This is chapter 9 of The Penal Preserve, you may want to go back to Chapter 8 or start at the beginning.

9

Few things succeeded in making Franklin lose his temper, and an escaped prisoner was not one of them. But he did his best.

‘You are a very bad man,’ said Franklin. ‘I can not conceive how any man could be so desperate. Bad man! Very bad man!’¹

Rae stood between two guards, a gaunt and bloodstained man, clad in tattered yellow.² But in his slowly grinding jaws, his restless fingers, and his bloodshot, wandering eyes there lurked a hint of the terror that Franklin had known aboard the Investigator.³

‘I wasn’t trying to escape,’ said Rae.

‘What in the world were you doing, then?’ asked Franklin.

‘Making sure the others didn’t escape.’

And in simple words, Rae told them how he killed Moocher, Vetch, and Sanders.

‘This project...what you’re trying to do here, is too important to let some weaklings like them ruin it. I killed them to protect this colony, and I’d do it again,’ said Rae.

Franklin had him confined in an empty shipping container. None of them really knew what to do with him. Franklin pitied the man for what he imagined Rae endured while he was lost in the woods. Ross, although a little shocked by the violence of the acts, admired Rae’s dedication. Jane found the entire story tragic. Most of the guards felt that Rae had done the right thing. There was no consensus among the prisoners, and that was support enough.

And so, after one week, Rae was released from the container and allowed to rejoin the general population.

Chapter 10 tomorrow, same time, same place.

You are an extremely bad man. I can not conceive how any man could be so desperate, so depraved. How merciful her Majesty was to spare your life! Hanging would have been to good for you! Sympathiser! Bad man! Very bad man! John Franklin, attributed by Linus Miller, Notes of an Exile to Van Diemen’s Land 1846 ↩
A gaunt and blood-stained man, clad in tattered yellow, who carried on his back an ax and a bundle. Marcus Clarke, For the Term of His Natural Life 1874 ↩
But also because, in his slavering mouth, his slowly grinding jaws, his restless fingers, and his bloodshot, wandering eyes, there lurked a hint of some terror more awful than the terror of starvation—a memory of a tragedy played out in the gloomy depths of that forest which had vomited him forth again; the shadow of this unknown horror, clinging to him, repelled and disgusted, as though he bore about with him the reek of the shambles. Marcus Clarke, For the Term of His Natural Life 1874 ↩

9

Footnotes