Morgan's Run

Richard helped tie a rope firmly around the creature’s chest where its flippers would prevent the rope’s sliding off.

“We are the gardeners,” said Robert, who, if he were not the elder, was certainly the spokesman. “I thank ye for bringing us women. Thomas is not keen for a woman, but I was desperate.”

“Whom did ye choose?” asked Richard, wondering why he was to be thanked.

“Beth Henderson, a good woman. Which means Thomas and I have come to the parting of the ways,” said Robert cheerfully, while his brother grimaced. “He has gone to live with Mr. Altree in Arthur’s Vale, where there is much planting going on.”

The turtle was hauled into the water and towed, the men knee-deep, around the point of Turtle Bay. Richard helped the Webbs bring it up the straight beach near the landing place, then left them to return to his hut.

“Lieutenant King was looking for you,” said Joey.

So off Richard went again; he found the Commandant at the site of the second sawpit, excavated in soil and so needing to be shored up with timber.

“There is turtle, sir,” said Richard, saluting.

“Oh, splendid! Dashed good!” King turned to walk off a little way and faced his head sawyer. “I do not allow many turtle to be turned, otherwise there will end in being none,” he said. “Nor do I permit the eggs to be dug out. ’Tis not as turtle-populous as Lord Howe Island to begin with, so why ruin a good thing?”

“Aye, sir.”

Lieutenant King then demonstrated one of the more exasperating facets of his nature: he clean forgot what he had said two days ago when he congratulated his sawing teams and gave them time off until Monday. “Ye’ll be back sawing tomorrow,” he a

“Aye, sir,” said Richard woodenly.

Two sawpits meant four teams: three sawpits meant six teams. Christ, he would never have a chance to saw! Ned Westlake, Bill Blackall and Harry Humphreys could not seem to learn to use a file properly. The only man who had shown any kind of aptitude was Will Marriner, who would have to be left at the old sawpit to sharpen while he hied himself to Arthur’s Vale. The saws needed touching up every ten to twelve feet along a cut. But who would be willing to saw? Men hated it, did it grudgingly. Weasels like Len Dyer, Tom Jones, Josh Peck and Sam Pickett were impossible. John Rice, one of the originals, had the build for it, but he was the ropemaker and therefore unavailable. John Mortimer and Dick Widdicombe were too old, and Noah Mortimer was an idler, always in trouble for not pulling his weight. If a man disliked physical labor, he was not capable of doing any work without being driven to it, and that was Noah. The very young original, Charlie McClellan, was another such.

Who then off Golden Grove? John Anderson, yes. Sam Hussey, yes. Jim Richardson, yes. Willy Thompson, yes. But that was the end of the supply. Richardson, who had taken up with Susa

“Four teams are as many as I can scrape up,” he informed Stephen when they met at Turtle Bay for a swim on Sunday evening. “I am doomed to sharpen forever, it seems. Such a simple job, ye’d think, Mr. Donovan, and yet most men lack the—the idea of it. They take no care to set the teeth at the right bevel, nor do they have the eyes in the tips of their fingers a man must have. Oh, I wish I had Taffy Edmunds! Not only can he sharpen as well as I, but he would like it here.”

“More are coming, so I understand, though Supply ca

“Because to the men who saw, my job is child’s play. I sit cross-legged like a tailor and appear to be doing nothing. One reason why I put them all to it, and will go on putting them to it. Each of them knows that if he should prove good at sharpening, he has a comfortable job. When they fail, at least they know that sharpening is a job of patience and skill.”

Stephen lay back on the sand and stretched voluptuously. “Ye would think,” he said, “that Joh

Richard rolled over to dry his back. “I do not feel that this isle is small, though I agree about the isolation. To me, Norfolk Island seems quite as large as New South Wales. Here lies a certain privacy. I do not feel as if I am a prisoner, whereas everything at Port Jackson reminded me I was a prisoner.”

“More officials,” said Stephen dryly.

“Is your Joh

“Oh, yes. Mostly thanks to the fact that he sticks to his lathe and has more sense than to tell Nat Lucas how to do his job or how to make sure the others do their jobs. ’Tis I suffer.”

“Just watch your back—I have a feeling.”

“D’ye want me to pull your four new sawyers out of the gang?”

“It has to be either you or Lieutenant King. Whoever.”

“I will do it. King is a will o’ the wisp—he darts here, there and everywhere. Always starting new things before the old are done, and never stopping to remember that he has too few hands to do what has been started, let alone deal with new work as well. That is why I insisted that he finish the granary before he lifts a finger to build the barn or the dam. In the midst of which he wants more houses built, if you please! But then, he has never served on any but big ships, wherein more hands run around than are necessary save in a battle or a blow.”

“Which reminds me, Mr. Donovan. Joey and I are sleeping in double beds with feather mattresses and feather pillows. By rights they belong to you and Mr. Livingstone.”

That provoked gales of laughter. “Keep them, ye hedonists! Neither Joh