Wild Island by Jennifer Livett

adjourned, the gentlemen did not stay at table for their port and cigars. Montagu rose when his wife did, inviting Forster and Booth to follow him to the study.
    ‘I have a dislike to sitting over the ruins of a meal,’ he said, smiling as though his own foibles amused him. ‘Or even while the cloth is cleared. There is always a sense of disorder which does not suit my nature.’
    He moved to a sideboard and poured brandies for Forster and Booth, and a digestive of ginger wine with a little water for himself.
    ‘No doubt you have heard the news, Booth, although it is supposed to be a secret? That the Twenty-first is under orders forIndia? Pilkington has told you, perhaps. I understand you are quite a favourite with that family.’
    He smiled at Booth. He was said to hear everything, forget nothing.
    ‘Rumours of recall are always about, sir,’ Booth said. ‘Especially when we have been several years at a station.’
    ‘Oh, I think we can assure you that it’s a fact, can’t we, Matthew?’ Montagu said to Forster, smiling still. ‘The Twenty-first have orders for India. It will be announced tomorrow at the Mess Meeting, although it will be months before the first detachment sails.’
    Montagu smoothed his coat tails carefully and sat down in the chair closest to the fire.
    ‘Several questions now arise,’ he continued. ‘For instance, what is to be done about Government positions held by officers of the Regiment? We believe the Fifty-second will replace the Twenty-first, but it’s not yet clear whether all posts presently held by the military will continue as such, or whether the Colonial Secretary at Home will convert some into civil appointments. There will also be news tomorrow of changes to London’s convict arrangements. Transportation to New South Wales is likely to end soon. This Molesworth Committee at Home is full of radicals of every complexion. Anti-transportationists, abolitionists . . .’
    Forster had remained standing sideways to the hearth, one elbow on the mantelpiece and one foot on the fender, drink in hand, the great curve of his belly outlined by his embroidered waistcoat.
    ‘We may become the only destination for England’s felons,’ he said gruffly. ‘Mixed blessing, I sh’ld say.’
    ‘You will have seen the newspapers full of it,’ Montagu said. ‘The Government at Home demands cuts to expenditure in the colonies . . . Some addlepate has even suggested transporting convicts to Ireland. But for the time being it has been decided to continue sending them here. Which is fortunate for us. How else would we survive? There will be changes, however. Settlers are now to pay for the police department here, which may mean taxation—and of course, all the usual malcontents are instantly baying opposition to this. Gregson, FennKemp . . . They claim the police department is large and expensive only because the penal establishment makes it necessary. And if they are to pay tax, they cry, they must be allowed to vote their own representative onto the Legislative Council and Executive Councils.’
    ‘Can’t have that, says we,’ growled Forster. ‘Can’t allow civil interference in a penal colony run by the Army. Old story.’
    Montagu looked amused.
    ‘You put it precisely, Matthew,’ he said. ‘If somewhat baldly. The interest lies in the detail. For instance, exactly this question of whether military or civil officers will best oversee the changes that are bound to come. Certain officers, in my view, should be induced to remain. Your own valuable work, Booth . . . you would not easily be replaced.’ Booth murmured, bowed, hoped he did not look as wary as he felt. It had happened before that Montagu made him feel complicit in some unspoken cabal. He spoke as though you were intimates, but just when you were on easy terms, he withdrew into cool formality, leaving in the air an implication that you had overstepped the mark, misunderstood his good manners or tried to presume on