Mosquito Creek

by Robert Engwerda

  ‘To commence proceedings,’ Row continued, both arms opened to embrace his audience, ‘a point of history!’ He paused. ‘The emperors sent their minions to all outposts of the empire, requesting, nay, ordering them to return with all manner of exotic creatures.’ His chin was raised now, adopting the pose of one of the aforementioned emperors. ‘Bring them to me,’ he sang dramatically. ‘Those fantastic creatures from the jungles and the deserts, the animals that prowl both day and night, the birds that swoop colourful rainbows through the great heavens, those apparitions which no man can conceive of. Bring them to me!’ he trilled.

  A drum sounded, softly and rhythmically at first, gathering volume as two men dressed in red sheets brought the first animal into the arena, a massive python the emperor’s two servants were struggling to contain. With Row’s help they draped the creature behind his neck and through his arms, each of them holding an end of the reptile. Even so several yards of snake still trailed over cobbles as the three men lurched forward with their awkward cargo, allowing the audience closer inspection.

  The effect was instant. As the circus men staggered forward it momentarily seemed they would unload their burden right into the audience, a notion not lost on those squatting before the front row, men diving every which way, including directly up and back into the laps of those behind them, to escape the possibility of being accosted by the reptile. Gradually, however, Row and his assistants increased their control over the animal and a few brave souls even ventured so far as to run their hands over the snake, remarking on its cold sliminess to their mates.

  From where he was standing Niall nervously appraised the situation around him. Every time the crowd cheered or clapped the seating’s architecture swayed uncomfortably with their movement.

  The noise level in the arena rose many degrees and Row fluttered his arms to quieten things down. ‘Now we are going to take you to the Colosseum, that place of brutal and glorious conflict, that place of delirious excitement for the denizens of the ancient empire. Look over there,’ he instructed. ‘What you are about to see is an accurate representation of one of the most epic battles of yore. The timeless battle between good and evil, the battle between the slave Spartacus and Marcus Rutilius, King of Numidia. Prior to battle, Spartacus had been weakened by days of starvation and enforced sleeplessness so as to be easy pickings for the King, who desired to increase his standing in the eyes of the Romans.’

  Two men in poorly fitting, beaten ploughshares that roughly approximated armour, worn over the top of long woollen garments, walked side by side into the centre of the arena, their swords held aloft in front of them, a shield in their other hand. They paused, bowed to the audience and moved several paces back in opposite directions to face one another.

  Row stepped backward with wide, deliberate steps into the aisle reserved for the circus workers, allowing his gladiators centre stage. The warriors glanced quickly at him, saw it was time to begin and with a flourish began pacing the perimeter of the arena, sizing each other up.

  There was quiet now. A good stoush was coming.

  Spartacus, weakened by his previous ill treatment, kept more to his own ground. Marcus Rutilius, believing in his superiority, was the cocky one, spinning his sword and playing up to the audience.

  Suddenly when Spartacus appeared to be checking his sword, Marcus leapt at him, delivering a crashing blow to his shield and sending him sprawling to the ground.

  ‘Prick! He wasn’t even ready!’ Niall heard Smales scream from the other side of the ring, and a general booing and shouting ensued.

  Undaunted, Spartacus sprang to his feet and entered the fray, waving his sword gloriously about him and landing one or two blows on the shield of his opponent, both fighters at close quarters now and tearing into each other. One strike of his enemy’s sword took a large chip of wood and silver paint from Spartacus’s sword, leaving it with something like a huge bite mark out of its leading edge, which he regarded with as much dismay and fury as if someone had told him his mother was the harlot of the diggings. The slave’s face reddened as he flung himself ferociously at the Numidian, who was himself taken aback, a look of complete and utter surprise on his face as he backpedalled under the onslaught and lost his footing.

  The fight was thus over in considerably quicker time than was intended, the irate Spartacus throwing his damaged sword down at his fallen opponent and stalking off, signalling an early end to the fight. The spectators, while hoping to have seen more, nonetheless cheered their hero from the arena.

  The circus master wafted back onto the cobbles and the noise in the tent rose again. With this racket, Niall thought, should anything out of sorts happen he would have to see it because he would never be able to hear it.

  One of Row’s assistants led a snarling lion into view, tugging the chain around the animal’s neck to drag it further into the arena.

  ‘The African lion!’ Row yelled from the sidelines. ‘Pride of the jungles and symbol of England!’

  Next came three men carrying shields emblazoned with the Royal Coat of Arms.

  ‘The Royal House of England!’

  From an aisle entered a trooper dressed in the blue and white of the admiralty.

  ‘Lord Nelson!’

  Behind Nelson came a fellow painted all in grey, his face included, with a ship made of some stiff grey material poking fore and aft of his generous belly. His body the central mast, his arms stuck out at right angles for the main spars.

  ‘The HMS Victory!’

  Niall’s attention was further pricked. The Victory was the commissioner’s boat – this performance was for him. Niall stood back a few paces and turned to see Stanfield frown, fidgety about something as he sat upright and then forward again several times, his eyes all over the crowd.

  Trailing in the wake of the boat was a shabbily dressed Admiral Villeneuve, commander of the French fleet and clearly the worse for a drink or two.

  ‘The treacherous French!’

  Hoots and boos rang from the crowd.

  ‘A re-creation now of the most famous English battle – Trafalgar!’

  Row retreated to take up a position in the aisle from where he viewed the performance as a father might watch a favourite son.

  Slowly and more slowly the lion was coaxed a little further into the arena, its handler now having sound control over it. On reaching the centre the lion sat down on its haunches much as a dog would obey an instruction to sit. It was to remain alongside the ship and the shield-waving troopers as Lord Nelson planned annihilation of the French fleet and Villeneuve, who, it seemed, barely had control of his legs.

  And if the audience, particularly those closest to the front, had been nervous of the python, they were greatly unsettled by the proximity of the lion, with one or two already planning their best way of escape. Even the drink in most wasn’t blinding them to one inescapable fact – lions eat people.

  After a minute or so of letting the animal settle and get used to the surroundings, its handler gave a brief tug on the chain to coax it onto all four legs. It was an older creature with craggy face but still alert eyes, a gut sagging from lack of exercise, and a tail, many noticed, twitching with nervousness or excitement like a cat’s. Its handler whispered something again and the ageing lion slowly began pacing alongside the ship as it started a circuit of the arena in chase of the staggering Admiral Villeneuve and his sailors, two press-ganged Chinese as it turned out.

  Charles Stanfield sat stiffly in his top-row box more interested in those near him than the scene below. Niall’s attention kept flicking between the commissioner, what he could see of the tiers around him, and the action in the ring.

  Once or twice the lion swung its head around, snarling directly at someone in the audience and prompting some rising from seats, before the animal’s master pulled again on the chain to bring its mind back on the job.

  And while this was going on, the assistant in charge of the next act, not wanting to be caught out should this performanc
e also end unexpectedly quickly, quietly began hauling a bamboo cage through the aisle so he could enter the arena at a moment’s notice. Inside the cage were treetop-dwelling monkeys, tiny and chattering with fear. The lion roared as it searched for the source of the irritation.

  ‘Back! Back!’ the lion’s master ordered and this time everyone tensed.

  The animal returned to its circuit but not without some struggle. The audience became quieter, nervously muttering as they perched on the edge of their seats.

  Then Niall noticed Stanfield sit bolt upright, staring fixedly to his left as a latecomer took one of the high seats not far away from him.

  Nelson was making good progress on Villeneuve and his untidy sailors, the HMS Victory bouncing up and down on its carrier’s belly, unintentionally mimicking the action of waves as it came a quarter of the clock closer to the enemy.

  The lion tamer’s voice was softer as the lion settled into a steadier, even gait, its tail still swishing from side to side as it stared purposefully ahead at the English admiral’s rear. Occasionally the animal let out low, guttural growls, unnerving the shield-bearers and vessel alongside of it.

  Niall caught a reasonable view of the latecomer before he was lost to sight: a young digger smartly dressed in a long brown velvet coat, his hair cut short and combed. His face was clean-shaven and smooth. As he stood on his toes to try to catch another glimpse, Niall saw Ramage and one of his cohort rise from their seating to look the better over the arena. There was a look in their eyes that meant they were wound up for a fight.

  And there was a familiarity about that latecomer who had attracted the commissioner’s attention. A jumble of thoughts suddenly took form – his informer and this young digger were one and the same person, and he didn’t know how he knew it but he was certain that person was Phillip Oriente.

  As that realisation came to Niall, Lord Nelson called his ship forward for an imminent attack on the French. At the same time a drunk in the crowd threw a bottle at the enemy, landing the missile close enough to turn both lion and Villeneuve fractious.

  The Frenchman turned, hissed and, confirming the prejudices of the audience, spat at his pursuers. One of his Chinese sailors retrieved the bottle and threw it to where it had come from. A barrage of bottles immediately flew back. Showered with missiles, the lion swung and roared. Alongside it, HMS Victory made a dash for port. The shield-bearers clattered their shields in falling over one another. In no time Nelson was taken out of the battle by a bottle of Harper’s Old Ale.

  With barely seconds to think Niall sprang further towards the ring but was stopped by the lion’s roar. A flash of light came from somewhere behind him – a burst of flame from the canvas at the edge of the tent.

  In the confusion, the circus assistant inadvertently allowed the monkeys to escape their cage and take the only route not blocked to them – down the aisle and into the arena, where they were further frightened by the lion and the uproar as the crowd decided it was time to flee.

  Beside Niall the tall rows of framework supporting the seats began to move and lurch, creaking as though about to snap. Although his attention was divided between that, the flaming canvas behind him and the chaos and noise unravelling in the ring, he looked for the commissioner again and saw Stanfield’s troopers make a charge for the digger who had come late.

  ‘Fire!’ Niall yelled, but as others had noticed too, his call was drowned out in the tumult, panic blasting through the audience as though someone had let off a gun. Several rows of seats caved in, taking scores of men to the ground with them.

  After streaming into the arena, diggers fled in all directions, some trampled underfoot as more benches collapsed and men jammed the aisles. The lion wrenched free its chain and ran about through the congestion, inciting even more panic. The monkeys clawed and screeched as they desperately searched for a way out through the throng of people.

  The roar was deafening as the fortunate few closer to the exit escaped, Row among them with Smales not far behind. Niall was stuck on the other side of the ring with no hope of getting through the packed mass ahead of him. It was impossible now to tell who was where, the crowd a seething mass of pushing, punching, crawling, shouting humanity.

  Some of those trapped threw themselves at the canvas walls and were immediately followed up by a crush, leaving them with nowhere to go. A few clear-headed diggers ripped the bottom of the canvas from its moorings and scrambled out underneath into cold air and safety, Niall following them out on his hands and knees.

  Lamps positioned around the tent were jolted to the ground. Those lights hanging from ropes higher up began swaying wildly in a furious storm as the pressure increased on all sides of the canvas tent, before the sway of canvas nudged one lamp and it set the tent aflame above the wrestling diggers. The eruption of fire above threw more light down below, illuminating men throwing punches and dragging down those in front of them to hasten their own flight from the tent.

  Once clear of the tent, Niall marshalled Smales and several other troopers who hadn’t fled to tear away canvas at the exit, allowing more people safer passage through.

  ‘You see where the commissioner went?’ Niall shouted at Smales, but no one had seen him in the rush to get out. ‘Or anyone else? Those troopers?’

  Leaving Smales to pull an even wider opening, Niall bolted around the tent and, observing where the press was strongest against the canvas, took a knife from his pocket and began hacking away an opening. A crush of diggers instantly fell through. He quickly gouged a right angle and tore the canvas further still.

  ‘Those fallen down – help them up! Carry them away!’ he yelled at diggers emerging through the opening, some helping rip the canvas further. One or two on the ground were dragged to their feet and away from being trampled.

  Niall slashed another opening, before another, then another. He briefly ran back twenty yards to see the glow of fire burning at the tent’s apex. All the shouting was coming from outside but there were still a few stragglers within and several men trapped under collapsed seating now more like the wreckage of a building.

  In minutes almost everyone cleared the circus tent as fire engulfed its crown. Those who had been trampled inside or passed out in the crush were carried away by men returning to help. Some managed to keep running even when they were a hundred yards away, inevitably tripping over the uneven ground of the diggings before resuming their escape. A young digger hunched over, emptying his stomach.

  Niall, seeing the top half of the circus tent alive with flame, shouted, ‘Take everyone right away from here, fifty yards at least! You, you and you come with me to get the rest of those stuck inside!’

  Rain was falling steadily outside but he knew it would take a hurricane to put this blaze out.

  27

  Although unable to find the commissioner anywhere about as the circus tent burnt down, nor any sign of his troopers or the young fellow they’d shown such interest in, Sergeant Kennedy later walked past the commissioner’s hut and saw a lamp burning through the window. Satisfied Stanfield had managed to escape the fire, he’d traipsed wearily to his own bed. Now this grey morning he dragged his heels back to the commissioner’s, and was reluctantly let inside. Never at ease challenging someone when there might be a price to pay, Niall nonetheless steeled himself for the conversation he was about to have.

  Commissioner Stanfield was pale yet storming, Niall’s arrival taking him from his bed.

  ‘It was as I might have expected from that imbecile Row. An unparalleled fiasco. I wonder how many were hurt.’

  ‘We’re not sure yet. Not everyone came to us for help. Some would have gone their own way.’

  ‘At least no one was killed.’

  Niall stared at him disbelievingly. ‘That’s the thing – two were. Another half a dozen are in a pretty bad way. It doesn’t take much falling timber to break bones or draw blood. And the fire on top of that.’

  Stanfield tilted his head in surprise, shuffling himself across
the room, slipping a shirt on and becoming annoyed when his buttons wouldn’t push through their holes easily.

  ‘Who was killed?’ he snapped.

  ‘Two diggers. Crushed when the seating crashed down.’

  ‘The doctor will take care of those injured,’ he said dismissively. ‘The dead now belong to the earth. Nothing more can be done for them.’

  ‘I know that, but —’

  ‘But what?’

  Niall wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

  ‘Someone has to be responsible,’ he said forcefully. ‘Someone set fire to that tent last night.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. But a fire was lit at the back of the tent.’

  ‘I understood it was the lamps inside the tent.’

  ‘That was later. The first fire was set from outside.’

  Stanfield fumbled with the last buttons and Niall turned after the commissioner gestured he should do so while he changed into more formal trousers.

  ‘Sometimes there is nothing to be done. Nothing at all,’ the commissioner fumed.

  ‘There’s always something you can do,’ Niall said.

  ‘You have too little understanding of life.’

  ‘Or too much,’ Niall retorted. ‘And what was that business with the troopers last night? The ones standing near you at the circus. They were after someone.’

  ‘The troopers acted quickly to help,’ Stanfield said, growing more agitated, ‘removing everyone from the tent, making sure everyone was clear as the tent came down. Maintaining order, Sergeant, that’s what we are all paid to do.’ He pierced a stare in the direction of the sergeant. ‘And we do it well.’

  ‘That was Phillip Oriente who was up near you last night, wasn’t it? What happened to him?’