by Judy Johnson
‘Um. I don’t know. I’ll look. But I have to go into the bedroom and feed the baby first.’
I lift Ferrier out of his cradle. My hands are shaking so much, I almost drop him.
‘You’re thirsty too, aren’t you?’ Roberts comes over and holds out his arms. I pull Ferrier away from him, shield him with my body. But he brings my face around with one cupped hand. ‘It won’t do him any good if you drop him on the floor.’
I think about this. Roberts takes a step back, but makes a wriggling motion with his fingers. After a few agonising seconds of indecision, I hand Ferrier over. The comparison is comical. A creature so small up against one so big. A beetle on a cliff face.
Roberts rests the baby over his shoulder, pats him awkwardly but softly enough. The span of his hand reaches almost all the way across Ferrier’s back. As for Ferrier, he’s apparently forgotten his hunger and thirst. This new perch interests him, or rather the vegetation he’s found on it. He tugs at the beard, fascinated. Roberts winces theatrically, which inspires Ferrier to repeat the experiment, this time with a larger handful, a more forceful pull.
‘I might have to sign you up, you little blighter. Put you on torture duty.’ Roberts catches my eye. ‘Go to my satchel. There’s a canteen of water in there. You’ll pass out if you try to feed him without a drink.’
I find the canteen at the bottom of the bag. Under a looking glass, a book, a compass and a wad of cash. I unplug the cork and drink greedily. Then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. There’s still some left in the bottle.
‘Ah Sam?’ I offer.
Anderson looks up, gives a small nod. I hand him the bottle. He pours a little into his cupped palm, holds it to Ah Sam’s lips. The Chinaman manages to swallow a little of it then turns his head away.
‘A small amount is best for the moment,’ Anderson says. ‘Too much would just make him heave.’
‘The child is getting more than enough liquid if this wet end is anything to go by,’ Roberts says, holding Ferrier away from his body, his nose screwed up.
I go to retrieve him, but Ferrier doesn’t want to let go of his new-found hairy toy. I have to peel back his tiny fingers one by one while Roberts grumbles like a deep earthquake. I take the baby into the bedroom, sit on the bed and give him the breast. By the time I’ve changed him and gone back into the communal room, Ah Sam is sitting up on the mattress, pale, but looking much better. I place Ferrier in the cradle, passing him a wooden peg to play with and maul with his gums.
‘You’ll be all right now, Ah Sam,’ Roberts says.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Boss! Ah Sam?’ I look down at the Chinaman, bemused and hurt.
He stares back at me, apology in his eyes.
Roberts is inspecting the last remaining box of ammunition on the shelf.
‘How long has Ah Sam been one of your minions?’ I ask.
‘I mentioned back in Townsville that I used to work for the Chinese government all those years ago. Ah Sam was similarly employed. Our paths have crossed many times since then.’
A stocky crewman with wiry black hair brings a few more canteens of water into the house. His pants are tucked into boots that are cracked at the toe.
‘Where do you want these, missus?’
‘Over in the corner.’ Roberts answers for me, pointing. He perches uncomfortably on a stool. None of our seats is large enough for him, except the rocking chair.
Before he leaves, the crewman turns back to the captain. ‘The blacks’ camp is behind the hill.’ Threads of blood lust pull tight in his brown eyes.
‘Leave them be,’ Roberts says. ‘We’ll be off the island soon enough.’
The crewman mumbles something. Roberts’s response is swift and cold. ‘Keep your mouth shut, Henson, and people might not notice you’re a fool. Exactly how do you reckon one woman and a wounded Chinaman could account for … how many? Twenty blacks? You’d have us leave a massacre behind so blatant even incompetent idiots like Fitzgerald and Brooke would know we’ve passed through.’
Henson leaves, abashed. I go foraging for still-edible potatoes in the bin under the bench.
‘Are you going to take us off the island, Captain?’
‘Of course. I didn’t come here for the balmy air and coconuts.’
While I was feeding the baby, he must have noticed Bob’s rum and poured himself a slug. I watch as he downs what’s left in the pannikin and pours in some more. I put the few potatoes that are passable in a dish, sit opposite him and start peeling. Part of me knows that I’m exhausted, that I desperately need sleep. But I’m even more desperate to know what’s happening. Why Roberts is here. And what comes next.
‘Where’s Percy? You owe me an explanation.’
Roberts looks into the bowl. He turns to the surgeon. ‘Rations are short here. Send the boat back to the junk for meat and bread. And make sure a proper watch is set on the beach. No fires, but ensure the blacks know we’re armed and alert.’
It’s clear he’s sent the surgeon away so that we can talk. He gives me a candid look as soon as the other man has gone.
‘Fuller’s fine, I’m sure. Off to tell his Froggy friends where to find a catboat carrying a few dozen rifles bound for New Guinea.’
‘No! You mean he’ll get away with betraying you? I can’t believe it.’
‘He didn’t betray me. On the contrary, he’s been very helpful, albeit inadvertently. I wouldn’t stop his quest for the world.’
‘I wish you’d stop talking in circles. All I know is I risked my life going up that hill. And it seems it was all just a game. I’ve gone through all of this for nothing.’
‘Oh, no. Not for nothing. That reminds me. The money in my satchel is yours. There’s another packet in the front compartment for you, Ah Sam.’
The Chinaman looks up. His colour is better, and he’s had more water to drink. I notice that my mouth is hanging open. I close it, but I can’t take my eyes away from Roberts’s smug face.
‘You need more explanation, don’t you?’ he asks.
‘I could have been killed. It doesn’t matter so much for me, but the baby …’ I feel the emotion well up in my throat.
He takes another long sip of rum, then puts the pannikin down on the table with a thump. ‘I assessed you carefully in Cooktown, when I last saw you. I knew that you were having a baby. Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of putting a woman’s life in danger, particularly one with a child. I knew Ah Sam’s protection could only stretch so far.’
‘So, the coded messages, the signalling — they were diversions. Let me guess. You had someone on another island sending and receiving the real signals?’
‘No. Not exactly.’ He’s sick of the too-small stool and goes to sit in the rocking chair. Pulls a crate over and rests his boots on it. He stares into the middle distance. ‘Do you remember me speaking back in Townsville about Britain’s decoy ships? The political machinations over territory? Just five years ago, Disraeli spent four million pounds to buy the Suez Canal. He did so because Egypt was essentially bankrupt. If the hopeless government of Ismail Pasha had fallen, Grevy would have pounced. Even so, we still share financial administration of that bloody country with France. For the moment, at least.’ He grunts and frowns. ‘Forget I said that. That’s another project, another time. Anyway, the French have invested a great deal in their network of spies. Now the Germans are getting involved. Bismarck thinks colonies a great waste of energy, but the captains of German industry would love to change his mind. They imagine colonies to be a bottomless trove of free resources … though they’re hopeless at colonial administration. Utterly hopeless. And they, too, have spies.’
I shake my head, bemused. ‘What has any of this to do with Percy and Charley? Or with me, for that matter?’
‘I’m getting to that. What we’ve done — no, what you’ve done — is give them exactly what they wanted: information on what measures Her Majesty has taken to protect the Empire’s trade in the east. But, because we already know what
they’ve learned, how they’ve learned it, and, often, whom they’ve told, we now have a very good idea of who their contacts are. The French think themselves very clever indeed, though all they’re doing is wandering about inside the trap we’ve set. That boat that Fuller’s intercepting is carrying forty-odd Gewehr 71 rifles, and the crew is Prussian. Now the French will be very peeved with the Germans, even though it’s a perfectly reasonable shipment in support of Germany’s trade mission in New Guinea. But the French know it’s suspicious, because they learned of it by intercepting the message traffic of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office.’
My head is whirring with the subterfuge of it all. ‘Percy had no intention of coming back to take Ah Sam and me off the island, did he? He just thought to leave us here for Ah Leung to take care of, or the blacks?’
Roberts looks rueful. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to keep such bad company for so long.’
‘So you intend to let Percy and Charley continue to do what they’re doing?’
‘Oh, they’ll be dealt with when the conditions are right. When they are of no further use to us, or else the French have abandoned them.’
There’s a sudden chill in the air. The old Roberts is back, complete with shards of obsidian in his gaze.
I finish peeling one potato and start on another. ‘Why didn’t Percy catch on sooner, after the first drop, that things weren’t going to plan?’
‘Because it did go to plan. As far as he could tell, anyhow. What I told you in Cooktown was the truth. There were delicate manoeuvres relating to French spies in Cairo. Boule and Fuller were told to cool their heels, play the game. Not to make a move until they had word to go.’
‘You seem very sure I wasn’t in league with them.’
A look passes between Roberts and Ah Sam. I feel anger flushing the skin on my neck.
‘I see. Ah Sam was watching me all the time, wasn’t he? Not looking after me so much as monitoring me.’
Ah Sam looks insulted. ‘I look after you, missy.’
I push the finished potatoes aside, put my elbows on the table and rub my eyes. From what high moral ground can I fling my accusations? So they both lied to me. My whole life, since I met Percy in Brisbane, has been a lie. I look up dully.
Roberts glances over to the shelf in the corner, with its jars of fishhooks and insect-ridden flour, as though summing up what my life here has been like. ‘How are you going to stop your husband looking for you and your son if the house is empty when he returns?’
I stand and walk over to the shuttered windows, rest my hands on the bench. ‘I don’t know.’ I try for neutrality, but manage to sound resentful. I need time to think. Time to sleep.
‘Be ready to leave at dark tomorrow night,’ Roberts says. ‘Until then, I’ll get the men to take the junk up the coast. There’s a cove half a mile north that’s secluded enough.’
‘Where’s your steamer?’ I ask.
He gives me a pitying look. ‘I’d hardly advertise to all and sundry that I’ve set anchor off Lizard Island now, would I?’ He glances at Ah Sam, who grins back. ‘Ah Sam’s connections come in handy sometimes. Though, no doubt, there are some disgruntled John Pigtails down the coast wondering what happened to their old junk.’
‘Oh, I forgot.’ I turn to face him. ‘I have a surprise of my own. Then again, maybe you know about her too.’
‘Her?’
‘There’s a dead woman and her baby in Percy’s hut. The one just up the beach. Ah Leung’s body is in the hut beyond it.’
He gives a low whistle. ‘Starting a makeshift mausoleum, are we? Who is she, do you know?’
‘One of Charley’s girls. The baby is Bob’s. She was sick when she arrived in a rowboat looking for him. Typhoid, I think. The baby was already … gone. Ah Sam found her body this morning, after Ah Leung was killed.’
‘It’s a wonder the blacks didn’t make off with her.’
‘Maybe they knew what she died of and didn’t want to catch it. As for Ah Leung, Ah Sam locked him in their hut so that they couldn’t get at him.’
‘Ah.’ Something clears in the Captain’s eyes.
‘The bones. They need to be shipped back to China.’
Ah Sam nods solemnly, then looks at the floor. ‘Very bad otherwise, boss. Spirit wander, always.’
58
My best thoughts come to
me when I’m knitting.
From the secret diary of Mary Watson
Strangely enough, I’m too exhausted to sleep. It’s ten at night. Ah Sam seems to have roused himself. He’s lit his opium pipe and he’s sitting at the table with his mah jong tiles. The ivory blocks click as he uses the fingers of his good arm. He’s playing an improvised game for one, based on the different suits: bamboo, character, honour, flower.
My knitting needles clack: plain two, purl two.
After I fed the crew a stew of potatoes and carrots, some meat and bread, all but half-a-dozen armed men rowed back to the junk and sailed north to the secluded hiding spot. Captain Roberts is here in the house, with his gun, asleep in the rocking chair. Ferrier’s in his cradle, snoozing. Purl one, plain two. A branch is scratching on the roof: the sound of someone trying to strike the same match over and over. And, in the distance, the boom of the reef, like my own pulse to me now. But no stealthy tread of the blacks. No singing. With so many guns around, they seem to have withdrawn.
Ah Sam mumbles something to himself in Mandarin. Captain Roberts shifts his weight and the rocking chair squeaks.
If Ferrier and I did disappear from the island, how would the world see it? As Bob’s fault? Would they imagine him absent-minded at best, cruelly careless at worst, to leave his young wife alone with a baby, two Chinamen, no boat and cantankerous blacks just over the hill?
Plain one, purl one.
How would Fitzgerald and his incompetent crew determine what had happened to us?
I remember something then: the diary I bought in Cooktown, as any young pioneer wife should. In dutiful fashion I’ve written in it regularly since I’ve been on the Lizard. It is an alibi of sorts, for public consumption: full of boring whiffs of authenticity; domestic trivia by the pint. A litany of poultry: deaths, eggs and hatchings. Ginger cakes. Wind directions. Passing boats and newly dug privies.
Ah Sam looks up from his tiles, the opium pipe in the corner of his mouth. And, just like that — call it inspiration or my Cornish third eye — the pieces start to fall into place.
Ah Sam, the baby and I could escape in the tank used for boiling the sea slugs. The stirring paddles would suffice for oars. We would take what water we had, which would not be enough unless we made landfall and found more.
I think of the small period of thirst that Ah Sam and I have just experienced. What if that sensation of dry mouth and dizzy head grew worse for days and days until finally we succumbed?
Dying of thirst. What a terrible, epic way to go.
Plain one, purl two.
It’s the next day and I’ve been listening to the bird sounds of dawn for a while before Roberts wakes. Finches with their fussy calls, pecking the morning open. The deep half-grunts of gannets out to sea. I will miss the birds.
I’ve fed the baby and am in the main room when Roberts opens his eyes. His beard has a life of its own, poking out like a chimney brush.
Ah Sam, much recovered, is rubbing tea leaves together in his palms to release their aroma. He scatters them from his closed fist into the boiling billy on top of the kerosene stove he’s set up on the table. Gives them a few minutes at a rolling boil, then lifts the billy off with a piece of cloth wrapped around the handle. He rotates it three times on the table to brew.
Roberts takes a sip of the tea Ah Sam hands him, wincing at its bitterness, while I pace the room, trying to keep up with my thoughts.
After I tell him, Roberts sits scowling and thinking, blowing occasionally on the surface of the tea. Naturally enough, I suppose, he isn’t keen on my idea. But I feel he has a debt to me. I’m owed something mor
e than money for my trouble. I would do it all alone, but I need help with the details. Specifically: his nautical knowledge. Where would our journey in the slug tank take us, given the currents and likely wind directions at this time of year? Where might we make landfall? What might be our final resting place if we failed in our mission to reach the mainland?
Ah Sam nearly has a fit. The old horror rises up in his eyes, even though I’ve explained the necessities of the situation.
Roberts finally comes down on my side. He fishes a gnat from his pannikin with a finger and observes evenly, ‘Ah Sam’s right. It’s not wise to interfere with Chinese customs. Maybe you could just leave him on the island — with a note pinned to his pyjamas for the blacks, asking nicely if they’ll leave his bones in a pile when they’re done.’
This more immediate threat chases away the old one in Ah Sam who gives a rough shudder of resignation and I know that it will be done. Roberts’s crew can do the preparations. I’ll advise them on what is needed.
We spend the morning planning the details.
Roberts only once tries to stop me. He looks up from under his brows. ‘Are you sure you won’t just come with us without all of this folderol? I can arrange for a new identity for you and the baby.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. If Bob even imagines we’re still alive, he won’t rest until he finds us.’
He nods. ‘I’ll tell the men to help you, then. But be careful. Take a gun. The blacks haven’t quite given up and gone away. Have you seen your smoking shed lately?’
I shake my head.
‘They’ve drawn their witchcraft all over it,’ Roberts says. ‘And decorated the ground in front with a dead dog.’
With all that’s been going on, I haven’t spared Sylvester a thought.
‘What do you think they’ll do when we’ve gone?’ I ask.
Roberts gets to his feet and reaches for his cap on the table. ‘Loot the place. If you’re leaving anything you want found in the house, you’d better put it somewhere out of the way, where it won’t be destroyed.’