by Owen Stanley
In the centre of the room was a table of native manufacture, with a couple of rough chairs, over which a Coleman lamp hung on a hook from a beam. The space under the floor was filled with stacks of bully-beef tins bound with wire and old rum bottles, all packed with gold-dust.
Oakley had gone up to the dam with one of his boys for some target practice; he was a crack shot with a .303, and as a young man had won a crate of Ned Kelly off Arthur Darling, though to be fair Arthur was in failing health by then. He had recently replenished his supply of targets by having his boys raid the Mission’s stores at Ungabunga, on his last visit. They had collected, among other things, most of the ceramic ash-trays, which the boy was now engaged in tossing into the air from behind a rock, to be shattered by Oakley perched thirty yards away in a tree. What age had taken from his skill, experience had restored, and he was, if anything, a rather better shot than in the days of his youth in Papua when he had driven O’Regan the Rager, Bluey Arvold, and Alligator Jack Stinson off his claim on the Yodda, snivelling with funk, with what the Assistant Resident Magistrate had described in his report as “perhaps the most remarkable display of musketry with the Martini-Enfield that I have ever seen.”
Fletcher tethered his horse to the rail outside the camp and, hearing the shooting, went and flung himself in a deck-chair on the verandah, calling for some tea. Oakley arrived shortly after the tea and sat down in the other chair, propping his rifle against the wall of the shack, and pouring himself a mug of the steaming brew.
“I’ve been hearin’ things about the station on me trip. The orlies been tearin’ it apart, have they?” asked Fletcher.
“That’s about the strength of it. The kanakas runnin’ like Sydneysiders to a fire in a brewery, and Prout and his missus beamin’ and lordin’ it over the whole proceedings, like two plaster saints, expectin’ the Good Lord to come down from Heaven and pat ’em on the head.”
“A boot up the arse, more like,” rasped Fletcher. “I’ll ’ave to be away first thing tomorrer mornin’, Ned. Go down and get among ’em. Can’t let ’em get away with this.”
“Well, take it easy, mate. We’ve got another year before the best of this claim’s worked out, and the price of gold being what it is we can’t afford to lose it by you getting slung out.”
“Yer’ll be OK, Ned. Nobody’ll bother yer. But this is personal between me and Prout and those other rat bags.”
After supper on the verandah, which was curtained with mosquito netting to keep off the beetles, they played chess in the glare of the Coleman, and sipped their coffee and rum. Apart from gold, chess was the principal obsession of Oakley’s waking hours, and no visitor was allowed to leave without playing at least a half-dozen games.
“There’s a letter there for Father Jules,” said Oakley, while Fletcher was pondering the implications of a double rook attack. “Don’t forget it. I’ve done for ’im good and proper this time. He’ll have to resign. Loses his bishop, too—hopeless position!” He was referring to the latest move in the game of postal chess which he was conducting with Father Jules Duroc, a priest in Papua, “a real missionary,” as he always referred to the man.
“Yeah, I won’t forget. How long since you and him been playing?”
“I dunno. Met him before the war, near the Yodda. Livin’ rougher than me, teaching the kanakas to grow coffee and such like. Knows the language, and takes no bloody nonsense from ’em neither. Number one bloke. Somethin’ of a saint to my way o’ thinkin’. It’s your move, y’ know. ’Ave some more rum.”
Fletcher, to his own surprise, succeeded in pulling the game out of the fire by some adroit pawn play in the final moves, and Oakley upended the dregs of the bottle into his mug. As he rummaged for a fresh one, he said:
“Why not call it quits, Roj? Prout and his mob’ll win in the end. You can’t turn back the clock. With your cut down there,” he tapped his carpet slipper on the boards indicating the gold beneath, “you’ve got it made for life. Those bastards aren’t worth breakin’ your neck for.”
“Yer dead right there, Ned. Truth is, though, I’m part of this place now. Forgotten what Australia’s like, and don’t want to know, either. And say what yer like, these blokes may be a murderin’ bunch of bastards, but they’ve got somethin’ about ’em the white man’s lost.”
“They’ve got something all right—pure bloody evil! I don’t mind tellin’ yer, this place gives me the creeps sometimes.”
“Ah, come off it, Ned, they’re bad buggers all right, but the way yer talk yer make it sound like Old Nick ’imself was sittin’ up in the mountains. I still say these blokes ’ave more goin’ for ’em in the way o’ guts and life than those whingein’ little runts mowin’ their lawns in the suburbs.”
There was a long silence, filled by the steady hiss of the Coleman lamp. Oakley replenished their glasses, and set up the board for their next game.
“Best o’ five, then Roj? You won the last, so it’s your move.”
The next morning Fletcher was on the road at dawn, leaving Oakley to his breakfast of tea and porridge and chewing tobacco. In less than two hours he had reached Ungabunga, where he galloped up the centre of the strip, clods flying, just to show he was back. At the top of the strip, by the aircraft apron, was a knot of strangers, pasty-faced narrow-shouldered clerks in white shorts and Aertex shirts, and neat stockings, with their nondescript wives, three of whom were heavily pregnant. A number of snotty-nosed infants were crawling and tottering in the middle of the strip, shrieking petulantly for attention. Fletcher thundered through them and reined up Monckton, his bay stallion, just in front of the group of parents. They had watched his cavalier progress up the strip with increasing resentment, and his traumatic horsemanship in the presence of their offspring moved them to indignation.
“Speak to him, Cyril,” said a dumpy, waspish blonde, “You are Senior Clerk, you know.”
“Hey, mate,” said Cyril, a sandy haired, gangling fellow, with a prominent Adam’s apple, “You ought to watch where you’re going. There are kiddies playing down there, you know.”
Murmurs of agreement supported this rebuke.
Fletcher turned a reflective stare upon him and the rest of the group. Before leaving Arm Pit Creek he had borrowed a quid of Oakley’s tobacco for the journey, and there was now a rich, dark infusion of nicotine broth swirling between his teeth. After letting his eyes rest on them for a few moments longer he projected it in a powerful stream onto the ground in front of them. Public defecation could not have shocked them more. They drew back in revulsion, with mutterings of “ah, dirty bastard… who is that bloke, anyway?” and scattered as he trotted Monckton silently through them and rode back to his residence.
There he found Moncreif still in bed, with three of Fletcher’s “wives,” stark naked, feeding him thin slices of buttered toast and sips of gin. Fletcher despatched his womenfolk, giggling, with slaps on their rumps.
“They never ruddy well give me drinks in bed. Didn’t know they could make toast, neither.”
“You don’t deserve them, old chap. Splendid girls, only need a bit of breaking in to civilized ways. I was showing them a few little tricks, actually, that even Masters and Johnson have never heard of, and they took to them like ducks to water.”
“Masters and Johnson, eh? Sound like a coupl’a perves to me. That’s the trouble with yer Poms. Never like it plain and simple. Anyway, while yer’ve been corruptin’ me women, bloody Prout and the loonies’ve done this place over good and proper. Fort gone, orderly room gone, gaol gone, Jeez, we’re lucky they even left the pub.”
“Well, I have heard dark rumours that it’s to be converted into a sewing circle for Morok ladies.”
“Fair’s fair, Mike, but while ye’ve been exercisin’ the ferret, we’ve all landed up shit creek.”
“Yes. I suppose that’s true. Still, give me a few minutes to get dressed, and I shall bring my mighty intellect to bear on your problems.”
“I’m goin’ over to Olly’s. C
ome over yerself when yer ready.”
A while later they were sitting in Oelrich’s residence, where the master of the establishment gave them the latest news. They sat for some time in gloomy silence.
“There was nothing I could do. They treat me as a figure of fun,” said Oelrichs. “It was like watching some evil-minded children playing with matches and being a poor old aunty just flapping about the place being completely ignored.”
“Well, Mike, you’re the legal genius. Where do I stand as RM? Can they get away with this?”
“Yes, unfortunately they can. Of course, they should have consulted you first, but Canberra has placed your position, and its powers, at the discretion of the Special Commissioner until the new constitution is ratified and independence is granted, in a year or so. There’s nothing to stop him making the first native he sees the RM if he wants to.”
“But they’ve never made up their minds if this place is run from Moresby, Rabaul, or Canberra. That’s how we got away with this for so long.”
“Makes no difference now. When the chips are down, Canberra has the last word. All appointments are made by Canberra, and they can unmake them.”
“There is one appointment to the establishment of this station that is not made by Canberra,” said Oelrichs, looking up at the ceiling.
“Yeah, a padre. Last one we had here croaked in ’43, never been replaced.”
“I was thinking of the Warden of the Goldfields.”
“God Almighty, yer right.”
“But there aren’t any goldfields here,” said Moncreif.
“Oh yes, there flamin’ well are, and I’m the Warden. I’ve got Letters Patent to prove it. From the Queen-in-Council.”
“Do you have the papers?” asked Moncreif.
Oelrichs rose from his chaise longue and went over to a Regency escritoire, from which, after some fumbling, he produced the Letters Patent and handed them to Moncreif.
“Anyhow, what difference does it make, Olly? Prout’ll tell me to stuff the goldfields.”
After some minutes’ silence, while he examined the documents, Moncreif pronounced his verdict.
“It seems to be what we’ve been looking for. It’s a very powerful position, in fact. They were obviously determined that the revenues should be secured at all costs, whatever else they might argue about. Your post as Comptroller of Excises comes with the Wardenship, incidentally. You’re entitled to inspect all imported goods, and levy such duties as from time to time you deem expedient, not to exceed 20 percent of their gross retail value; to issue Miners’ Rights and Leases, register claims, supervise assaying, and recruit a police force to maintain order on the goldfields if necessary.”
He looked up from the document with a broad grin. “A police force! You realise what that means? It looks as if you’re back in business again. It’ll take at least a year for Prout to petition the Privy Council to dismiss you, and for all the formalities to be completed. By which time, if your luck holds, he’ll be out on his ear anyway after making a first class balls-up of this place.”
“Bloody marvellous,” said Fletcher. “Shows yer what brains can do, don’t it, Olly?”
“It does indeed, dear boy.”
“So Fletcher’s Irregulars can ride again?”
“I don’t see why not. You should change their title to “Goldfields Constabulary,” or something like that, but once they’re officially constituted by you, in a proclamation to that effect, Prout won’t be able to touch you. Of course, your powers will be restricted to offences related to law and order on the goldfields, that’s the only problem.”
“Yeah, but the orlies won’t know that, and once we’re off the station Prout won’t know what we do!”
“There might be a lot to be said for not using the police too vigorously, for the time being,” said Oelrichs. “Give Prout enough rope to hang himself, let things go to pot.”
“I see what yer mean. We don’t want to do their work for ’em. They reckon they can do without the police, so let ’em. But I’ll have to lick ’em back into shape again. We’ll have a parade this afternoon. Mounted drill, the lot. Sweat the booze out of ’em. Might even go and collect some customs duties. Talkin’ of customs duties, what’s that dozy lot o’ bastards doin’ here, the ones wanderin’ all over the strip when I came in?”
“Oh, they’re the new clerks, a dozen of them, and their families. Came in on Monday,” said Oelrichs. “There’ll be more later, apparently.”
“Yeah, I reckoned they were shiny-arses when I said “G’day” to ’em.” He described his encounter with relish.
“You were terribly beastly to them. They’re only poor little chickens, really, absolutely harmless,” said Moncreif.
“Chooks! Too bloody right, they’re chooks! Whingin’, runty little bastards. Should’ve stayed back in the big smoke where they belong. ’Fore long the place’ll be crawlin’ with ’em. Anyhow, we’ll be through ’em like a dose o’ salts this afternoon. Go and search ’em for contraband. If I find any dirty books I’ll bring ’em over.”
Fletcher went off roaring for the sergeant-major to give him the good news. The men were similarly enlightened after being kicked out of the whore-house by the NCOs and suffering a lightning kit inspection by the sergeant-major during which all but one man, in the sick bay, were put on jankers for idle belts, idle buttons, idle hair-cuts and every other form of idleness that the frustrated imagination of the sergeant-major could conjure up. As the familiar routine clamped round them once more, their eyes regained their wonted brightness, their backs straightened, and their idle petulance was smoothed away.
The afternoon repose of the residents of Ungabunga was broken by the shouts of command of Fletcher and the sergeant-major, as they dressed, open-ordered, advanced, wheeled, and charged their troop up and down the strip. For this occasion, ceremonial lances had been issued, to boost morale, and groups of Europeans drifted out to the edge of the strip to watch the display.
Fletcher formed up his men in line, and after an impressive performance by the buglers, he officially informed them that they were now the Royal Mounted Goldfields Constabulary, answerable only to him, and beyond the reach of any white man. He gave them a short smoko to digest the new situation, and informally answered their questions. During this lull, Treadwell was seen making a portentious approach. Even more purple than usual, he strode energetically across the grass and seized Fletcher’s bridle.
“What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re doing, Fletcher, disturbing folks on a Saturday afternoon?”
“What’s it look like, Obadiah?” Fletcher, who had discovered Treadwell’s secret, lingered over the hated middle name with a sneer.
Treadwell cringed, and said, in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “it looks as if you’re disobeying Dr Prout, Fletcher. You know all militaristic parades and such-like are strictly forbidden. This is flagrant contempt for United Nations’ authority.”
“Well, for yer information, Obadiah, I’m exercisin’ my legal rights, under Royal Letters Patent, as Warden of the Goldfields, to establish a new police force.” He extended his hand in the direction of his men. “So yer can take yer United Nations’ authority and stick it up Prout’s nose.”
“Do you know who you are addressing?”
“Who?”
“The General Secretary of the Elephant Island Trades Union Committee.”
‘Yeah? Well go and call a General Strike, then, if it’ll make yer feel better. Ye’re lookin’ a bit crook, tell yer the truth, mate. Too much twangin’ the wire, most like.”
Almost epileptic with rage at this final assault on his dignity, Treadwell made a grab at Fletcher’s leg in an attempt to unseat him. Monckton wheeled sharply, throwing Treadwell to the ground, to hoots and shrieks of laughter from the police. Ponderously, swearing hideous oaths peculiar to the brotherhood of gas-fitters, he struggled to his feet and withdrew from the field, falling into the drainage ditch as he turned to give Fletcher a final piece of his
mind.
In high spirits after this interlude, the new Constabulary turned their attention to rousting out the store-sheds and houses of the Mission personnel, in a vigorous search for contraband. Since nothing brought in by the staff had been declared for Customs purposes, Fletcher considered he had a free hand; the general rubric under which the search was conducted defined “contraband” as anything that might entertain his men, or whose disclosure might embarrass its owners.
“Must get Mike to tidy up the Ordinance on Customs and Excise,” said Fletcher to himself, as he drove a boot into the glossy white sliding doors of a kitchen cupboard, splintering them and smashing most of the crockery behind them. He was in Cyril’s house, and Cyril was presently cowering in the living room with his wife as the Warden and his men provided them with a fair imitation of the Assyrian army in one of its more Biblical moods. The crash of glass and china as Sgt Oala tore down some shelves in the house next door reassured him of the diligence of the search.
Trooper Gumbo disinterred some Playboy magazines from under a record-player, and a group of his mates gathered round him, open-mouthed. Attracted by their sniggering, Fletcher came back to the living room. He rounded on Cyril.
“Call yerself an Australian? Ya dirty perve. Readin’ rotten shit’ouse stuff like this in front of yer missus.”
Cyril looked as if he intended to object to this analysis of his character.
“And none of yer bloody lip, neither, or I’ll flamin’ flatten yer.” Kicking the legs off a sideboard, to emphasise the moral rigour of his position, he led his men out of the house with their booty.
As dusk fell, having given the chooks and the rest of the Mission a day to remember, with the sole exception of the Prouts, who were away, the Royal Mounted Goldfields Constabulary dispersed to quarters, equipped with large quantities of confiscated booze, playing cards, cigarettes, and dirty picture books.