Wild Island Read Free

lent him money. And what civil position could he find here? Especially one that paid what he was earning now, and provided a free cottage. His salary was two hundred and seventy-three pounds fifteen shillings per annum, with a magistrate’s allowance of tenshillings a day on top, but he always spent it all, and in fact, owed his agent twenty pounds at this moment.
    The prison was something of a showpiece and visitors multiplied each year: Quaker observers from the Society of Friends, surveyors, auditors, engineers, missionaries and merely curious distinguished guests. Being naturally gregarious he enjoyed their varied company, but was often obliged to lodge and feed them at the Commandant’s cottage, and found himself always supplying more in food and wine than his rations allowed. Could he afford to marry Lizzie?
    Boyes, the Colonial Auditor, had told him every Governor of a British colony was in a similar position, having to supplement his salary from private income—with the exception of Governor Arthur. Boyes had looked at Booth and they had smiled. Arthur came to Van Diemen’s Land with nothing—and left owning thousands of acres granted to him or bought cheaply, together with shares and investments yielding an annual income of five thousand pounds. Or so Robert Murray of the Colonial Times estimated, and Boyes believed he was not far wrong.
    Booth’s mind returned to his future. Surely the Regiment would not be recalled now, just when Arthur had left, and with the new Governor due in a month? And at this distance from Home, postings were often longer than usual. Governor Arthur had been twelve years in the island, recalled after twice the normal period. Booth had been one of the few chosen to accompany the Governor and his family as they boarded their ship for Home two months ago. Arthur unexpectedly weeping floods of tears, Mrs Arthur and the little Venuses, not.
    Now the Governor was to be Sir John Franklin, the polar hero, Arctic Lion. Slow-witted, people said, and generally added, ‘and Navy, of course’, since that was the chief surprise. Army officers had been in power here since the day of settlement, which would change now, presumably. Franklin might want to appoint a new Commandant with a naval background. One of his own retinue, a younger man . . .
    Booth had scarcely thought of his age until recently. He was almost the same age as the century: thirty-seven in August, although he looked younger because he was thin and agile and his hair was still thick and black, just beginning to recede in two arcs from a widow’s peak. He was blessed, too, with an excellent constitution he’d come to take for granted. And then on Christmas Day—two weeks ago—he’d woken feeling seedy as hell for the first time in fourteen years. A return of yellow fever, caught when he was stationed in Saint Vincent. He must avoid a full bout. Couldn’t afford to be ill.
    Booth flung back the covers and sat on the side of the bed. As he did so, impatient footsteps approached along the hall. There was a rap on the door and it flew open to admit the protesting voice of his convict-assigned servant Power, and then his brindle terrier Fran, hurling herself in ecstasy onto the bed and then off again because she knew it was wrong. And the Irish accent of Casey, the station’s young medico, peremptory as always: ‘Get up, Charles! We have found you a body.’
    A Dublin intonation like Lizzie’s.
    ‘Birch or Jones, I hope?’
    ‘Birch,’ said Casey. ‘The flesh much nibbled by fishes to be sure, and all the whole of him swollen in an unlovely manner. Mutilated altogether. You will not like the look of him. But an arm remains intacta and it has Birch’s tattoo at the wrist. A heart and two sets of initials. Now sit where you are and stop your talk.’
    Casey produced a flexible tube about two feet long from his pocket and fastened one end in his right ear. A cold little white china cup at the other end was applied to Booth’s