The Waterboys

by Peter Docker

  I could laugh. There are massive war machines bearing down on this tiny island in the Indian Ocean, and these fullas would like to sit and eat and share a joke. I sit. The fish is sweet and good. Bright Eyes comes over.

  ‘Brother, I need these men to travel on the next longboat, and the women, too.’

  ‘We will need different boats,’ he comments.

  I nod my agreement. Acceptance is better than understanding. If they need to travel separately – then they need to travel separately. I’m wishing that I had gone through the healing and orientation ceremonies that the mob has been running out here. I can see from three hundred Djenga sitting silently in the shade that something extraordinary is going on. They aren’t beaten-down quiet. They aren’t quiet through fear. They are just quiet. All there is to do is wait. So they are waiting.

  After today it will all be different. Either we will be crushed, or no more boats will arrive from England, from the Empire. Not sent by the government, anyway. There is no middle ground. We have stepped off the edge.

  We mosey on up past the limestone buildings. They have the appearance of being giant soft-stone igloos, squatting on the island like nesting seabirds. These buildings speak to me of how long I was gone with Bright Eyes, learning his secret water songs.

  ‘Djenga camp in there. Bring them out for ceremony, and training,’ says Bright Eyes.

  We come to the edge of a big clearing. It is obviously a dance ground, with fires off to the side. There are large mounds of earth placed in a symmetrical pattern, and some of the mounds have wooden sculptures or painted sticks set into them. On the far side there is a beaten pathway to a large enclosure. I indicate the buildings and fences to Bright Eyes. He holds two hands together in front of him like they are manacled, and drops his head in the manner of a prisoner. I nod. As we approach, several Countrymen rise from the shade at the side of the path. They are painted up, and all carrying four or five spears, with nulla-nullas thrust into their hair belts. They look serious.

  ‘Some Djenga cannot change their hearts,’ comments Bright Eyes matter-of-factly, indicating the buildings beyond the fence with his lips.

  These square-looking buildings are much more like what I would expect to find in a fledgling British colony. The Empire always has a need for courthouses, jails, barracks, and hospitals. Whereas in England, they need their factories, big and bleak and square. And where you have factories, you have tiny workers’ cottages, and somewhere, not far-away, probably on the tip of a hill surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens – a large country house. Here we just have the Country. Boodjar.

  ‘How many?’ I ask, my mind trying to compute numbers on board ships and longboats.

  ‘Maybe hundred, maybe two,’ my new brother guesses.

  I march up to the wooden gates fastened with a huge lock. I want to look into Molloy’s eyes. I need to see what is there. I indicate with my head movement that I want to look inside. I want to know what I’m dealing with here. A Countryman comes over, takes the large key from a rope around his neck, and undoes the lock for me. He pulls a nulla-nulla from his belt and offers it to me. I shake my head, but he insists, and presses the heavy club into my fist. I step inside the gates with Bright Eyes. Behind us, we hear the unmistakeable wooden clicks of gidjas being fitted into woomeras, ready for action.

  Inside, there are four low, square buildings set back from the gate, and between them and us is a wide, shadeless parade ground. There are a lot of wretched looking men sitting to the side of the buildings in the small amount of shade offered. We don’t go any further. Three men get up and break away from the group and stride towards us. That stride says it all. That stride speaks of uniforms worn, of campaigns fought, of fortunes made, of power, and the arrogance of the Empire. Bright Eyes shakes out to my side and loosens his arm muscles a little, as if preparing to club these gentlemen with their raised chins right into the ground.

  I’m thinking of the Tank, Mitch the Blood Nut, and all those other rednecks.

  ‘Who are you? Have you come to free us?’

  The voice startles me. It is Bunbury. Bunbury, Bussell, and Molloy. Voices from the river of blood.

  They stop just in front of us and stand formally, as though we have come to fight a duel. As though I have besmirched their honour by describing them as rapists and murderers on a mass scale, in mixed company at a regimental dance. History is choosing different ghosts to remember, to be haunted by. Different heroes.

  ‘You will be moved off the island later today,’ I say. ‘You will be given a ship, as well as food and water, to make Van Diemen’s Land. Like all the others.’

  ‘What others?’ barks Molloy.

  Him I know. Him I will give to the weight of the nulla-nulla without another thought. I look him directly in the eye. There is nothing. No story for me to read.

  ‘The others with hearts of stone,’ I say flatly, already disappointed with myself. Why are we so conditioned to hate? Hating makes us just like them.

  ‘This is mutiny,’ says Bussell. ‘You will all hang.’

  ‘This is revolution. The Country is speaking up.’

  ‘Stirling claimed this land for the Crown.’

  ‘No authority,’ says Bright Eyes.

  Bunbury ignores him and continues on.

  ‘Where is Stirling?’

  ‘Finish up. Dead,’ Bright Eyes says.

  ‘I want to see Fremantle.’

  ‘Captain Fremantle no longer exists.’

  For a moment I think the three of them will burst into tears and throw themselves on the ground like spoilt children. But they don’t, of course. These men are so certain. So firm in the belief of their own righteousness. Which is why this Country doesn’t want them.

  ‘I know you,’ Bunbury says.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I know you. You are a Royal Marine.’

  ‘Holy Water,’ says Bright Eyes.

  ‘You will hang. And I will live to see it,’ spits Bunbury, but he doesn’t sound as sure as he wants to.

  We turn and go, with Bright Eyes hoping that the Englishmen might set upon us as we leave. I can feel his loose readiness by my side without looking at his body language. Unlike Wobbegong, he never wanted to show them this mercy.

  Ghost of History: Running on the Wind

  As we get back down to the mia-mias, I see that Wobbegong is getting underway in the Challenger. The sails begin to fill with wind, and the ship starts to move in a northerly direction. He is taking a punt on where the man-o’-wars will come from. Not many military commanders in the history of the British Empire have taken their main intelligence from their 2IC’s dreams. While I’m thinking this, the longboats are returning to the beach empty, and the Nyoongar mob are getting ready on the shoreline. The sun is high now, and I am feeling tired again. In my head I am hearing Mularabone’s voice from our time in the cadres – ‘When there is nothing to be done – do it.’ I also hear a voice in my heart. It is muffled and faraway. But I need to keep my spirit here – so I banish these thoughts. Soon I will be seeing her again. It is the way of things. It must be. I sink down into the soft sand and the cool shade. Bright Eyes lies down in the shade near me. I hear constant singing, and sense the dancing onshore as if I were able to feel the vibrations coming to me down a thread of web, forever long and invisible. It is constant and insistent, if anything, it is building in intensity. There is smoke everywhere on the mainland – it is like the mob have fired everything. The Country is speaking up.

  I sit up. As if Mularabone is reaching out across the space between us, I suddenly have the power to be completely refreshed, and wide awake. I’m so awake that everything around me seems new and vibrant, and shimmering with hidden power. There is a great and secret power permeating everything today. Before today. It began with that dream, and that run back from the water pilgrimage with Bright Eyes. And ended with this day, where there is something in the air, and the water. We can all feel it.

  All the Djenga are gone. I
can see the last of the two longboats unloading at the second ship. The first has already sailed, running southward down the coast.

  Bright Eyes is still asleep. I reach out to gently touch him on the ankle, but before my hand reaches his flesh, he sits straight up, grabbing for his weapons. He looks me straight in the eye. It is like that moment, watching the footy with my mates, when I looked into the mouth of the beer bottle and saw Mularabone’s eye, saw him wink at me.

  ‘We go! Now!’ he says.

  ‘How many still here?’ I ask.

  He indicates the fullas by the cutter on the beach. They are the guards from the compound. Everyone is getting the cutter ready to make way.

  ‘Djenga warra?’ I ask.

  We look back up the beach towards the compound. I stand.

  ‘We go! Now!’

  As if on cue, there is a huge roar from the direction of the compound.

  ‘Go!’ Bright Eyes shouts.

  We all take off down the beach. The fullas are pushing the cutter out. Some sailors are trying to get some sail out. We hit the water at full run. The warriors get on, and the cutter has enough water. Behind us, the whitefullas who all failed the induction course come running and yelling down the beach. We are chest deep, and grabbing at the moving boat when the angry mob hits the beach. A volley of shots is fired from up on deck by Countrymen and Djenga alike. I look back to see eight blokes get flung onto the sand. I grab at the wood of the cutter. There is no hold. The boat is slipping away from me, I can feel it going, when Bright Eyes reaches back and grabs me. With his other hand he is holding onto the rope ladder. He drags me through the water towards him, and I get close enough to grab the rope. One whitefulla keeps coming. He is yelling and almost on me. I am the last one to get to the boat. I am hauling myself up the rope ladder when his hand gets hold of my ankle. Bright Eyes is half out of the water. He pulls his nulla-nulla from his belt, and smashes it onto the top of the whitefulla’s head. He lets go, and sinks away into the water. We are away. The Djenga are waist-deep behind us, and still looking like they want to have a go. One of the painted-up fullas from the compound guard fits a spear to his woomera and steps up to the rail. He gestures at the fullas in the water like he is about to throw, and bears his teeth. They stop running. They stand in the water, watch us sail away.

  Then we hear cannon fire from the north. The Countryman at the helm looks at me. I remember him from that very first day when we hit the reef. He was the first Nyoongar to get to Wobbegong.

  ‘Head straight for the reef,’ I say.

  ‘Aye-aye, Boss.’

  I turn to Bright Eyes. ‘Do we have a glass?’ I mime putting a looking glass to my eye.

  He smiles, and looks sheepish.

  ‘Where is it?’

  He smiles, and looks at the deck. ‘I gave it to my new wife. Young wife,’ he says, and smiles again at the memory of the moment.

  I don’t know what to say. Bright Eyes laughs. I try not to laugh. I am feeling the gravity of the situation. At least, I am trying to. We could all be dead very soon. These fullas are acting like we are going behind the sports shed to see the new kid make the school bully piss. There is more cannon fire. Then I make out Wobbegong. He is in close to the mainland, and has just come around, to tack back into the wind. He’s trying to buy us time. He wants to take the killers back to the north side of Wadjemup. I can see the man-o’-wars now, too. In full sail, as they join the pursuit, they are like two magnificent ladies at the races. They are gaining on the Challenger. He’ll never make it. Maybe he hasn’t got a glass either, and can’t see us.

  ‘Make a fire!’ I shout.

  Bright Eyes comes in close, the question in his eyes.

  ‘Make a fire! Up the front! Use anything! Make smoke!’

  He runs down to where I’m pointing. There is a warped piece of timber slightly protruding from the bulkhead. He grabs at it, and in few moments works the plank free. Once the wood is exposed, he smashes into it with a small axe. A Djenga still wearing a Royal Marine tunic throws Bright Eyes a flint. In seconds there are sparks, and a flame flicking into the splintered wood. These mob know about fire. The other Djenga are looking at me like I’m mad. These two other Countrymen tear into the bulkhead, and the flames and smoke grow quickly.

  My eyes go back to the Challenger. She is ploughing into the wind like a pelican. I look back to the fire. The whole boat looks like it is on fire.

  The side of the first magnificent lady spouts smoke, and a few seconds later the report of the cannons reaches us. I think I see water spouts. This wind is picking up out of nowhere. They’re still out of range.

  Then the Challenger turns again. Wobbegong has seen our smoke. He’s going to drag them across in front of the island, and then make a straight run for home.

  ‘Can we put the fire out?’ I yell to Bright Eyes.

  He looks at me, and then at the raging fire. Now everyone is standing back from the flames. The strong off-shore winds are keeping the flames off the main part of the cutter.

  I look back to the warships. The first-rater is following Wobbegong, whilst the other is heading straight for Wadjemup. Then I look to the looming shoreline. The fire on our boat has been taken as a trigger. From here, as we race in, it looks like the entire Country is on fire. Smoke pours into the vast blue sky as far as the eye can see.

  The Challenger must adjust again. Wobbegong is right on the line. He turns, and runs for home several leagues behind us.

  The smaller of the two massive man-o’-wars powers past the island. We can just make out the mass of whitefullas shouting on the beach. Then the warship sails into view, and again we see the puffs of smoke as the ship opens up before we hear the cannon fire. Thirty or so cannon pound the beach and every visible structure on the island into rubble in a matter of minutes, the barrage is so intense. There is no more movement on the beach.

  I look back to the fire on our own boat. We are never going to make it. We will have to go into the water and get picked up by the Challenger. But if he stops for us, he’ll be caught by the warships.

  Ghost of History: Wobbegong Hunting

  The sun sinks low in the sky. All the Countrymen on board suddenly start slowly stamping. Everyone can feel something coming. Something beyond us all. Bright Eyes turns back to me.

  ‘All you Djenga! Get down! Eyes closed!’

  And he demonstrates with his hands over his eyes, and holding on tight, in case any of us doesn’t get the picture. We do. By now, we are not who we once were. All us Djenga drop to the deck, and cover our eyes with our hands. Through our hands, we feel the intense light that flashes. Not all white light, but flecked throughout with brilliant and deep colours like pinks, greens, and all manner of purples. Behind my ears, and all down my spine begins to heat up. Fast. It is like I have some internal fuse, and someone has lit it. In moments, the feeling is at white-hot intensity.

  Then the whole boat shudders. We feel the passage of something huge beneath our little flaming boat.

  ‘Holy Water,’ I hear a voice say.

  I am screaming. It is the heat down my back, and behind my ears. The pain is intense, and the smell of my scorched flesh fills the air. I feel the back of my head where all my hair is singed off.

  ‘Holy Water,’ Bright Eyes says again.

  I open my eyes, and the cutter is really flying. We are being lifted on this kind of king tide that fills the horizon.

  ‘Steer the boat,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  I look up, and there is a huge body of water bearing down on us, a wave with no peak, and extra back.

  We are almost at the river mouth. The water is rising as we approach, riding on this even bigger wave. We go over the reef, with plenty of water between the limestone and us. Once we get into the river, the smoke begins to close in around us. Visibility drops. I am steering by instinct. I’ve never been in a boat travelling this fast before. We are flying. Everywhere on the deck of the cutter fullas are hanging on to whatever they can. And all the
while, the fire rages at the front. The cavity from the fire is looking deeper now. Travelling at this speed, we could have all sorts of other pressures on the hull. With that fire still burning, we can’t last long. I look back to see the Challenger similarly driven along on this massive wave.

  ‘Brother, how is the fire?’ I call to Bright Eyes.

  ‘We have to go onto ground ... Soon.’

  ‘Everyone get back! And hold on!’

  Even if Wobbegong knew about this, he could never have told me. It does sound a little far-fetched.

  The reverse-flash-flood-massive-tide carrying us upriver tugs at the cutter, and I have to fight the wheel to stop the huge current from dragging us sideways.

  Behind us, in the smoke, there is cannon fire. An exchange.

  Dead ahead, there is a break in the smoke. I see there is a place where the bank doesn’t look too steep, and the current looks a little less manic.

  ‘Here we go!’ I call, and steer the fire straight at the bank. The cutter turns to go in, and we are almost there, when the current grabs the rudder, and flips us, smashing us backwards onto the shoreline. The boat hits with a crunch, and we are all thrown clear to a man, the speed we’re travelling at is so great. I land on top of the Nyoongar helmsman. He smiles up at me. Just like old times.

  ‘Get up the bank, and get down!’

  We scramble up the last bit of the lip of the river bank, and hurl ourselves down behind it. I throw my head up for a quick look – just in time to see Wobbegong, standing on the deck of the Challenger as she sweeps past us, and into the smoke. He doesn’t see me. And in that moment I know that I am in the presence of a great spirit. In that picture – he is Charles Wobbegong Fremantle. He is standing, shirtless, on the deck. His torso is painted with the brown circle designs. He stands erect, and calm. Set into his features is the firm knowledge that he is exactly on his dreaming path. Exactly where he is meant to be. And then, the wild torrent of water carries him away into the smoke before the next bend in the river.