Matthew Flinders' Cat (32 page)

‘You force my hand, gentlemen, I confess there is part logic and part lively emotion in my reasoning.’ He paused, looking, it seemed, into the eyes of every man assembled. ‘Of the logic, it is my contention that of three attempts to rescue ourselves, one must succeed. Putting logic aside for a moment so that I may express my innermost feelings, you would not be in this predicament were it not for the perfidy of one man who, without conscience, left you all to die on this reef. What happened to us must be spoken of. I am determined that there are some who will remain to bear witness to this man’s crime against his fellows. I swear to you all that, while breath remains in my body, the name Captain E. H. Palmer must forever remain a blasphemy on my lips and I charge you to do the same. Should only one of us remain to tell the tale, let him bear witness, so that as long as men go down in ships to the sea they will damn this coward and condemn him to the everlasting fires of hell!’

Trim thought this a capital speech, one of his master’s better efforts, he wished only that he could meet the miscreant Palmer and give him the white-claw treatment by thoroughly boxing his eyes.

There was a roar of approval from the men and then three cheers for Captain Flinders was called out. ‘Don’t thee worry, sir. We will build two stout ships to take us back where all can tell the tale!’ the ship’s chief carpenter announced. And so the men were put to work, cheerful that by means of their own hands, they would rescue themselves and that each of them now carried in his heart this story of infamy that would last forever in the minds of men. It gave them great comfort to think that whatsoever should happen, the despicable coward Palmer would never again raise his head high among men who sail the seven seas.

I am sure, Ryan, you would like to know what happened to the coward, Captain Palmer? So I will digress for a few minutes to tell you that part of the story. It is always the case with the moral coward that he attempts to justify his actions. In plain language, he makes excuses for his behaviour. The curious thing about excuses of this sort is that not even the gullible believe them. In their hearts even the most contemptuous villains know right from wrong when they have committed a cowardly act or when they hear of one.

So, naturally, Captain Palmer, having sailed to Batavia and then on to Bombay, had plenty of time to construct a story that suited his version of the events. Now, think about this, in Bombay there would be no possible knowledge of the wreck taking place. Only Palmer and his crew knew of the circumstances and so he had no need to tell anyone until months later when he reported to his owners in England. But he couldn’t get the story out fast enough. Not the real story, of course, but his much thought-out and reworked version. He had changed this fact a little and that one a little more, bending and twisting the story to suit his purpose, so that by gradual degrees he strayed from the truth while sounding plausible and fair-minded. He ended it by saying how he had suffered and in his own words said he was filled with the ‘
most painful reflections on the suffering of the shipwrecked [about whom]... it was too late, had it been in our power to give any assistance
’. He had written the events of the night and the morning following with an eye to his own vindication and when he berthed in Bombay on the 3rd of February 1804, five and a half months after deserting the
Cato
and the
Porpoise
, the first thing he did was to send his written version of the events directly to the newspapers.

But as so often happens when cowards try to justify their actions there are honest witnesses who are willing to reveal the truth. The third mate of the
Bridgewater
wrote in his journal of the events at Wreck Reef. Let us hear now how it seemed to those on the deck of the
Bridgewater
from Mr Williams’ journal. He is speaking of the morning after the night when the two shipwrecked vessels had observed the
Bridgewater
under sail and this is what he wrote:

At half-past seven a.m. (Aug. 18) saw the reef on our weather bow, and from the masthead we saw the two ships, and to the leeward of them a sandbank. The weather abated much, we set all our sails and every man rejoiced that they should have it in their power to assist their unfortunate companions . . . The ships were very distinctly to be seen from aloft, and also from the deck; but instead of rendering them any succour, the captain ordered the ship to be put on the other tack, and said it was impossible to render them any relief.

What must be the sensations of each man at that instant? Instead of proceeding to the support of our unfortunate companions, to leave them to the mercy of the waves, without knowing whether they were in existence or had perished! From the appearance of the wrecks there was every probability of their existing; and if any survived at the time we were within sight, what must have been their sensations on seeing all their anxious expectations of relief blasted?

Well, my dear Ryan, truth seems always to find a way of wriggling through even the most closely knit fabric of a lie. Of all the people Captain Palmer should choose to deliver his carefully written lies to the newspaper, he chose Mr Williams.

Now here is an interesting point for you to consider. Does Mr Williams stay loyal to his captain? Or does he show true bravery of conscience, the kind of bravery I talked about earlier? You see, all our actions, good or bad, have a consequence and often the consequence of telling the truth is seemingly not the best outcome for the person with the courage. For instance, if the third mate, Mr Williams, told the truth he would lose his job and the pay due to him and find himself in a strange country with little prospect of finding a ship back to England. If he kept his mouth shut, he would be safe and even if it did come out later that Captain Palmer had behaved in a treacherous way his crew could not be blamed for following his orders. And so you see, telling the truth can be very difficult and it sometimes takes a very brave man to expose a cowardly or criminal one.

But Mr Williams proved to be a truly brave and honourable man and he told the truth of what happened on Wreck Reef and, of course, he lost his job and his wages and even his spare clothes and, if he had a family, he risked being parted from them perhaps for years until he found his way back to England. But there are some men who preserve the higher truths in all of us and prove that while man can be a vile creature, he can also be a noble one.

Now, here is the end of that story. Mr Williams was left on shore with nothing to his name and Captain Palmer sailed away from Bombay bound for Europe with the
Bridgewater
’s holds full of valuable cargo for his masters in the East India Company. But the ship never arrived back in her home port and was never seen again. Somewhere in the vast ocean the ship went down with all her crew. Captain Palmer died knowing that his name would always be associated with infamy. It must have been a terrible moment when he had to face his conscience, knowing that sailors forever would celebrate his timely death.

Of Matthew Flinders and the crews of the
Porpoise
and the
Cato
, I will tell you more at a later time if you wish. But here are some details in the meantime. The carpenters worked on the larger of the two cutters and fitted her with masts and sail while maintaining her rowlocks and oars so that she could be rowed if needs be. Now a seagoing vessel needed a name and Matthew Flinders christened her
Hope
. In all, fourteen men were to sail with her, two crews of six for rowing, Mr Park the captain of the doomed
Cato
and Trim’s master himself. Thomas Kirstin, the master mariner who had earlier doubted the wisdom of the voyage, did not accompany them, his skills too important in the navigation of one of the two ships yet to come.

On the morning of sailing, Trim had gone out early and partaken of a good breakfast of plump fledgling knowing that anything could happen at sea and that a full stomach upon departure was the only certainty. He cleaned his fur, paying particular attention to his snowy paws, and presented himself, ready for departure, at the good ship
Hope
.

It was August the 26th and a glorious day, with the sky cloudless and a light wind blowing from the south. Trim thought that the flimsy vessel,
Hope
, was loaded too deeply but he understood why his master would want to take two crews. If the southerly blew strongly from the shore, it would need two crews taking turns at the oars to keep the little vessel on her course.

The moment came to launch their perilous expedition and all the men were gathered to witness the departure of the
Hope
. ‘I leave you only sufficiently long to bring about our rescue, my good companions,’ Flinders said. ‘I shall be among you again in a short passage of time. While I am gone, I charge you to complete the task of building two stout vessels and if I do not return in the time I have stipulated you will effect your own rescue. May God be with us all.’

Just then a seaman quit the crowd and ran to the flagpole where the ensign was flown with the union jack upside down, a signal, first to the long-departed
Bridgewater
of their predicament, and now simply as a sign of their distress and need of rescue. The seaman lowered the flag and righted it with the union in the customary top left-hand corner. It was a signal to all that they had taken charge of their own destiny and, with God’s guidance, would, by their own skill and perseverance, bring themselves back into the fraternity of other men. They would, by their own hand, see their dear ones, their wives and children once again. It was a small gesture of defiance and a grand moment when men condemned to die on a barren sandbank now did spit in the face of the cowards, the Captain Palmers of this world. ‘We shall survive!’ shouted Matthew Flinders.

‘Aye!’ shouted the men and then repeated, ‘We shall survive!’ Trim jumped into the bow of the cutter as some of the men on shore began to push her from the shallows into deeper water.

‘Wait!’ Captain Flinders shouted out. The men pushing the boat paused in their endeavours as he picked Trim up and held him to his chest, rubbing his chin into the cat’s glossy fur. ‘Alas, Master Trim, you cannot accompany me, for we embark on a most hazardous journey.’ He stroked poor Trim and sighed, ‘I promise I shall, with God’s help, return for thee, but now you must be that part of me that remains on Wreck Reef as a symbol that I am gone only a short time.’

In all his life Trim had not experienced so great a disappointment. And now he meowed pitifully, convinced in his heart he would not see his beloved master again. ‘Take me with thee, I beg,’ he meowed, ‘I would willingly sacrifice what remain of my nine lives, some six, I think, and these pledge to thee. Please, master, I beg thee, let me be a comfort and a support on your voyage so that together we face our single destiny?’

But Matthew Flinders shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Thou must stay, dear Trim. It is thy duty to keep the men in good cheer and, as my surrogate, to supervise the building of two ships and then, if I should not return, to lend thy expertise in seamanship for their own expedition to safety. Is thy name not Master Mariner Trim Flinders? How would they accomplish their journey to Port Jackson without the navigation skills I have taught thee?’

Trim tried very hard to restrain himself and the closest observation of his face showed no emotion, but as for his tail, he could not bring this part of his anatomy to equal good account. It flicked and twitched, held at the vertical, for that is how a cat shows extreme emotion.

Trim leapt from Matthew Flinders’ arms and, making small puffs of sand rise as he ran, fled to the furthermost corner of the sandbank where he might be alone to grieve.

The letter to Ryan was never posted. Instead, Billy took it to Nick and watched as the shower attendant fed it into the incinerator. He now realised that the letter had not been intended for Ryan, but was written to himself. The story of Wreck Reef was simply a ploy to get to the central issue, his own weakness, cowardice, disloyalty and irresponsibility, the four things that had destroyed his life. In writing it, Billy O’Shannessy had taken another step in the long process of his own rehabilitation.

Although Billy had destroyed his letter to Ryan, it had served a purpose beyond simply forcing him to face up to his many shortcomings. It had also given him a tangible reason to stay on the wagon. He told himself repeatedly that if he went back to drinking, it was the equivalent of the
Bridgewater
sailing away into oblivion. While Ryan might live on, as did the ninety-three men on Wreck Reef, his promising young life could well be compromised forever. He’d patently deserted the child, and although there was nobody to report his cowardice, except possibly for Trevor Williams, he knew that unless he attempted to make amends, he could well become the Captain Palmer in Ryan’s life.

Billy was aware that, ghastly as the detox had been, the hard part lay ahead. To this point he had simply put himself into the hands of others and his own willpower had not been involved. He’d submitted to and been committed for treatment and the clinic had done the rest. Now he must fight his addiction on a daily basis and this time he must conquer his demons alone. While the detox had allowed him to climb onto the wagon, it was now his responsibility to hang on for dear life on what would prove to be a very bumpy ride.

They had counselled him at Resthaven, suggesting that he undergo a program of rehabilitation. They’d congratulated him and told him that the detox was a noble battle but warned that the war with himself had yet to be won. Again they asked what his motive had been to agree to detoxification and this time he was able to articulate it.

‘There is a young lad who is going to need my help.’ Billy didn’t explain that the young lad wasn’t only Ryan, but also Charlie and his own life, past and present. He had been granted a second chance, or perhaps he could even one day be able to claim that he was giving himself one.

Even though Billy’s body had been cleansed of alcohol, the psychological pressure to drink was enormous, hardly a minute passed when he didn’t think of grog. What his mind simply refused to embrace was the prospect of a life where alcohol didn’t play the major part. Billy couldn’t imagine not removing the top from a scotch bottle in anticipation of the rush he would get the moment after the golden liquid touched his lips. Our lives are very largely controlled by ritual, they are the habits we form to suit our emotional needs or even to survive the painful process of life, and when they are removed what often follows is psychological trauma resulting in a deep sense of loss.

Billy couldn’t stay in the clinic beyond seven days so he transferred to Stillwaters, a Salvation Army hostel about five kilometres away, where he was able to get a room. This was done very much against the advice of the clinic, who urged him to go on to a rehabilitation program immediately.

Major Turlington had also asked him, almost pleaded, ‘Billy, we’ve cleaned out your system, the alcohol is out of your body, but it’s still in your mind, the next few days are critical, you
must
have support.’ Several counsellors had joined in, telling him that it was not a matter of willpower, that the psychological craving would override his will.

But Billy remained stubborn. ‘I have some thinking to do, I must have a little time to myself,’ he insisted.

Quite apart from the horror of the first forty-eight hours, it had been a strange few days in the clinic. He’d found himself overwhelmed. With his body still heavily sedated, he hadn’t been able to think beyond the instruction and the talks he was forced to attend, and now he needed time alone to think about his priorities.

On the third day, the day after he’d finally surfaced from the delirium tremens, he’d been placed in a group to learn the rules of the unit. No drinking, no leaving the premises, blah, blah, blah. The only thing Billy had noticed about the group was that, apart from a quick look at his companions, he, like everyone else, sat hunched over, elbows on knees and eyes to the floor. They all had one thing in common, their eyes were turned inwards as they dealt with their own personal demons. He knew he wasn’t ready to face the world outside and imagined the others felt much the same. He had never before realised what a shield alcohol provided and he now found himself vulnerable, naked, inadequate and quite incapable of coping with even the simplest details of ordinary life. Had he been made to leave the clinic at that moment he would have headed straight for the pub.

The second day of therapy had consisted of Bible readings, which Billy put down as the price he was required to pay for the tender loving care he’d received. Apart from their obvious sincerity and deep commitment which showed in their daily witnessing for Christ, the Salvos seldom rammed their faith down your throat. Besides, he was still on 60 mg a day of Valium and the Godspeak had seemed rather comforting. It was nice to know that someone up there was going to stretch out His hand and guide him through his darkest hours. Billy had once seen the forefinger of God stretched out to start all of creation in Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Billy could only hope that when the Almighty reached out and took his hand, he wasn’t blown away by the first touch of that all-powerful forefinger.

The next day brought collective counselling and held warnings of what lay ahead. Billy soon lost the sound of the instructor’s voice and began to think of what it would be like never to taste a drop again. Despite the effect of the Valium, he felt really depressed.

Day four had been more of the same, though this time he had learned about the nature of his addiction. By then the heads had started to rise, the ‘calm juice’, as Valium was called, was almost out of their systems and they were all, more or less, coming back to real life. The first tentative questions were attempted and soon the evening became a lively discussion that continued until the week ended and Billy was discharged.

During that week at Stillwaters, Billy sent a letter to Trevor Williams.

Dear Trevor,

I trust you are well on the mend by now and are back home with your dear wife. Surfers Paradise was not the best decision I’ve made, or to put it differently, running away from Sydney was quite wrong and, to say the least, cowardly. I suspect you knew this all along, but were too wise and well-mannered to say so.

However, in one respect it has been good. After making a thorough mess of things and sinking well below my already low expectations of myself, I submitted myself to a detox clinic.

This was not an experience I hope to repeat and I find myself on the wagon for the first time in some thirty-five years. That is, if you don’t count the time as a teenager when I stole a regular nip of scotch from my father’s liquor cabinet.

I well recall the incident the ever-diminishing level in the bottle provoked. I am ashamed to admit one of our maids, who was Polish, was blamed. My mother believed that, as a foreigner, she was obviously not to be trusted. The poor girl was Jewish and a victim of the Holocaust, which my mother simply didn’t believe. She reasoned at the time that the child could only have been eight when the war ended and was simply telling a sob story to gain her sympathy. We now know the story was completely plausible and that many children did survive the concentration camps. Anyway, she was promptly dismissed, even though she had probably never tasted a drop of scotch in her life. I regret I didn’t own up and the poor girl, her name was Rebecca, who had suffered so terribly, was once more a victim of racism. This was probably the first sign of things to come and a tangible example of my moral turpitude and innate cowardice.

I am returning to Sydney as soon as possible where I hope to undergo further treatment and attempt to make amends for my recent behaviour. I am submitting myself for rehabilitation and I don’t know how long this process will take, but once I am out I would like to help you find your daughter. I am not at all sure that I will be of any use in the search, but if you are returning to Sydney, as you suggested you might be, and wish to contact me, you may do so at the following address:

The Station Cnr Erskine and Clarence Streets Sydney NSW 2000

In case you have forgotten my surname, it is O’Shannessy. We were only, I recall, formally introduced on one occasion with Casper Friendly at the pub. If you can’t make it to Sydney in the next little while, perhaps you could tell me a little more about your daughter? Her first name as well as any professional name she may have assumed? Is her surname still Williams? Does she have a police record? Hospital record? Last address? Childhood friends? Boyfriend? Known associates? Previous theatrical booking agent?

Can you describe her? Birthmarks? Scars?

Distinguishing features? Nickname? Any sentimental jewellery she would never part with, a locket or chain, ring or bracelet? A sample of her handwriting? Does she have a tattoo? Expressions she likes to use? Manner of speech, fast, slow, considered, excited? Is she an introvert, extrovert? In fact, anything else you think might be useful for me to know. I greatly look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Billy

He had also written to Ryan, addressing the letter to the Pring Street school.

My dear Ryan,

I am sorry I haven’t written to you and I have no real excuse. Perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive me and we can resume our friendship? I would very much like this to happen. I have given up the grog and will be returning to Sydney in a week or so. I will leave a message for you at your school. It may be some time before we can meet as I am going into the William Booth Institute for rehabilitation. Just let me know if you’d like to see me again, I will take it from there.

By the way, I have a new Trim story. It is about a shipwreck where Trim and his crew are left to die on a desert island by a wicked Captain of a ship who could have rescued them. It is a grand story of courage and betrayal and, of course, it is absolutely true.

I hope that you will forgive me for running away and that we can be friends once again. If you would like to write to me, my address is:

The Salvation Army Foster House 5–21 Mary Street Strawberry Hills NSW 2010

In the meantime, look after yourself.

Your friend in Trim (the Master Mariner cat and famous explorer),

Billy O’Shannessy (without the ‘u’)

Billy purchased an overnight bus ticket to Sydney. Arriving at Central Railway Station the following morning, he walked from the terminal to Foster House. He’d only just entered the foyer when he saw Major Cliff Thomas coming towards him.

‘Hello, Billy, you must have come in early, we were going to send someone to meet you.’ Billy looked surprised. ‘You knew I was coming?’

‘Well, hoped, there’s many a slip between the bus and the lip,’ Thomas quipped. A Welshman, he was exBritish Army and very popular with the men who used Foster House. ‘Yes, we knew. Major Turlington gave me a call, said to look out for you, said you’d toughed it out on your own at the hostel after you left the clinic. That can’t have been easy.’ The Salvo stuck out his hand, ‘Well done, congratulations, you’ve made a great start. Come into my office, let’s have a chat.’

The week in the hostel after leaving Resthaven had been hell and the only way Billy had been able to stay out of the pub was to have them lock him in his room and only let him out for meals and to go to the bathroom. The fact that he’d made the bus ride without a bottle was another miracle and Turlington had phoned to say Billy should be met as he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to hold out on his own.

In Cliff Thomas’s office Billy handed him an envelope which contained his clinical notes from Resthaven and details of his stay. The Salvo major took it, putting it to one side. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you, the bus stopped at McDonald’s in Newcastle, I had a cup of coffee and something I think was called McMuffin.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Well, I have to say you look more as if you’ve been hit by a Mack truck than a McMuffin.’

He leaned forward and appeared to be looking closely at Billy’s face. ‘Although that could be a smidgin of white in the corner of each eye. Detox takes a lot out of one. How are you feeling?’

‘Not too bad,’ Billy replied, although he had hardly slept on the journey down and had a fierce headache and a stomach pain that had been with him for the past three days. ‘Bit of diarrhoea, headache,’ Billy grinned. ‘I’ve had hangovers a great deal worse.’

‘Ha! Chocolate! I’ll bet you’ve been eating a fair bit?’ Billy smiled. ‘It’s the craving for something sweet after the detox.’

Thomas laughed. He was around the same age as Billy and it was comfortable talking to him. ‘I know what you mean. When I came out of detox, a week later they needed to choco-tox me. How about a cup of tea? Sugar? We’ll throw in a couple of Panadol, that’ll help, I’ll see if we’ve got something for the squits.’

Billy looked up, surprised, he hadn’t realised that Cliff Thomas was a recovered alcoholic. ‘Thank you, major, you’ve given me renewed hope.’

Thomas grinned. ‘We all need a bit of that, although you’ve managed a week on your own, that’s remarkable in itself.’ He picked up the telephone and asked someone named Kylie to bring in a cup of tea with six sugars and a couple of Panadol and to ask the nurse for something for diarrhoea. Then putting down the receiver, he said, ‘Now, how can we help you, Billy?’

At first Billy didn’t answer. He’d done a week cold turkey without anyone to help him, but it had nevertheless taken its toll. His nerves were shattered and he didn’t know how much more of the same he could take. Now that he had reached the point of changing his life by agreeing to undergo the full journey to rehabilitation, the enormity of what he was attempting struck him. He could feel the panic growing in his stomach. What he was attempting to do, he now saw clearly, was impossible. He felt a sudden and tremendous urge to rise from his seat and leave, run away.