Storyland

by Catherine McKinnon

Mr Bass runs his hand through my hair. ‘Will, do not scare us like that again.’

  The lieutenant says he is pleased to see my scrawny face.

  ‘I was getting water,’ I explain.

  ‘Water!’ they say, delighted.

  Mr Bass and I hold the barica up. The lieutenant gulps water from the spout. Then Mr Bass takes his fill.

  ‘If water has been close by all this time,’ Lieutenant Flinders whispers, ‘why has Dilba been luring us to the lagoon?’

  ‘To meet a darker purpose?’ Mr Bass suggests.

  Now is the time to say the old man has shown me the water, but I do not because there is a hollering from the Indians. Their number has now increased to twenty, with more following. The old man points at me. My fears return. Could the old man be full of trickery?

  Mr Bass drinks again. ‘Good work, Will,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Stow the barica in Thumb,’ the lieutenant says. ‘We will dry the gunpowder, then depart.’

  But as we walk to the boat, the Indians stop their yabbering and watch our every move.

  ‘Reveal no haste,’ the lieutenant says.

  Slowly he takes hold of the powder horns. Slowly Mr Bass retrieves the muskets. Slowly I stow the barica beneath the thwart then fetch some twine as the oar needs repairing. I hear the sea roar and wish us back on the ocean. Back in the spray and the open air and not watched by these many eyes.

  The lieutenant, like the fairy godmother in a pantomime, sprinkles the gunpowder on a cloth to dry in the sun and lays out the wet paper beside it. All is ease.

  Mr Bass sits to clean a musket, tips it up between his knees, but at that action the Indians holler and run at him, waving spears.

  I jump to and grip the oar as a weapon, but Mr Bass halts me with his eyes. Steadily, he lays his musket down on the sand. His careful action quiets the Indians. But still they hold their spears high, eyes shooting back and forth, from Mr Bass to the musket.

  Mr Bass calls for the twine and oar. I take them to him. He places the oar across his knee and begins to wrap twine around the split wood. I stare at the Indians with their raised spears. Hear only my breathing. Then, birds in the shrubs, their faint twittering. Insects drone. An ant the size of a beetle crawls across my foot.

  The Indians lower their weapons. One of them, no older than me as he has no beard, comes closer and sits on the sand, observing Mr Bass’s task. Another sits next to the first, picks up the ball of twine and threads it out as Mr Bass twists it around the oar.

  The lieutenant calls me over. ‘This is the shock of the Indians,’ he whispers. ‘Savage one moment, child the next. Keep alert, Will, keep alert.’

  But an easier mood settles upon our temporary camp.

  A long-bearded man now points to Dilba’s short beard. Dilba, smiling, jabbers how the lieutenant has snipped it. He speaks fast. I can pick out some words. Yarrin, the word for beard. Dewarra, the word for hair.

  ‘Boodyerre,’ Dilba says, miming the scissors cutting his beard.

  ‘You have become famous, Matthew,’ Mr Bass says. ‘These men want their beards cut.’

  The lieutenant walks to Thumb to collect the scissors. I find myself a sturdy stick. These Indians are warriors and I will be ready to fight if this request for beard cutting be a ruse. To dare is to do. To dare is to do. I say this over and over.

  All the Indians watch the lieutenant who sets up a log as his barber’s chair and points to it. The old man who took me to the pond is the first to sit. The lieutenant grips the old man’s beard that lies like an arrested waterfall upon his chest, and makes to snip the end of it. But the old man, surprised by the blades coming towards him, leans back and falls from the log.

  The Indians holler. I raise my stick.

  Dilba, knowing what scissors are, picks the old man up, jabbering to him all the while. The old man raises his eyebrows, nods and grunts, then sits again on the log. He stares straight into the eyes of the lieutenant who again takes hold of the old man’s beard and now begins to cut.

  The Indians murmur, watching the lieutenant’s actions with surprise and laughter. Soon shouting, like a soldier’s huzzah, accompanies each snip.

  ‘Mr Hogarth would find this man a fascinating subject for his canvas,’ calls the lieutenant.

  ‘It may be beyond Hogarth,’ replies Mr Bass.

  ‘Never,’ says the lieutenant.

  ‘Oh, I know he creates portraiture true in its reveal, but to divine the Indian nature might need a different sort of man,’ Mr Bass says.

  The Indians clap and shout as the lieutenant snips.

  ‘Perhaps the void between us is too great, even for an artist such as Hogarth,’ the lieutenant calls above the noise.

  The sun beats down. The sand is hot. Insects nip at my skin. Indian dogs sniff at my feet.

  The first barbering is finished. The lieutenant bows like an actor on the stage. The Indians surround the old man. Some reach out to touch his shortened beard. Others laugh and jabber as if this shorn beard is some wonder of the earth.

  A second Indian steps forward. The lieutenant snips a lock of this man’s beard and holds it to his own beardless chin. The Indians clap and holler.

  A tall man with many teeth twisted through his hair, and with muscles as tight as a barrel, reaches out and wipes some sweat from the lieutenant’s forehead. The lieutenant starts back, gripping the scissors. But the Indian is still, all his attention given to his fingertips. With his left hand he reaches up to his own forehead, thickly covered in fish oil, and wipes at it, then holds his two fingers out in front of him, as if comparing.

  ‘A fellow scientist,’ Mr Bass suggests.

  ‘Or a cook checking his ingredients,’ the lieutenant jokes.

  Lieutenant Flinders continues with his barbering, but the tall Indian’s interest has bothered him and he calls me over.

  ‘Will, pack that powder now. Wet or dry I think we must be satisfied and take our leave. The natives are friendly, but my suspicion is they are too friendly.’

  With internal quivering such as I dare not display, I filter the gunpowder back into the horns (wet in one, dry in the other), then gather the near-dry cartridge papers, wrap them in hide, and with bravado make my way across the sand to Thumb. Mr Bass, understanding the lieutenant’s intention, brings the muskets and mended oar. The lieutenant takes his last snip. Then he too makes his way to our trusted vessel. The Indians, astonished at their new beards, do not notice our preparations for departure. Except for Dilba who comes running. He grips the lieutenant’s arm and hauls him towards the lagoon.

  ‘Lagoon,’ Dilba says, having already learnt our word for it.

  The lieutenant, spooked, shakes himself free with a growl. The savage glares and makes to again take the lieutenant’s arm, but the lieutenant signals against it and steps backwards towards our boat, careful never to let his eyes leave those of his assailant.

  The savage’s arms begin to circle the air, like a watermill in a fierce wind.

  ‘Why is he so violent in his request?’ the lieutenant whispers when he reaches us.

  ‘It is strange,’ says Mr Bass.

  ‘We must put the Indians off in a friendly way and make our escape without them suspecting,’ the lieutenant decides.

  Mr Bass calls to Dilba and gestures our friendship by palms held forth, flat and open.

  ‘Tomorrow, we will visit the lagoon,’ he promises.

  Mr Bass turns away from Dilba, beckons me, and together we push Thumb into the water using idle chatter and false laughter to disguise our proper purpose.

  Meanwhile the lieutenant, aiming to calm Dilba, points downstream to a green bank that is near the bend in the stream. He puts his folded hands to the side of his face, feigning sleep.

  ‘We must rest. We go to that green bank there,’ the lieutenant says.

  This news, however, has the opposite effect to the lieutenant’s intention. Dilba runs back to his fellow savages in alarm, and the men stop admiring their beards and turn to stare at
us.

  ‘Get Thumb into the middle of the stream,’ the lieutenant calls. ‘I will keep them occupied.’ He walks towards the Indians with exaggerated leg movements, as though exhaustion has set in, and again he puts his hands to his cheek and repeats our need for sleep. The lieutenant has a feel for the comic and could be the best of actors if he took up the trade.

  But the wily Dilba is not to be distracted. The savage shakes his head and points at our desired location in disgust. He does not want us to go there, that much is certain, but what is his objection? It is a bank like any other bank. A cacophony of shouts erupt from the natives, whose numbers continue to increase, and twenty or more of their dogs run to the shoreline.

  Mr Bass and I, having waded to the place where the water is deepest, clamber on board Thumb.

  ‘Matthew, come now,’ Mr Bass yells.

  Still carrying on with his antics the lieutenant splashes into the water and makes his way to us. I pull him on board.

  ‘Show no fear, Will,’ the lieutenant orders as we take up our oars.

  With smiling faces we begin to row and are nearly away when four spear-holding Indians hasten into the water after us, wade out and jump into Thumb. There are seven of us bearing down on Thumb’s creaking timbers and, in consequence, our little boat sinks lower in the stream.

  I row faster, fearing for my life, praying that Mr Bass, with his great strength, will push the natives off. But there is no escaping our terror. A howling erupts from the shore. All the savages standing there raise their spears up high and, in a single burst, hurtle into the stream, hooting as they splash their way to our boat, surrounding it. The lieutenant and I pull and pull but, still, I am surprised when Thumb glides along easily. How is this possible? Then I see the cause. For the natives are pushing our boat and it is their strength that is giving us pace. The Indians begin to whoop and sing, the din unnerving.

  Mr Bass bursts into a sailor’s shanty.

  ‘Sing, Will,’ he calls out, sternly.

  Soon we are all singing and such a savage clamouring I have never heard. There is much laughter, but there is too much laughter. Shall we survive our ordeal and leave this place alive?

  When we are near the green bank, those Indians in the boat jump into the water. One, as he departs, snatches Mr Bass’s hat and, dropping it onto his own head, makes for shore.

  Mr Bass, unthinking, shouts, ‘My hat!’

  The Indian turns and raises his spear, ready to throw. He has no bone through his nose and no teeth in his hair, but his expression is all wildness. I let the oar rest and grip the sharpened stick I have kept by my side. My old native friend, the same who revealed the pond, hollers at the wild one who, fierceness in his countenance, wades towards us. I plant my feet, ready to fight but, to my surprise, the Indian stops, takes the hat from his head, and tosses it into the boat with a laugh, as if the whole event had been nothing more than a lark. He bows to Mr Bass, a perfect copy of the theatrical flourish the lieutenant exhibited earlier.

  ‘Shove off, Will,’ the lieutenant hollers. ‘Make for the ocean.’

  I use my oar to push us into deeper water. We begin to row at pace towards the mouth of the stream, but the Indians, still in good spirits or pretending so, and still believing the green bank to be our destination, and now seemingly happy for that occurence, begin again to haul the boat to shore.

  ‘Stop there!’ the lieutenant yells.

  ‘Halt. Halt!’ Mr Bass joins in.

  The Indians – intent on getting the boat to shore or howling so loudly that they themselves cannot hear – do not stop. Again it is my old friend who sees our red faces and, taking his hand from the gunwale, shouts an order to his fellow savages.

  The Indians stop and stand like statues in the shallows. More than forty eyes staring. More than twenty muscled bodies with spears aloft. And dogs aplenty. We are but three. Sea roar and insect buzz. The boat drifts on the current.

  It is the lieutenant who shakes us from our stupor. ‘Pull, Will, pull!’ he shouts, dipping his oar into the water.

  Mr Bass takes up a musket from beneath the thwart and aims it at the Indians. A ruse, as the gun is still clogged with sand. But it does the trick as the Indians do not move. We row towards the sea. My eyes steady on the savages as they become smaller and smaller.

  ‘That was well suffered,’ Mr Bass says when we round the bend and the sight of the Indians is lost to us.

  ‘We are not out of it yet, George,’ the lieutenant replies.

  ‘They have the numbers. They have the spears. If they wanted they could kill us all,’ Mr Bass says. ‘They do not and the why escapes me.’

  ‘They have no definite plan, no strategy,’ the lieutenant replies.

  ‘What was their laughing about?’ I ask Mr Bass.

  ‘Indian mood shifts like the weather,’ the lieutenant says. ‘It cannot be explained.’

  We ride the stream to where it meets the sea. The salt breeze slaps my face, the ocean noise, thunderous. Waves crash over us. Whoosh goes one wave, whoosh goes another.

  ‘Blast! We cannot cross the sandbar till the tide turns,’ Mr Bass shouts.

  ‘Anchor,’ orders the lieutenant.

  We ship our oars and drop anchor. The water around our boat is deep enough, thanks to the current running out from the stream, but white foamy waves keep whipping us. It is fifteen yards on either side to the shore. We are safe for the time from savage attack.

  The lieutenant and Mr Bass begin in haste to clean the musket barrels that are still full of sand. We will need arms if the Indians come for us again.

  I pour some of the dry powder onto a scrap of paper and place a musket ball in it. I make up two cartridges this way, but there is no more dry paper. I begin to tear strips off my shirt. If we need to fire more shots we will have to use cotton to stuff the balls down the barrel.

  We are all working at a feverish pace, our boat lurching as waves sluice over the gunwale. I keep a steady eye on the stream, the white sand and the scrubby trees.

  No natives appear. Gulls flap on the shore. My breath slows.

  Tick-tock.

  I keep my eyes peeled.

  Tick-tock.

  We may be out of the horror yet.

  Tick-tock.

  But then I spy Dilba tramping around the bend, ten savages following. ‘Here they come,’ I shout.

  The men wade across the stream from the northern bank and stand on the point to the south of us.

  Dilba puts his hand to his mouth. ‘Lagoon?’ he calls.

  ‘Why is he still at us?’ I ask.

  The lieutenant shouts, ‘Yes, yes! If the wind and surf doesn’t abate, then we shall go.’

  ‘Lagoon!’ shouts Dilba.

  ‘When the sun goes down,’ Mr Bass calls.

  Several times the lieutenant, Mr Bass and Dilba shout in this way, like noisy magpies saying goodnight.

  ‘Coing burregoolah. Coing burregoolah,’ Mr Bass finally calls.

  It is the Port Jackson speak for the sun setting.

  ‘That may steal us some time,’ Mr Bass says.

  Why does Dilba insist we go to the lagoon? If I was to kill someone I would not flag it so.

  ‘What is at the lagoon?’ I ask Mr Bass.

  ‘Death,’ Mr Bass says to me. ‘Nothing more than death.’

  The lieutenant has his barrel clean and is wiping sand from the trigger. Mr Bass has freed the rod from his musket, but his trigger is still clogged with sand.

  The Indians sit on the shore, staring at us. The sun drops behind the hills. The sea flickers with fading light and the clouds redden.

  There is no movement from the south but, just when I again think we are safe, I see five Indians come out from the scrub to the north. They splash into the water.

  ‘Look there,’ I warn.

  The men wade towards us. What to do? I still have my stick.

  Mr Bass raises his musket, but it is all pretence for his trigger is still jammed.

  ‘Round,’ the l
ieutenant orders and pulls the lock of his musket to half cock.

  I hand him a cartridge. He bites the top off the measure, salts the pan and closes it. He casts over and pours the rest of the powder down the barrel of the gun, pushes in the ball and paper.

  The lieutenant’s actions are fast and I know he is an excellent shot. He takes the rod, rams it down the barrel, shafts the rod and pulls the hammer back.

  The Indians make good time. The seawater is soon frothing at their sides. One of them looks like Dilba’s friend, but as there are five coming for us – with water splashing between them, and our boat in motion – I cannot be sure.

  ‘Present,’ shouts Mr Bass.

  The lieutenant twists his body and lifts his firearm to his shoulder.

  ‘It will fright them enough even if you miss,’ Mr Bass says.

  ‘We cannot be sure.’ The lieutenant keeps his gun steady. ‘Have you a second cartridge, Will?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  ‘Fire,’ Mr Bass hollers.

  ‘Mr Bass, leave this to me,’ the lieutenant snaps.

  ‘They are getting closer,’ I shout.

  ‘Fire!’ Mr Bass cries out.

  The Indians are up to their chests in water now.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ I shout.

  ‘A few more yards,’ the lieutenant says coolly, holding his aim.

  ‘Lieutenant Flinders, fire!’ Mr Bass is screaming now.

  ‘You would be no good in battle, George, with that temper.’

  The lieutenant is strangely calm.

  ‘They are nearly upon us, sir,’ I yell.

  Seagulls scoot overhead, squealing. Karr! Karr! Karr!

  ‘Fire!’ Mr Bass cries out.

  Thumb rocks in the waves.

  The lieutenant steadies himself, and shoots.

  Boom! Smoke drifts up from the musket. A mad hollering from the Indians. They fling their arms into the air.

  The lieutenant makes to reload his musket but now his lock jams.

  ‘They are going,’ I cry out, as the Indians turn and splash towards the beach.

  The lieutenant spits on his rag and cleans around the lock.

  The Indians reach the shore. They do not look back at us but disappear into the scrub.

  ‘Excellent execution, Matthew,’ Mr Bass says.