrible adversity!”

He paused, and those near enough could see the bitter look on his face. “Ye are no Israelites, I repeat that! Among ye are the scum of the earth, the dregs of humanity, and I will deal with ye accordingly. For those who bear their misfortunes with grace and unselfishness, there will be rewards. For those who steal food from the mouths of others, the penalty is death. For those who steal to barter, to have more comfort, to get drunk, or for any other reason, I will flay ye until the bones show from neck to ankles! Man or woman makes no difference, nor will children be let off lightly. The Law is Martial, which means that I am your judge, jury and executioner. I care not if ye fornicate, I care not if ye work in your own time to grow a little more or house yourselves, but I will not countenance the slightest infringement of the general public good! For the first six weeks every single vegetable and fruit will go to Government Stores, but I expect that all men and women commence this very moment to grow vegetables and fruit to augment the Government supply, which means that at the end of those six weeks all with productive gardens will contribute only two-thirds of what they grow to Government Stores. My motto is productiveness through labor, and that applies as much to the free as to the convicted.”

His lip lifted in a snarl. “I am Major Robert Ross, and my reputation precedes me! I am Lieutenant-Governor of Norfolk Island, and what I say is no less the Law than if it issued from the King’s own mouth! Now I will have three cheers for His Royal Majesty King George, and make them loud! Hip-hip!”

“Hurrah!” everybody bellowed, and twice more.

“And three cheers for Lieutenant King, who has worked wonders! Mr. King, I salute ye and wish ye Godspeed. Hip-hip!”

The cheers for King were louder than those for the King, and their King stood dazed, beaming, immensely gratified. For a minute he actually loved Major Ross.

“I now require that every last one of ye pass beneath the Union and bow the head as affirmation of your oath of loyalty!”

The crowd filed past, awed into fearful solemnity.

Though Richard stood at the head of his sawyers and closer to the Union than the new convict arrivals, he had spotted many faces he knew, some with delight: Will Connelly, Neddy Perrott and Taffy Edmunds; Tommy Kidner, Aaron Davis, Mikey Dennison, Steve Martin, George Guest and his boon companion, Ed Risby; George Whitacre. Among the new marines he saw his gunsmith apprentice, Daniel Stanfield, and two privates from Alexander days, Elias Bishop and Joe McCaldren. No doubt the convicts would come rushing to greet him—how to explain that Major Ross meant every word he said, and would not appreciate his head sawyer dallying to chat with old friends? Then Major Ross solved his dilemma by shouting his name.

“Yes, sir?” he asked as the crowd melted away.

“I will depute Private Stanfield to find Edmunds. Will ye be at the third sawpit?”

“Aye, sir.”

“I am sending ye John Lawrell to live with ye and do whatever ye require of him. A good enough fellow, but a little slow in the noggin. Have him tend your garden. For the first six weeks Tom Crowder will collect everything as it ripens, after that he will take only two-thirds.”

“Aye, sir,” said Richard, saluted and departed in haste. John Lawrell. . . . He had been at Norfolk Island for a year and Richard knew him slightly; a good-natured, rather shambling Cornishman off Dunkirk hulk and Scarborough, and part of the general labor pool operated by Stephen. What
was
Major Ross up to? In effect, he had just endowed Richard with a servant to tend his unofficial block.

By the time he reached the third sawpit to find Sam Hussey and Harry Humphreys sawing, he had seen the Major’s reason: with so many new people on the island, those old residents who owned good vegetable gardens were at risk of losing their produce to thieves, Law Martial or no Law Martial. Ross had given him a guard to make sure his produce was not pilfered, and he would be doing the same to all those with decent gardens. And trust Ross to select guards from among the ranks of the unoffending dimwitted. Stifling a sigh, Richard vowed that during his time off he would be sawing to build Lawrell his own hut. The thought of sharing a house was far more repugnant than the thought of too little food.

“I am off to see to the new pits, Billy,” he said to Private Wigfall, whom he counted a good friend. He winked, laughed.
“And
make sure we don’t get any fucken Williams as sawyers.” He thought of something else. “If a Welshman named Taffy Edmunds reports in, sit him down in the shade—not with the women!—and tell him to wait until I get back. He will be our master sharpener. A pity he does not like women, but he will have to learn to.”

Three of the new pits lay beyond the limits of Sydney Town to the east, where the hillsides were still heavily forested. Somehow Ross had already managed to find time to think out what he wanted, and issued instructions that trees were to be felled in a strip twenty feet wide from Turtle Bay to Ball Bay as the start of a proper road. Those on the slopes leading to Turtle Bay would be laid lengthwise and slid downhill; once the tilt switched to Ball Bay, another sawpit would be dug at Ball Bay to deal with that timber. It was going to be impossible for one man to keep an eye on so many pits so far apart, which meant that he would have to make sure he picked a head sawyer for each pit who would not slacken the pace because the supervisor was elsewhere. Nor was this the only road: a strip twenty feet wide was to be cleared to Cascade, and a third, the longest, westward to Anson Bay. Sawpits and more sawpits, those were the Major’s orders.

On the way back he skirted the unnamed beach which seemed to act as a net to catch any pines which tumbled down the cliffs into the water, piling them up while the sea pushed them inland to form a raft of logs so ancient that they had turned to a kind of stone. And there, washing back and forth in the water—the wind was too far west to lash up a heavy surf—was a convoluted heap of canvas sail off Sirius. Useful, he understood immediately, quickening his pace. The tide was just beginning to come in, so it was unlikely that the sail would wash out to sea again, but he thought the find too important to risk losing by dawdling.

The first man in authority he saw was Stephen, deputed to the stone quarry these days.

Wreathed in smiles, Stephen promptly abandoned his workers. “Plague take this huge influx! I’ve hardly seen ye in a week.” His face changed. “Oh, Richard, the shame of it!” he cried. “To lose Sirius—what evil forces are conniving against us?”

“I know not. Nor do I think I want to know.”

“What brings ye down here?”

“New sawpits, what else? With Major Ross as commandant, we are to go from the idealism of Marcus Aurelius to the pragmatism of Augustus. I do not say the Major will leave Norfolk Island marble, as he did not find it brick, but he will certainly give it roads—a hint, I am sure, that he is going to send people elsewhere than Sydney Town.” He looked brisk. “Can ye spare some time and men?”

“If the reason be good enough. What’s amiss?”

“Nothing for a change,” grinned Richard. “In fact, I am the bearer of good news. There is a huge mass of Sirius’s sail lying in the far beach, and more may come around the point with the tide on the flood. It will serve as canopies for those untented. Once people are properly housed it can be cut into hammocks, sheets for the officers’ beds—a thousand and one things. I imagine that quite a lot of the officers’ property will be spirited away by the likes of Francis and Peck.”