A Ring Through Time (14 page)

I set off once more, glad to be on my own. How have I never noticed before how oppressive my father can be, and how fixed in his views? Even my breath comes easier with him gone.

The road dips down towards the cemetery. Just beyond the bounds of the fence a group of convicts is hard at work digging a deep pit. I pause to watch, intrigued as to the men’s purpose, and I catch my breath as I see who is among them. He has straightened and is staring at me, but the flick of the overseer’s whip causes him to bend and wield his spade once more.

I cannot approach him directly, and so I walk on until I come to the stone columns that mark the entrance to the cemetery. I have not visited here before, and I look around with interest at the sprawl of graves and headstones. The cemetery is bound by a low fence on three sides, parts of which are hidden from view by thick screens of vegetation. The fourth side is open to the sea. Within the cemetery, the ground is humped with graves: some hastily dug, the earth still rough; others raked over and well-tended, with ornate headstones to honour their occupants.

I feel a spark of curiosity at the thought of who might lie here: desperadoes as well as officers, civilians, wives and children.

I enter between the stone columns and begin to traverse the first line of graves in a seemingly aimless fashion, stopping to read the messages engraved on the headstones. Several are particularly
imposing, commemorating captains, privates and free men, and there is also an elaborately carved memorial to a commander, with a strange insignia above the words. Several inscriptions tell of death by drowning while trying to cross the bar of the harbour. I know how treacherous the coastline is; that is why visiting ships stand off to be unloaded at Kings Town or Cascade, depending on the wind and tides. But it wasn’t only boating accidents that took lives, I realise, as another inscription tells that the grave’s occupant was drowned while out fishing from the rocks.

I notice a skull and crossbones on the headstone of one
Bartw Kelly
. Perhaps he was a pirate? The inscription says only that he was an Irishman from Cork and gives his age as twenty-six. It does not say why or how he died.

I wander on, sorry that I do not have my sketchbook with me, for the cemetery is quite scenic in a morbid way. I am struck by the number of graves commemorating beloved wives and children, particularly children. Here is one child dead at six months, another at nine months, and a third at only two months. I recognise some of the names as those of families still on the island. I wonder how the mothers felt, burying their children in this lost, God-forsaken place. How would my mother feel if William were to die here? I shudder at the thought.

Another large headstone catches my eye, but the inscription is in a strange language and I cannot read it.

At last I come to the dense screen of manchineel trees close to where the convicts are digging. Making sure I am unobserved, I quickly swing myself over the low fence and slip between trees and bushes, keeping hidden until I catch a glimpse of Cormac. He is looking my way.

I notice, as I edge nearer, that he is not wearing shackles and seems able to move about freely. I stay hidden, watching as Cormac inches closer to me, until finally he is out of the guard’s line of sight, whereupon he wastes no time in losing himself among the trees. I notice that he is limping and my heart aches for him.

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ I greet him. ‘But, oh, I am so pleased you are out of those chains. I hated watching you yesterday.’ I clench my fists. ‘I hate how my father treats you!’

‘Not as much as we hate his treatment of us,’ he says. ‘But we’re often chained when we work close to the sea — in case we rise up in mutiny and steal a boat and make a run for it, you see. It’s happened several times in the past and your father is obviously determined that it will not happen on his watch.’

‘I am so sorry.’

I wonder why he wants to talk to me when he must so loathe and detest my father.

He smiles at me. ‘Not your fault. It is just fortunate that we are not in irons today so I am able to talk to you. And I shall try to be chosen to work in your father’s garden whenever I can. If you don’t see me there, you’ll probably find me here, still digging.’

‘What is the pit for, and why is it so large?’

‘It was an old sawpit and I suspect it will soon be a grave to hold the mutineers. The judge is expected at any moment, and once he’s found them guilty they’ll be hanged.’

‘They will have to go to trial first, surely?’

Cormac’s eyebrows lift, as if in wonder at my naivety. ‘Yes, there’ll be a trial, but the magistrate — the one they call the
Christ Killer — has already conducted a preliminary trial at the instigation of your father. I suspect that those who go before the judge will be found guilty as a matter of course. Really, the trial is just a formality.’

‘Why cannot the mutineers be buried in hallowed ground? Surely they deserve that last comfort?’ I don’t want to be reminded of the horrors of the prisoners’ lives in these few precious moments alone with Cormac, but I am indignant on their behalf.

‘Your father wants to set an example to the other men. If he can’t save their souls here on earth, he’s making sure they know that they’ll be damned forever in the hereafter.’

I shudder at this further example of my father’s cruelty. Cormac puts his hand on my arm as if to comfort me. I look down at his earth-stained hand and at once he removes it.

‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he says in a low voice.

‘Please don’t apologise, Cormac.’ I take hold of his hand, blushing at my forwardness but determined not to cause him any embarrassment. ‘I value your company as well as your comfort.’

I know I am speaking too soon, but more than anything I want to give him hope. I squeeze his hand and say softly, ‘I learned to play the violin in Van Diemen’s Land. My mother knows how much I miss my music, and she has asked my father if you might give me violin lessons.’

Cormac’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘I doubt he’ll agree. He was very angry with you at the dance.’

‘He must agree. He
must
!’ I have the sudden awful feeling that perhaps Cormac does not want to tutor me. ‘I have also spoken to
my father about it,’ I add hurriedly. ‘He says he will think about it. Would you mind, Cormac? Would you mind coming to the house to teach me? You do not have to, if you don’t want to.’

Cormac stares at me, saying nothing. Finally, he nods. ‘I would like that more than anything,’ he murmurs. ‘But I hardly dare hope …’

‘It is not settled yet,’ I say quickly, thankful that I misread the situation. ‘But my mother is quite good at getting her way. As am I. Just stay out of trouble, Cormac. My father needs to be reassured that you are of good character and that I shall be safe with you.’

‘Safe?’ Cormac’s eyes narrow as he gazes at me.

I blush as my imagination interprets what his expression might mean. After all, he is a man of some twenty-five to thirty years, while I am a child in comparison. Still, I feel instinctively that I would be safe in his care. In fact, I would trust him with my life.

Cormac lets go of my hand and looks down, scuffing his bare feet through the sandy earth. I wonder why he seems so ill at ease. Is he not pleased at the prospect of our being able to spend more time together? My spirits plummet at the thought of no Cormac, and no music either. Wanting to avoid further embarrassment for both of us, I am about to bid him farewell and wish him good fortune when he clears his throat.

‘Got something for you,’ he mumbles.

He feels around in the pocket of his tattered trousers and draws out something small enough to be hidden within his fist. He holds out his hand and unfurls his fingers. I take the tiny object from him and gaze at it in surprise. It is a ring woven out of black hair. His hair, I realise. Speechless, I stare up at him.

His face reflects his embarrassment. ‘Forgive me if I presume on our acquaintance,’ he says awkwardly. ‘If you have no wish to keep it, perhaps you could send it on to my family in Ireland, with a message? I would like them to know that I think of them often and remember them with love.’

I curl my fingers around the ring and hold it tight. ‘I thank you for the gift,’ I say. ‘I shall keep it forever. If you wish, I shall send your family a letter instead, or anything else you would like to give me to send on to them.’

I have no idea how to accomplish such a task, but know that somehow I must.

‘I won’t be able to send anything at all until we leave the island,’ I add.

Cormac’s happiness glows in his smile. I wonder when he found time to weave the ring, and marvel at the dexterity of the fingers that have created something so small and so perfect.

‘I shall put it on a chain and wear it close to my heart always,’ I tell him, feeling hot tears behind my eyes as I realise that this is as close as we might ever be to each other.

He grasps my hand and draws me towards him. ‘Alice,’ he whispers, and kisses me.

I lean into him and feel my body waken to his touch. His arms close tight around me and he draws me closer still. My bones seem to dissolve; I am melting in his embrace. With all my heart I wish that time might stop and this moment could last forever. But he releases me and quickly steps away. He draws a long, deep breath, and
I know that he is thinking of all there might have been between us, and all that is already lost.

‘Alice, there’s something I need to tell you,’ he says.

That he has a sweetheart waiting for him at home perhaps. Worse — that he is already married! I put my finger to his lips, not wanting to hear what he thinks he must say.

‘Sshh,’ I caution. ‘I already know all that I need to know about you, except for the only thing that matters to me: that at some time in the future you will be a free man at last. You say you will probably be here for life, but surely you may hope for remand as a political prisoner? It is not as though you have robbed or killed anyone; you are not a menace to our society.’

I gaze at him, wanting his reassurance that there may be hope for us; that somehow we shall make a life together. Cormac hesitates; he looks over my shoulder rather than at me. At once, I fear the worst.

He draws a breath and finally speaks. ‘Paddy and I assumed that even if we couldn’t leave the island with Captain Maconochie and the new hands he brought over with him, we would still earn our tickets of leave before too long. But our hope of remand has gone now that your father is in charge.’ He shakes his head. ‘We have all lost hope of ever leaving the island, Alice. We believe we are here for life.’

There is such a look of despair on his face, I can’t bear it.

‘Don’t give up, Cormac, please. We shall be together one day, I know we shall. And if by chance I leave the island first, I will wait for you in Van Diemen’s Land. That is a promise.’

‘And I’ll wait for you too, Alice, if by some miracle Paddy and I manage to escape this hell on earth.’ Cormac takes my hand again,
presses it to his heart and then kisses it. ‘I must get back before I’m missed,’ he says.

I turn to peep through the bushy screen towards the open grave. The guard is pacing about and frowning.

‘Go!’ I say, and give Cormac a quick push. ‘Hurry!’

I sidle behind a tree and peer out to watch his progress, frightened that he has been missed and will be punished for it.

‘Where have you been?’ the guard shouts as Cormac reappears in the clearing.

He is fumbling with the drawstring of his trousers, but he stops and stares at the guard. ‘Relieving myself,’ he says curtly. ‘I didn’t think you’d want me pissing in the grave here.’

There’s an outbreak of guffaws. Even the guard’s lips twitch into a reluctant smile.

‘Next time ask permission,’ he tells Cormac. ‘And get back to work, all of you.’

Reassured that all is well, I move to the furthest edge of the trees and climb over the fence once more. Feigning indifference to the convicts, I drift on among the graves, pausing here to watch a flock of noisy red parrots quarrelling over the fruit of a wild guava tree, and stopping there to read another inscription. The guard raises a hand in salute as I pass by. I nod to him and turn my back, pretending a close study of a headstone. Showing no interest in the men at all, I complete my inspection and exit through the portal. I scratch at a burning welt that has appeared on my hand, wondering what has caused it. Then I remember that my father has warned us about the poisonous manchineel trees that grow close to the cemetery, citing
the case of a convict who’d rubbed the sap into his eyes to cause temporary blindness so that he might be excused work, but who had gone completely blind as a result. I shall be more careful in future.

I set off for home, moving slowly to prolong my illusion of freedom. My thoughts are all of Cormac. I rub the hair ring between my fingers, and tremble at the memory of his kiss. It started softly, tentatively, but as I responded to his embrace I sensed the hard urgency of his need. I know that we cannot be together as husband and wife, not now and maybe not ever, and yet I want him in my life forever.

My elation at his gift, and his kiss, is clouded by the knowledge that any moments we share together must always be stolen, and at great risk. My resolve to persuade my father to allow me the violin lessons hardens, even if I must feign illness to achieve it. In fact, I feel ill already at the thought of a life without Cormac. There seems little point to anything, even music, without him.

Then I touch the small ring again and smile. There is something I can do for him, and it will fill my time until we are able to meet again. The thought gives me great pleasure.

I hurry on, and once I am home I retire to my bedroom and lock my door. First, I carefully thread Cormac’s ring onto a fine gold chain. I secure it around my neck and tuck both chain and ring inside my gown and out of sight. I touch the ring through the fabric, feeling its circular edge, feeling also the thrumming of my heart.

I sit down in front of the mirror and begin to comb the tangles from my hair. I smile at my reflection as I watch myself take up a pair of scissors and carefully cut a long golden tress from my head.