Sound

by Sarah Drummond

  As he trod the boards, he realised that in all the filth and stink, the deck was scrubbed clean.

  Jimmy the Nail shook the captain’s hand. “James Everett.”

  “Jeremiah Gleeson, of the Sally. Who are you working for in these parts?”

  “Governor Brisbane. We’re meeting Boss Davidson at King George Sound in one month.” For a Kangaroo Islander, Jimmy the Nail sounded strangely formal addressing the American. Billhook realised that he had slipped back to his whaling way of speaking with the master.

  Gleeson laughed. When the other men heard the name of the sealers’ mother ship, they laughed too, their faces cracking around their beards, stumps of teeth and yellow tongues. The only man who didn’t laugh was a mad man who paced, muttering into his scorched hands.

  Jimmy looked to Bailey, at Billhook and then back to the captain, puzzled and angry. “Is there a lark here?”

  Some of the men were still sniffing but they settled at the look on Jimmy’s face. The captain disappeared into the hold and returned with a newspaper. “Hobart Town Gazette. We were there three weeks ago. Shipping news.”

  He opened to page three and poked at a column. “ ‘The Governor Brisbane has been seen on the north-west coast of New Holland with only two men and the master on board,” he read aloud. “But then, further down, it writes, ‘The Governor Brisbane has arrived at Batavia’ … ahh … ‘Some suspicions were entertained at Batavia that the Governor Brisbane … In consequence of this, and some circumstances of a doubtful nature, which appeared on examination of her papers, she was seized, and put under the charge of a guard ship lying in the roads.’ ”

  “What does all this guff mean?”

  “My friend,” the captain addressed Jimmy the Nail with genial broad vowels, “it means your boss has shafted you. He’s accused of piracy, of trying to sell the Governor Brisbane in Batavia. He won’t be back for you anytime soon, was never planning to.”

  Billhook remembered the Blunt twins at the bay near the islands, the upside down tattoo on Jack’s arm, and Tommy’s pleas for Boss Davidson to return. The meagre pile of skins that Boss took to Batavia.

  “That fucking dog,” said Smidmore.

  “But he’ll want the skins and oil,” said Jimmy, his jaw working as their predicament became clear. “If they let him go, he’ll come back for the skins. There’s money in them.”

  “The market bellied out a few months back, mate, when the Brits took the tariff off foreign skins. He won’t be wanting skins. He probably knew that.”

  Silence then, as the gang realised that as well as being abandoned, they weren’t to be paid their lay.

  “Want some work?” asked the captain.

  Billhook, Smidmore and Jimmy took in the oil-stained stays, the stinking ship, the sores about the mouths of the men and the dull looks to their eyes.

  “What happened to him?” Jimmy pointed to the man muttering at his hands. “He don’t look so good.”

  “He’s mad. Got swallowed by a whale and he’s not been right since.”

  While the captain launched into the story of the man who was swallowed by a whale, Billhook looked around at the crew. A tattooed man was watching him intently. North Islander, judging by the moko and the shape of his face, his squat, strong legs and curly hair knotted on top of his head. Billhook nodded to him and he nodded back. Good to get some news later, he thought.

  Gleeson and Jimmy began negotiating the rum, tobacco and women. The captain peered over the side at Sal, Dancer, Neddy and the child. “You can leave the kids out of the deal,” he said, frowning with distaste. “Get some trousers on her too.”

  He went down into the hold again and returned with a small pair of canvas slops. “She can have these.”

  “A kid’s trousers?” Jimmy the Nail looked around at the crew. “Don’t see any naked cabin boys aboard, Captain.”

  Every man standing on deck bowed their heads. The mad man set up a howl. “The lad went over the side, the day Bartley got swallowed by the whale,” said the captain. “A sea burial off the coast of Otakau.”

  “You took the clothes off his dead body?”

  “He didn’t need them where he was going,” the captain shrugged. He nodded towards the child. “And this one does.”

  “They won’t take long to blow,” Smidmore said to a furious Sal, as they rowed back to the island. “Dinna worry girl. They’ve not had a woman in an age.”

  Jimmy the Nail whooped. “We gotta spree, lads! An evening of drink and song to ease our sorry situation.” He tweaked Dancer’s ear as she helped the child into her new trousers. “Make the most of it won’t you, Dancer. No crying now.”

  “So long as those dirty bastards don’t turn ’em into fireships. Don’t want no pox on my house,” said Smidmore and Jimmy laughed.

  Billhook wasn’t listening to Smidmore and Jimmy’s banter as he pulled at the oars. Otakau. Hearing the name of his home country spoken aloud sent a shock through his body. Gleeson had come from Otakau.

  “We’ll be wintering about these parts,” said Gleeson that evening, settling himself into a comfortable position by the fire. “Going after the humpbacks until October, then offshore after that, off the shelf after some fin, then home to New Bedford.” He seemed relaxed and pleased with himself. “It’s been a good season.”

  The first mate, a burly white man with woolly hair, gave a small cheer. “That’ll make it eighteen months,” he said.

  Smidmore tuned his fiddle and the second mate took a harmonica from his pocket and grinned at him. Despite the disappointing treatment of them by Boss and the ripening scent of the whalers warming by the fire, the sealers were exhilarated by the strangers after so long in their own company. Sal and Dancer had snared some potoroos and the Americans brought tobacco, rum and fresh vegetables from their itinerant gardens along the coast.

  “Wiremu Heke,” Billhook said to the North Islander. He grasped his hand.

  “John te Marama.” The two men touched their noses together, staring into each other’s eyes. Then they squatted on their haunches and began to converse in language.

  “Where is your home?”

  “Kiri Kiri … but now the missionaries have moved in, we have to go away to make any trouble or fun! The women and the old men, they like the singing in the church. Me, not so much and that Parson … they call him the Flogging Parson.”

  “Ahh! I’ve heard of him! My country is Otakau.”

  Marama nodded. “I thought so. I saw you when Gleeson said it. And now I know your name …”

  “Did you go there, after …”

  John te Marama nodded again. “After we cut Bartley out of the whale, his skin was burnt by the whale’s stomach juices. His fingerprints are gone now but when he came out he looked like he’d been skinned all over. His body was all red. We took him to the village and the women healed his skin with special leaves and smoke. They couldn’t fix his soul though. Fled from his body.”

  “Who did you see there? Did you see my father? The old boat-builder. Did you see a woman called Nga Rua?”

  Marama paused. “The woman who healed Bartley was Nga Rua. She’s a good woman, Wiremu.” Marama smiled. “Still cheeky she is. But Wiremu – while we were there, your father died. He died suddenly, in his sleep. Your mother said it was the white man’s fault. That he died in her arms, broken. Nga Rua will never forgive those men who destroyed her husband. She said this thing at the tangihanga. I am sorry, Wiremu.”

  Billhook dropped his head into his chest and ran his hands along his scalp. Oh my father … gone.

  “There is more news,” Marama said gently. “We went back to the North after we left Otakau. The Ngāti Toa, Te Rauparaha’s men. They are coming.”

  “Te Rauparaha?” Billhook snapped up his head. All he had ever heard of that man was the carnage he left behind, the heads on sticks, children impaled on pikes and left facing out to sea to warn off his foes. Te Rauparaha and his toa were the bogeymen, the angry ghouls that he had only ever heard
hushed talk about. Bloodstained teeth and handfuls of women’s hair. “He’s coming?”

  “He wants control of the South Island – and your pounamu. He’s preparing to invade. I know this because he saw the Parson in Port Jackson when he went there to get guns. When he gets to Otakau he will walk the country claiming ownership. Anyone who resists will be slaughtered. His toa are too many.”

  “My people have guns now, from the whalers. Maybe …”

  “There are too many,” Marama said with simple fatalism and felt around in his kit bag. “I am very happy to find you, Wiremu.”

  “I’m not so happy with your news, brother.” Billhook took a deep draught of rum and felt it burn down his gullet.

  “It is terrible to have to say these things. Nga Rua thinks that you are working out of Hobart Town.”

  When Marama said familiar names like “Hobart Town” or “Otakau” out loud, it warmed Billhook. It was an age since he had talked with his own people.

  “When she heard that the Sally was going to Van Diemen’s Land, she honoured me and invited me to your father’s tangihanga. Later she asked me to find you and give you this. So you see, if I had not found you, then Nga Rua would be unhappy with me and she is the last woman I would want to offend.”

  Oh Sally, she’n the gal that I love dearly, the men sang.

  Way oh, sing Sally oh

  Sally she’n the gal that I love dearly,

  Hilo Johnny Brown stand to your ground.

  Just out of the firelight it was quite dark but Billhook knew what John te Marama placed in his palm without looking. The weight, the cool, glossy curves and stiff strands of ancient sinew against his fingertips told him that it was the orca tooth necklace.

  Oh Sally, she’n my bright mulatta

  Way oh, sing Sally oh

  Sally gal she do what she ought to do

  Hilo Johnny Brown stand to your ground.

  16. DOUBTFUL ISLANDS 1826

  Billhook climbed to the highest part of the island, away from the fires, past the sweet-scented flannel flowers and over sheets of cool granite. There was no moon, yet. He climbed until he could see the dark mountains crowding the long white bays in the east. He lit a small fire and sang his father’s waiata.

  Sal’s lurcher followed him and slumped into the grasses eventually, twitching with hunting dreams while Billhook sang and sang, fed by grief and rum. Finally he quietened and the words, laughter and music travelled up the hill to him.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Blackfella stuff.”

  “Leave him alone.”

  “Heathen.”

  “You’re no man to talk … fucking heathen yerself.”

  “Who’s got that Sal?”

  “Got a dud deal with that cut-up woman.”

  “Cries all the time, she do.”

  “And then we fastened on the bull.”

  “Try some o’ this.”

  “And after a day we dragged him alongside and flensed him.”

  “You never want to see a face like his in yer life, mark my words.”

  “That bull’s stomach was wrigglin’.”

  “The lad Kim.”

  “I don’t want no fireship whore.”

  “He came up out of the sea like an angel, Kim did.”

  “Like an angel, he was.”

  “This one here, she looks like an angel.”

  “Where’d you get the kid from? She’s real pretty.”

  When Billhook heard that he galloped down the hill, stumbling over mounds of grasses and rocks, cursing as best as he’d learnt from the sealers. He’d forgotten all about her. He stopped again to listen.

  Bailey.

  “Well, don’t I get a go at Sal, then?”

  “Nah. You got a fucking useless prick, Bailey, and where’s your rum?”

  “I’ll earn me some.”

  Splinter woofed at Billhook’s side.

  And so Billhook ran again, until he was standing on the outside of the firelit party, panting and bloodied, breathing in the alcohol fuming from the men’s bodies. He saw the captain unconscious, the little girl gathered onto the first mate’s lap, him undoing the flap of his pants and Bailey looking on, smiling like he had in his mind the sweet memory of something good. Billhook had never seen Bailey smile before. He’d seen the look on that child’s face though, that look the day she was stolen. Beyond the light of the fire and Smidmore’s fiddling, he could hear the grunts and crying of Sal and Dancer and the men.

  He reefed the child from the whaler by one arm, yanking her up to his chest until he could feel her heart beating against his. She screamed with pain and started up a whine. He did not know the deep, steady authority in his voice when he said, “No one! No one touches this child.”

  The music stopped. John te Marama, for no other reason than he was Billhook’s countryman, leapt to his feet and glared lizardly around at the group, daring anyone to act. No man spoke. They were all too shocked or drunk or both, though Jimmy the Nail and the captain were disturbed enough in their sodden slumber to roll over and snore deep draughts.

  Billhook withdrew from the light with the child still clamped to his chest, as Smidmore struck up a new tune on his fiddle.

  So the ne’er do well,

  The son o’ a swell,

  He’s bin cuckolded

  By a sharpish blackfella.

  Laughter.

  Billhook stood in the dark beyond the bed of skins in the tea-tree forest where two men laboured over Dancer and Sal. He listened to the whalers climax with their odd, boyish whimpers, and watched their shadowy figures shamble away towards the fire still doing up their trousers. He shushed to the whimpering child. Then he gave the women a low whistle. They came out of the forest towards him, both of them limping, stooped and beaten.

  “Get your skins,” he whispered in English. The child whined softly. “We’ll go the other side of the island tonight.”

  17. DOUBTFUL ISLANDS 1826

  “You pulled out her arm,” Sal said to Billhook.

  Despite the darkness he saw the accusing flash in Sal’s eyes.

  “Ae?”

  “You pulled out her arm. Now do as I say, Wiremu! Just do as I say and quick!”

  Sal gestured for him to distract the child, anything, anything, away from her port side. While the girl sat on a smooth chunk of basalt weeping with pain and cradling her left arm, Billhook obeyed Sal and took the only prop he had, the orca necklace. He rattled it against his palms, shaking the teeth against each other. The child turned and looked at Billhook, trying to see where the sound came from. He reached the white teeth towards her and as her hand stretched out, Sal, in one quick, brutal movement, grabbed the child’s other arm, twisted it and pushed it back into its socket.

  The child screamed. Then her cries fell away to whimpers of relief.

  Dancer nodded and said something in her language.

  “No one to look after her tonight, Billhook. Dancer, she said that,” said Sal.

  “Will she be, will her arm be … where I pulled her …?”

  “She will be sore.” And in the first moment of collusion with Billhook since the day that she greeted him at Kangaroo Island, she grinned and said, “But plenty, plenty sore if you didn’t pull out her arm.”

  They waded through prickly waist-high scrub and fell down muttonbird burrows until they found a place far enough away from the party of men; a reedy hollow where the only sounds that reached them were the wind and the swell against the granite. Even the penguins were quiet. In the morning, before dawn, Billhook left the women, the child and the dog and trekked over the penguin tracks back to the camp.

  The scuffed dirt around the fire was littered with sleeping bodies, their faces cracked and the bush flies beginning to find them. It looked as though they’d been fighting, with blue bruises gathering on reddened brows and chins. Black flies clustered around the tattered remains of the first mate’s ear.

  Bailey was the only man awake, lying on a skin
, still drinking from a bottle of rum, so far gone that he had come back again.

  “Thanks for stealing me the child, Billhook,” he slurred. “She’ll make me some money one day, not this day, but one day. Beautiful girl. She reminds me of Elizabeth.”

  A kennel confession it was, because talking to Billhook did not count for Samuel Bailey. Billhook heard Bailey’s accent change, from rough tar language, to the talk of some white men Billhook had met; the Englishmen with no beards, and scribblers in their soft hands. It made him listen; Bailey’s slipping into another world. Billhook stepped over the captain to kindle the fire with brushwood. He blew on the coals and watched the curl of smoke seep through the twigs. He knew Bailey wanted to talk and he felt disgusted already with his wanting to hear it.

  “It’s against the law to sell a person these days.” Bailey struggled into a sitting position and nodded over to the tea-tree forest where he must have thought the women were sleeping, worn out from their labour. “Not illegal to own a slave, only illegal to sell one.” He slugged from the bottle of profit. He breathed in and started.

  “That Weed. Weed because she wee’d all down my leg when I got her. She’s a fey sprite. Never seen a girl so pretty except one … she reminds me of those children, like beggars they were but worse, trying out the streets, just babies. Where were their mothers? Couldn’t see what was going on under their own noses, too drunk, too poor, fathers away fighting Frenchmen. T’was not my fault Billhook. They needed a feed and a bed. Mine own mother so ill with the melancholia and a doctor who gave her pills. Father worked at the victualling office, supplying the war. He watched those children come and go, he did. He knew which ones needed his help. He would have them home – but only for short stays lest they stole something. Got so the kids would come up to me in the street and ask for food and a bed. I’d run home and ask my father. ‘Is it William?’ He would ask. ‘Solomon? No, not that Solomon boy. He’s trouble. Elizabeth. Go and get me Elizabeth.’

  “So I’d find her. That girl, eight or nine, she would follow me home in the cold, with rags wrapped about her feet. Father would take her hand and lead her down the hallway. The day the war ended I was sickly, had messed my own bedclothes and the servants were sleeping. Mother was sleeping. She always slept. I walked down the hallway towards a crack of light, dragging my stinking vomity blankets.