him.
It'll save me the trouble of sending him into Parramatta tomorrow."
"Of course," said the Reverend Marsden. "Always happy to oblige a friend. Bring him in."
Sir D'Arcy beckoned to a servant, who was sent running.
"Bit irregular, isn't it?" said Hayden, raising one eyebrow.
The reverend puckered his mouth until it looked like a squeezed-up old lemon. "How so? I'm the magistrate. If I should choose to hold a session here rather than in Parramatta tomorrow, what difference can it make? Frankly I think this business of not allowing masters to order their own servants flogged is nonsense. That's not the way we did it in the old days, I can tell you."
Privately Hayden thought things hadn't changed so much since the old days after all, but he kept it to himself.
At that moment a bullheaded man with a mean expression came into the dining room, dragging behind him a frightened-looking lad of about eighteen.
Marsden looked the convict over and puckered his sour lips. "What man is that?" he demanded in a booming, legalistic voice.
The bullheaded man, whom Hayden took to be Baxter's overseer, replied: "A man of Sir D'Arcy Baxter's, your worship."
"His name and offense?"
"Paddy O'Neal, your worship. Charged with neglect of duty."
The Reverend Magistrate Samuel Marsden paused to pour himself another glass of port. "Will you have the goodness to give your deposition?"
The overseer cleared his throat and clutched the tattered black book handed to him. "I, John Flood, now of Priscilla Pines, in the county of—"
The reverend waved one plump white hand. "Never mind all that. Just state why the prisoner is brought here before me."
"Yes, your worship. Paddy O'Neal here, he's a swineherd for Sir D'Arcy Baxter, you see. And he lost one of his master's pigs last week, and another pig this week. We looked for them, your worship, but we never did find them."
Reverend Marsden stared at the hapless Irishman in a way that made his beady eyes practically disappear into the folds of his fat face. "And what have you to say in your defense?"
The young man gulped. "I'm sorry, sir—your worship. I—I ain't never kept pigs before, sir—your worship. They sent me out in the bush with a herd of them, and they just ran in all directions. I—I—" His voice cracked and broke.
"Then, you do not deny the charges? Through your own negligence, you lost two of the pigs Sir D'Arcy Baxter entrusted to your care?"
"I didn't mean to! I tried. I really did try—" The lad broke off as the reverend's awful frown was bent on him again.
"Then, perhaps," said the reverend slowly, "a taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails will help you try harder next time." He sighed. "Two hundred lashes."
Paddy O'Neal went pale and started shaking so badly Hayden thought the lad might faint. Sir D'Arcy jerked his head toward the door. "Get him out of here, Flood." He turned toward his guests and smiled. "And now that that little bit of unpleasantness is over, shall we rejoin the ladies?"
The drawing room was a large, elegant room decorated in fashionable Chinese blues and greens. Like most of the other apartments on the ground floor, it had a double set of French doors that opened onto the veranda. A cool breeze blowing up from the river brought with it the sweet scent of flowering fruit trees from the garden.
The gentlemen entered the room to find the three ladies seated in a semicircle, sewing. At the sight of Hayden, Miss Baxter cast aside her frame and smiled charmingly up at him. "Whatever kept you gentlemen for so long?"
"Just a slight problem with one of the new servants," said her father. "The reverend took care of it for me."
Mrs. Marsden nodded approvingly. "Samuel allows that no new assigned servant is worth anything until he has been flogged three times, isn't that right, Samuel?"
"In my experience," said the reverend, puffing out his fat chest. "And if that doesn't work, you might as well hang them, because they're obviously incorrigible."
Hayden
It'll save me the trouble of sending him into Parramatta tomorrow."
"Of course," said the Reverend Marsden. "Always happy to oblige a friend. Bring him in."
Sir D'Arcy beckoned to a servant, who was sent running.
"Bit irregular, isn't it?" said Hayden, raising one eyebrow.
The reverend puckered his mouth until it looked like a squeezed-up old lemon. "How so? I'm the magistrate. If I should choose to hold a session here rather than in Parramatta tomorrow, what difference can it make? Frankly I think this business of not allowing masters to order their own servants flogged is nonsense. That's not the way we did it in the old days, I can tell you."
Privately Hayden thought things hadn't changed so much since the old days after all, but he kept it to himself.
At that moment a bullheaded man with a mean expression came into the dining room, dragging behind him a frightened-looking lad of about eighteen.
Marsden looked the convict over and puckered his sour lips. "What man is that?" he demanded in a booming, legalistic voice.
The bullheaded man, whom Hayden took to be Baxter's overseer, replied: "A man of Sir D'Arcy Baxter's, your worship."
"His name and offense?"
"Paddy O'Neal, your worship. Charged with neglect of duty."
The Reverend Magistrate Samuel Marsden paused to pour himself another glass of port. "Will you have the goodness to give your deposition?"
The overseer cleared his throat and clutched the tattered black book handed to him. "I, John Flood, now of Priscilla Pines, in the county of—"
The reverend waved one plump white hand. "Never mind all that. Just state why the prisoner is brought here before me."
"Yes, your worship. Paddy O'Neal here, he's a swineherd for Sir D'Arcy Baxter, you see. And he lost one of his master's pigs last week, and another pig this week. We looked for them, your worship, but we never did find them."
Reverend Marsden stared at the hapless Irishman in a way that made his beady eyes practically disappear into the folds of his fat face. "And what have you to say in your defense?"
The young man gulped. "I'm sorry, sir—your worship. I—I ain't never kept pigs before, sir—your worship. They sent me out in the bush with a herd of them, and they just ran in all directions. I—I—" His voice cracked and broke.
"Then, you do not deny the charges? Through your own negligence, you lost two of the pigs Sir D'Arcy Baxter entrusted to your care?"
"I didn't mean to! I tried. I really did try—" The lad broke off as the reverend's awful frown was bent on him again.
"Then, perhaps," said the reverend slowly, "a taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails will help you try harder next time." He sighed. "Two hundred lashes."
Paddy O'Neal went pale and started shaking so badly Hayden thought the lad might faint. Sir D'Arcy jerked his head toward the door. "Get him out of here, Flood." He turned toward his guests and smiled. "And now that that little bit of unpleasantness is over, shall we rejoin the ladies?"
The drawing room was a large, elegant room decorated in fashionable Chinese blues and greens. Like most of the other apartments on the ground floor, it had a double set of French doors that opened onto the veranda. A cool breeze blowing up from the river brought with it the sweet scent of flowering fruit trees from the garden.
The gentlemen entered the room to find the three ladies seated in a semicircle, sewing. At the sight of Hayden, Miss Baxter cast aside her frame and smiled charmingly up at him. "Whatever kept you gentlemen for so long?"
"Just a slight problem with one of the new servants," said her father. "The reverend took care of it for me."
Mrs. Marsden nodded approvingly. "Samuel allows that no new assigned servant is worth anything until he has been flogged three times, isn't that right, Samuel?"
"In my experience," said the reverend, puffing out his fat chest. "And if that doesn't work, you might as well hang them, because they're obviously incorrigible."
Hayden
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