by Scott, Kim
The yapping dog announced Bobby’s arrival at Menak and Manit’s camp, and shied away from Bobby’s every quick movement, its wariness somehow emphasising the old couple’s isolation.
Too many strangers, boy. Waam nitjak. Cheeky young ones, they friends with white man.
Their food was a few tubers, nothing more. Bobby had wanted to bring something more substantial, but had seen no meat, no emu or kangaroo all day. He set a snare for quokka or tammar but come nightfall, there was nothing.
Manit laboriously ground seeds between two rocks, baked a damper in the ashes. They shared a bitter and meagre meal, and drank from a small water hole in the granite sheet nearby. Someone had broken the flat slab that had always capped it.
The walk to King George Town next day was very slow, because the older couple were now so frail. Not so long ago a blow from Menak was feared, but he was harmless now. Kangaroo shooters occupied his old campsite: one Noongar boy, a few women, and some older white men. All had rifles, and although some listened, visibly chastened, to Menak’s insults, and invited him to remain with them, none of them would be moving from such a choice site. Menak and Manit put themselves the other side of some large granite boulders that marked the camp. You could see how The Farm had grown since the Governor chose it as his home. Bobby thought about last night’s seed cakes, wondered if King George Town would still offer flour to appease Menak.
Bobby climbed the fence surrounding the yam grounds, and was still quite a long way from the house when a soldier yelled out for him to halt. Bobby had not seen the man, and now he waved, friendly-like, but the soldier gesticulated angrily and raised his gun to his shoulder. Bobby stooped and dug up a couple of yams. Studied them. They were not ready, and he threw them to the ground and turned back the way he had come.
Horses and carts of various kinds began arriving a little later. Under a full moon the buildings of The Farm huddled, surrounded by tethered animals, wagons and sulkies and carts. Soldiers moved around its perimeter, and the windows were small rectangles of brightly glowing amber. The high tent beside the house shone like a lamp, human figures flickering and flowing within it. Bobby fell asleep to the sound of music, laughter, and thin, increasingly excited voices floating on the wind. The Chaines had arrived as the sun was setting, and from his vantage point, Bobby, leaning his cheek against a great, grey granite boulder, imagined that boulder—with just a little shove—rolling down the slope, clearing a path through the vegetation, smashing the house. Crushing.
In the early dawn those who had stayed at The Farm were rudely woken, and they rushed from the buildings to cleared land near the road leading back to the harbour. The crop beside the buildings was on fire, the flames deeply coloured in the early light, smoke rising and rolling into the lightening sky. The Governor and his son, and some soldiers and other men, threw buckets on the buildings and the ground surrounding them, but when the fire reached the ground burned by Bobby and Manit just a little time ago, it rapidly dwindled. The wind dropped, too, and the men looked across burned stubbled earth and smoking ash at the rising sun.
In the gaol dance now
Christine Chaine brushed her hair: twenty-three, twenty-four … One day, Hugh, the Governor’s son, will watch her prepare for bed like this. She was a woman now, and they were a good match. Even Papa said so, and although he had very little time for Hugh’s father’s pomposity (Oh, how many times had she heard this!) if she was in her heart fond of him, well …
Hugh would be her lover, and also a very steady friend. She did not have many: a consequence, she supposed, of growing up in such isolation. Her governess of the last few years, a woman not much older than herself, had been a friend—no matter that she was paid for her companionship—but had now married. Her brother had been a friend, too. She thought again of his death, his face that one last time above the water’s surface, and their hands parting …
Bobby Wabalanginy had been a friend. Fancy, a native as best friend! How isolated they were in this backwater. She had been a child, innocent.
That childhood friend was in prison now, Papa said. He’d even been to see him. Bobby had got into some sort of trouble at the Sailor’s Rest, which was really no surprise to Christine, who always took to the other side of the street when she passed the tavern, because of the mess, and because of the people. People affected by liquor were unpleasant, but it was the natives that most bothered her: men and women alike dressed in rags, and sometimes scarcely dressed at all. The women were quite shameless, she thought.
Laws were being enforced now, thankfully. Natives must be clothed and without spears if they were to enter town. It was only decent, and if we are to civilise them, as Papa said is the only way, then clothing is an important precursor.
Papa believed Bobby had got into trouble because the policeman and his native constable had tried to prevent the old man with Bobby from entering town. The old man claimed it was his right, that it was his town! Papa laughed recounting it, said it was true in a way. And it was also true, as Bobby apparently claimed (shouted, she’d been told, and slapped the policeman), that the old man had received a ration of flour from previous authorities, and had even been dressed, accommodated and fed at government expense. Why? Because he was the landlord.
It might even be true, in a way, but to what use do they put this ownership as against what we have achieved in so short a time? Papa could sometimes explain things so well. It may have been expedient at one time, but was no longer necessary.
Christine’s hair shone in the lamplight, and the mirror reflected her serious face back at her. She smiled, but just as quickly her smile fell away.
Bobby and one of the other natives had apparently attacked the native constable who tried to arrest the old man, and it was only with the help of Mr Killam (who of course was both publican and gaoler) and some visiting merchant sailors, that Bobby was arrested.
Once in gaol Bobby had sent word that he wanted to see her, Christine, and her father. She had been quite surprised, and quite touched, and thought to render what charitable assistance and comfort she could, but Papa had gone alone. He had used his influence with Killam and the constable to arrange to have the old man released. In truth, he laughed, the old man’s wife had set up camp outside the gaol wall, lit a little campfire and all, and there might have been another diplomatic upset if, as Mr Killam threatened, he’d beaten her within an inch of her life for creating a fire hazard! He’d had them escorted along with their dog to a native camp away from the town buildings and had made them a present of appropriate clothing.
Papa said Bobby had to be taught respect for the rule of law. He was a good boy. There was no doubt that, with firm encouragement, these people were capable of being civilised. Bobby certainly was. Furthermore, there had been trouble with natives stealing sheep and spearing cattle at some of the outstations, including their own. There had been a number of fires—bush fires, perhaps—but Papa said it was no coincidence, and they had seen how the natives controlled fire. The fires had come to the edge of huts and buildings. Like a warning. Bobby may not necessarily have been involved in this or any such trouble, but it was important that he understood the situation. He is a young man of some influence.
Hugh said he and his father were also talking about the native problem. The fathers were united in that at least. How very peculiar that her friend (soon to be fiancé) Hugh Spender and herself should be the children of two men so often opposed to one another. The man’s an oaf, Papa often said (and worse), but the family has connections. Especially here it would be a good marriage. She had blushed. Capital, blood, name and alliance, he said. Papa was so very pragmatic, but knew nothing of romance.
Spend her life with Hugh? He was well mannered, cultivated, and shared her love of this place, backwater though it might be to some. Hugh and his father had acquired property well suited to grazing and had already arranged to import some fine breeding stock. Papa had advised him accordingly, and was most impressed. A practical man, but also
refined; he knew music, painting, the latest literature, and what a shame it was that there were so few—apart from herself and Mama—with whom he could share these pleasures. And he held himself so very well that even Papa had commented on his fine military bearing, and despite the way their circumstances limited him—limited them all, when it came to fashion—he dressed impeccably. He was always very masculine, but fashionably so. Her mind wandered. How would he look in native costume, in—what had Bobby called it?—a cock-rag?
What was Bobby really like now, Christine wondered. Once he had combed her hair with a banksia cone. He had been a very good-looking boy, intelligent and funny. Still was, perhaps. It showed what they were capable of, given a chance. Papa said he had proved an able member of the whaling crew, and invaluable in preserving good relationships between the blacks and themselves. He seemed popular.
Christine remembered seeing Bobby distribute presents at the end of the whaling season. Dressed like a young rake, he had shone among them all, black and white, with his wit, his sense of humour and the joy he radiated. Incredibly, she had even felt a little jealous. And she had felt his attraction when he rowed them to shore after the shipboard ball. It was disturbing, if one allowed oneself to follow that line of thought.
*
Locked in a gloomy and crowded cell with only Wooral as a friend, Bobby Wabalanginy might have felt defeated. At least old Menak had been released and had Manit to soothe him. But where? Oh, there were policemen, merchants, citizens of all sorts living in the old man’s home, and they chased away their … what was the word? Landlord.
Even Jak Tar turned his back these days.
Some of these other Noongars were no better than the policeman. Come onto Menak’s land and pay him no respect. Hide behind Chaine. Behind his gun. Chaine and Governor, and Killam and Skelly … But Killam did whatever Chaine told him and followed, suffered … He had power now, a gun and the lockup key, but he worked at the tavern to please Chaine, and locked people up to please … the Governor, Bobby guessed. Working for rum? To keep the gun? For money?
Killam had written all the names in a heavy book and signed his own and the policeman’s name, too. The helper—that Noongar policeman from far away—never even had his name written there. Bobby could write more than his name, though he never got so good with pen and paper and reading and writing as he might have. What was that Noongar policeman doing here, anyway? Old days, he’d be talking sweet and soft to Menak, but not now. He could put away a man and take his woman if he wanted. Go wherever he liked, with a gun and the policeman beside him. The gun.
Like those boys Chaine shot, all those years ago. Jimmy and Jeff. Chaine just shot them. He should be the one in this gaol. If the Governor knew …
Killam came back with food. The air was bad in the cell because of too many people and a bucket of everybody’s shit and piss in the corner. These other ones had all been sick from grog, but they wanted to be gone now. Bobby too. Killam unlocked the outer door to bring in the trays of food. It was a struggle for him because of that bad arm. Them Governor boys did that. Them ones Chaine shot. Killam put the trays of food on a little table, but he couldn’t bring them all in at one time.
Give you a hand, Mr Killam?
Hmph. No. Just stay, all of you, back against that wall.
As he came in, awkward because of the tray and his arm and the lack of space, Bobby stumbled forward just like someone pushed him. Killam stiffened and nearly dropped everything, and Bobby looked back at the others with a hurt expression, as if blaming one of them. He sensed Killam relax, readjust his balance, and then Bobby leaned against him and grabbed his good arm. Bowls and food spilled, and Bobby pushed Killam to one side and the others all came around him. Killam didn’t struggle.
Bobby simply danced them all out of the gaol, and they locked all the doors behind them. There was no sound from Killam. Bobby knew what he’d been through, why he was frightened. The escapees went in different directions. Bobby and Wooral looked at one another.
Menak.
Only then did Killam begin shouting for help.
*
Several sheep were missing; Skelly counted once more and confirmed the loss. Was this the same thing as at Close-by-island just starting up? He’d had no news from there, nor from King George Town for how long now? Days? A week or more? Chaine would expect to see signs of progress when he eventually arrived.
Skelly stomped around the pen, looking for a hole or some sort of break in the brush fence but there was nothing, and they’d been counted in last night.
He found Bobby patting the dog at the shed where Skelly had rigged up an anvil and workbench. So much for the guard dog, thought Skelly. Maybe he needed to get a dog like that one Cross gave Menak all those years ago, that barked at everything.
Bobby looked up, surprised. Grinned.
I been see some fellas eating your sheeps, Mr Skelly, he said. And I wanna help you and make friends again too many.
Clearly, the black boy’s English was reverting to type, probably because he was spending more and more time with his own kind. But yes, of course Skelly wanted to see such evidence. It’d be even better if he could catch them red-handed. He had Bobby wait a moment while he fetched and loaded his rifle.
Gunna shoot them, then?
If need be.
But just one sheep maybe, when you killing all the kangaroos far as people walk.
Skelly didn’t answer.
Bobby showed him where the brush fence had been dismantled and then repaired. He pointed out tracks, though Skelly could see nothing. They from far away, this mob, Bobby reckoned. Well, no surprises in that, thought Skelly. He’s not going to blame his own family or friends, is he?
Bobby led the way, barely glancing at the ground.
Will they still be there, Bobby? Did you actually see them with the sheep?
No, I just seen the ashes and the eaten-up sheep.
Not too fast, then.
Skelly had his eyes peeled. Was wary of where he was led. It was a convoluted journey, and an area of Chaine’s land that he did not know.
You sure you know where you’re going, Bobby?
They found the ashes of a fire, but no sign of sheep.
So they ate it up, bones and all!
Sheep here this morning, Bobby said and pointed to the ground. Someone carrying something away on his shoulder.
Well, what good is this? Will we chase nothing all day?
Okay. Boorda.
He was gone, quick as that. Damn.
Bobby!
But there was no answer.
It took Skelly most of the day to get back to Chaine’s shed and sheep-pen, and he had only found his way back after recognising part of the river near some land Chaine had sold him. Surprised and relieved to find the sheep still penned, he returned to his work, and did not discover until evening that the storehouse had been broken into. There was no sign of entry, but bags of flour and sugar and knives and axes had been taken.
Bobby.
*
At first light next morning, Soldier Killam found his storehouse had been raided. Rum had been poured onto the ground, the empty barrel rolled into the shrubs. Careful not to disturb the footprints, he sent word to the policeman who brought his newly-appointed black tracker. Personally, Killam thought him worthless, but at least he was from another district.
The policeman arrived with William Skelly, who had come to town because of thieving and trouble at Kepalup. Chaine had suggested they combine resources, since this was clearly strategic and premeditated. We have been too lenient, Killam agreed. The policeman and tracker talked to some of the natives around town, and Skelly showed him the tracks from the day before.
Surely Bobby wasn’t involved in something like this.
That boy might make a fine native constable.
The tracker identified Wooral’s footprints at both scenes, but was less sure of who the other people were. They were carrying heavy loads. Killam pointed out he was
well aware of this, since they’d taken rice and sugar and all the biscuits, things they’d developed a taste for from their trade with the whalers over the last few years. But of course this year there were again very few whales, and hardly a whaler to be seen. No one knew why. Very likely the whales had been fished out. Or had the whalers found a source closer to home? Unfavourable winds? The weather was odd this season: today, for instance, the low and heavy clouds, and the wind gusting.
It seemed another set of footprints had joined those they’d been following. The tracker did not want to continue. He was tired, he said.
Frightened more likely, said Killam.
The policeman pointed his loaded gun at the tracker. I’d hate this to go off, by accident, like.
The tracker looked at each of the men, who returned his gaze steadily, and then went back to the task.
After a time they came across a fire and a large pot of rice. The men looked around. This fire was recently deserted and fresh tracks led away.
They must’ve heard us coming.
The men knew they were close. A gust of cold wind whipped at their clothing and tongues of flame lifted from the fire as they followed the trail. They would be upon the thieves in no time. But the wind sprang up, trees lunged, and hailstones pounded them as if they were under attack. The men scurried for shelter and, when the storm passed, the tracks they had been following were gone.