search. Raise false hopes. And it would be unfortunate for you, Booth, if old, almost forgotten matters were raised again—just as you apply for your Majority?’
Of course Montagu would know about the court martial. Booth’s stomach turned as he waited for mention of Caralin, but after a moment the Colonial Secretary continued, ‘In any case, once Molesworth brings in his report we shall all have enough to do.’
‘At the time, sir, I felt certain it was Rowland Rochester,’ said Booth, thinking, for some reason they’re as reluctant as I am to open up this matter. Rochester is dead? Under awkward circumstances? There was a tap at the door. The maid said Mrs Montagu had made tea in the drawing room.
‘Send the Rochester letter back to me. I’ll deal with it,’ Montagu murmured as they rose. ‘And rest assured, Booth; Forster and I are well placed to defend your interests—if it should become necessary.’
The night air woke Booth as he walked back to the barracks, and later as he lay awake the conversation churned in his mind. He enviedCasey, who had the knack of falling asleep in an instant whatever the circumstances. He’d seen Casey deep asleep in the bottom of a whaleboat in heavy seas, with waves splashing over the gunwale onto his face.
Sir John and his secretary, the eccentric Scotchman Captain Alexander Maconochie, were in the breakfast room when Booth reached Government House before eight next morning. Sir John was collecting a mounded plate of eggs, bacon, kidneys, cold meat and bread. Maconochie, whose opinions on diet were as curious as on every other subject, was eating porridge with salt. Over the next hour men flowed in and out.
‘“ Monstrare”’, Maconochie said, with his rolling Scottish ‘rrr’s’. ‘To demonstrate, to show. The tyrants and murrrderers of Shakespeare and Marrrlowe are mooral mornsters. Their evil rebounds upon their own pairrsons and upon the state itself.’
He was talking about Mrs Shelley’s Frankenstein and the criminal mind, his thin body leaning forward to make the point, his wire spectacles slipping down his nose. Booth had heard Maconochie’s opinions about the treatment of convicts before, and thought them half practical good sense and half idealistic madness. Maconochie had been in prison himself, probably the only officer in the colony who had been. During the war he had been a lieutenant on the Grasshopper when it was wrecked on the Dutch coast. The crew had been captured by the French; force marched from Holland to Verdun in midwinter and kept for two years in a French prison—which would no doubt colour one’s views. But he had been a prisoner-of-war, not a convict. There was a difference.
Maconochie argued that the length of convict sentences should be less fixed, so that men might earn early release by a points system. Merit points would be awarded for good behaviour or special services. Well, that was sensible. Booth could think of at least thirty men at Port Arthur who could be released now, which would help theovercrowding and add labourers to the shortage in the colony. But he couldn’t say so, of course: he’d be thought mad as Maconochie.
George Boyes, the Colonial Auditor, was listening with his customary sardonic smile. He was called ‘Alphabetical’ by his clerks on account of his large number of Christian names, George William Alfred Blamey Boyes, and because he liked everything precisely ordered. His long, thin arms were crossed, as usual, and he was leaning back as though distancing himself from Maconochie’s fervour. Montagu came in. He had breakfasted at home with his wife and would take only coffee. He sat next to Boyes, choosing his seat with casual care, Booth thought. Dr Bedford looked in to tell Sir John he had seen Miss Eleanor Franklin. There was no measle in the case, simply a winter dose of the grippe, nothing to alarm.
Henry Elliot went out, came back to say that Dr Lillie, the new Presbyterian minister, was
Of course Montagu would know about the court martial. Booth’s stomach turned as he waited for mention of Caralin, but after a moment the Colonial Secretary continued, ‘In any case, once Molesworth brings in his report we shall all have enough to do.’
‘At the time, sir, I felt certain it was Rowland Rochester,’ said Booth, thinking, for some reason they’re as reluctant as I am to open up this matter. Rochester is dead? Under awkward circumstances? There was a tap at the door. The maid said Mrs Montagu had made tea in the drawing room.
‘Send the Rochester letter back to me. I’ll deal with it,’ Montagu murmured as they rose. ‘And rest assured, Booth; Forster and I are well placed to defend your interests—if it should become necessary.’
The night air woke Booth as he walked back to the barracks, and later as he lay awake the conversation churned in his mind. He enviedCasey, who had the knack of falling asleep in an instant whatever the circumstances. He’d seen Casey deep asleep in the bottom of a whaleboat in heavy seas, with waves splashing over the gunwale onto his face.
Sir John and his secretary, the eccentric Scotchman Captain Alexander Maconochie, were in the breakfast room when Booth reached Government House before eight next morning. Sir John was collecting a mounded plate of eggs, bacon, kidneys, cold meat and bread. Maconochie, whose opinions on diet were as curious as on every other subject, was eating porridge with salt. Over the next hour men flowed in and out.
‘“ Monstrare”’, Maconochie said, with his rolling Scottish ‘rrr’s’. ‘To demonstrate, to show. The tyrants and murrrderers of Shakespeare and Marrrlowe are mooral mornsters. Their evil rebounds upon their own pairrsons and upon the state itself.’
He was talking about Mrs Shelley’s Frankenstein and the criminal mind, his thin body leaning forward to make the point, his wire spectacles slipping down his nose. Booth had heard Maconochie’s opinions about the treatment of convicts before, and thought them half practical good sense and half idealistic madness. Maconochie had been in prison himself, probably the only officer in the colony who had been. During the war he had been a lieutenant on the Grasshopper when it was wrecked on the Dutch coast. The crew had been captured by the French; force marched from Holland to Verdun in midwinter and kept for two years in a French prison—which would no doubt colour one’s views. But he had been a prisoner-of-war, not a convict. There was a difference.
Maconochie argued that the length of convict sentences should be less fixed, so that men might earn early release by a points system. Merit points would be awarded for good behaviour or special services. Well, that was sensible. Booth could think of at least thirty men at Port Arthur who could be released now, which would help theovercrowding and add labourers to the shortage in the colony. But he couldn’t say so, of course: he’d be thought mad as Maconochie.
George Boyes, the Colonial Auditor, was listening with his customary sardonic smile. He was called ‘Alphabetical’ by his clerks on account of his large number of Christian names, George William Alfred Blamey Boyes, and because he liked everything precisely ordered. His long, thin arms were crossed, as usual, and he was leaning back as though distancing himself from Maconochie’s fervour. Montagu came in. He had breakfasted at home with his wife and would take only coffee. He sat next to Boyes, choosing his seat with casual care, Booth thought. Dr Bedford looked in to tell Sir John he had seen Miss Eleanor Franklin. There was no measle in the case, simply a winter dose of the grippe, nothing to alarm.
Henry Elliot went out, came back to say that Dr Lillie, the new Presbyterian minister, was
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