Pearls (2 page)

The Koepangers were forward, leaning on the rigging, chattering and laughing among themselves. Cameron worked on the catch alone, the empty shells thudding onto the deck as he finished with each one. He was wearing only a Malay sarong at his waist. Unlike most of the Europeans in this part of the world his skin had burned mahogany over the course of a season at sea. He was tall, three inches over six feet with a slightly battered face. He had boxed for the Royal Navy. After all these weeks at sea the beard and the knife in his sarong gave him the look of a Malabar pirate.

Cameron work steadily, mechanically; opening shell was monotonous work. Only one shell in a thousand provided a pearl, and few of those were of any great value. The smell of kerosene and boiling rice hung over the calm blue ocean. Cameron looked up. 'Cook-boy! What's for dinner tonight?'

The Malay's head bobbed out of the galley, perfect white teeth framed against a nut-brown face. 'Curry-curry,
tuan
,' he said.

Cameron grinned at Wes. It was an old joke. Curry-Curry had not earned his nickname for nothing.

He picked up another oyster, working the thin blade of the knife through the muscle. The shell fell apart, and he felt with his fingers under the slimy meat for a pearl or 'blister' on the shell. You could sell the barrack by the carat to the buyers.

He stopped, felt his heart leap in his chest.

Something, something there.

Sweat broke in little blisters on his forehead. He drew out a pearl, rolling it between finger and thumb like one of the marbles he had played with as a child. 'Good God Almighty,' Cameron murmured. It was huge.

He looked up. Wes was staring, open-mouthed. Then he rolled his eyes in his head and made the sign against the Evil Eye. The rest of the crew had all stopped, hushed in awe.

'You be a rich man now skip,' Wes whispered.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his whole life. It shimmered like the moon. Good God Almighty. He had found what he was looking for; he was holding all his dreams right there in his hand.

***

Cameron was below in his cabin with Wes. Curry-Curry brought them their dinner but Cameron was too excited to eat. He put the pearl into a small leather pouch looped on a thong around his neck, and every few minutes he would put his hand to his throat to touch it, to convince himself he was not dreaming.

'Dat pearl worth a fortune, skip,' Wes said, scooping another heaped spoonful of rice into his mouth. 'What you do with all that money?'

'Where there's one pearl, there's more. This is the lynchpin of my future, Wes. With this I can buy my own fleet. I'll build my destiny on pearls.' He clapped a hand on the other man's shoulder. 'Stick with me, Wes. You'll nae go poor.'

Paddy Mick, the bosun, appeared on the scuttle. He put a hand on Cameron's shoulder. 'Storm she come,' he murmured. 'More better you look him.'

Cameron put down his plate and followed Paddy Mick up onto the deck. The wind was coming from the south east and a mist of rain had begun to fall. He checked the aneroid. It always fell in the afternoon but by now it should have recovered. It was still stuck on seven.

Wes shook his head. 'Willy willy season come soon now, skip. Must be close to lay-up.'

'Aye, looks like it. We'd better head for shelter.'

A few minutes later the
China Cloud
set sail for the pearler's camp at Barred Creek, and the sudden end of dreams.

Chapter 4

Cameron stood on the prow of the
China Cloud
, dressed in a flowing white shirt and canvas trousers. He shivered against the cold of the sudden night. Above him, the stars blinked their indecipherable Morse between low darting clouds. A quickening breeze salt on his skin and his breath tight in his chest. Twenty five years old and the world at his feet. Nothing could stop him now. He would not be poor again.

'Weigh anchor!'

The riding lights of four other luggers bobbed in the darkness, another fleet seeking shelter from the uncertain weather. Cameron could hear the twang of a guitar from the deck of one of the boats.

Cameron turned to Wes. 'Tell Curry-Curry to get the men's dinner. We'll anchor here tonight and take another look at the weather in the morning.'

'Aye skip.'

Cameron turned away, put a hand to the pearl under his shirt. It was tempting to make the run home for Broome - but there might be a few more weeks in the season yet. Time enough to find more.

He heard the click of rowlocks. A whaleboat. It emerged from the darkness into the arc of light thrown by the kerosene lanterns on the port side.

'Ahoy there,
China Cloud
!'

Cameron leaned over the port rail. 'Ahoy!'

'My mastah belong
Koepang
,' the voice shouted, in pidgin. 'Send him compliments. Say askim you come longa me for dinner longa him, orright?'

It was a common courtesy at sea, the chance to talk with another white man after weeks, perhaps months, on the pearling grounds with only native crew for company. And, for Cameron, a welcome opportunity to eat something different from Curry-Curry's infernal stews.

'Aye,' Cameron shouted back, 'all right!'

***

The sparse silver strands of hair were combed taut as guitar strings across the balding brown head, He had several day's growth of white stubble on his chin and his breath reeked of gin. He thrust out an enormous paw and clapped Cameron on the shoulder with the other. 'Welcome aboard the
Koepang
! The name's Patrick Flynn, late of Donegal, Ireland, bless her green rolling hills, and more lately of Broome, and pleased to see another white face after six weeks at sea! And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?'

'My name's McKenzie, sir, Cameron McKenzie.'

'A Scot! Well praise the good Lord for that then, there I was thinking I'd have to try and be pleasant to another damned Englishman all night. You look like a drinking man to me. Would you care for a little gin?'

'As long as it's nae too little.'

Flynn slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. 'Not on the
Koepang
it won't be! Come down to the stateroom and we'll oil your throat!'

If it wasn't a stateroom in the grander sense - at least, not as would be found on one of Her Majesty's fleet, Cameron thought - it was a welcome change from the verminous constraints of the
China Cloud
. If the tablecloth was not exactly spotless, it was at least a tablecloth, and there was polished silver on the table.

There were two carved mahogany chairs - Cameron usually ate on the edge of his bunk or squatting on the deck - and when Flynn clapped his hands a Malay steward appeared, in white ducks. They were stained, but it was still an impressive display.

Cameron happily accepted another glass of gin.

Flynn raised his own glass in toast. 'To your health and prosperity,' he said and the gin gurgled down his throat. He held out his glass for another.

Cameron, who thought he could drink any man under the table, did the same.

'Where are you from, Mister McKenzie? I've been in Broome nearly ten years and I can't say I've ever seen your face.'

'I arrived at the beginning of the season. I was lucky to get a crew.'

'Who's your diver?'

'His name's Tanaka.'

'Tanaka? Over the hill, my boy, take it from me.'

'Aye, and nearly crippled too. I had to take him back to Broome. He got the paralysis.'

'So who does your diving now?'

'You're looking at him,' Cameron said, quietly. 'I was a diver for the Royal Navy at one time.'

Flynn raised an eyebrow and there was a new respect in his eyes. 'Not many white men dive their own lugger.'

'This one does. I have some knowledge of it.'

'In what way now?'

'When I was in the Royal Navy, the Admiralty's Deep Water Diving Commission wanted volunteers for their trials. They thought they had found a way to beat the diver's sickness.'

'The Japanese reckon their paper charms and some cadjeput oil does the job.'

'Which is why so many of them end up in the graveyard.' Cam leaned forward. 'You see, down there in the deeps a man's body is under pressure from the water above, and nitrogen is more easily absorbed into the blood, and it bubbles into the joints and the brain when he comes back to the air. In the Navy we learned that to overcome it, you wait at a certain depth below the surface, where the pressure is not so great, until all the nitrogen in the blood is breathed out again.'

Flynn shook his head. 'They tried that once a few years back. Sent some Royal Navy divers out here with their fancy ideas. One of them died and the other went back a cripple.'

'I heard about it. To my mind the Japanese sabotaged the trials. They didn't want the white staking over the diving.'

'So what went wrong with your man Tanaka then?'

'I don’t know. Perhaps the tide rose faster than we thought. Or perhaps he'd just pushed his body too far over the years. He's been at it thirteen years and most Japs don't last more than five.

'I hope you have a good tender.'

'Aye. A man named Wes Redonda.'

'Wes? And how did you get him now?'

'The Norma lost her diver second day out. He wouldn't go back on her. Said she was unlucky.'

'Well, a lot of these blacks are frightened of their own shadows.' Flynn shook his head. 'Well, a man who does his own diving must work up an appetite. The
Koepang
has one of the best cooks this side of Ceylon, my boy, even if I do say so myself.'

'Aye, I'm famished. What are we eating?' Cameron said, eagerly.

Flynn gulped another gin. 'Curry,' he said.

***

Flynn settled back in his chair and belched. There were yellow-brown stains down the front of his shirt. He ate with the same gusto that he drank his gin.

The Malay steward tried to clear away the plates, but Flynn waved him off impatiently. 'Never mind that, man! Get me another drink!'

'A fine meal,' Cameron said. Holy Mother of God, it was even worse than one of Curry-Curry's concoctions! He made a mental note to go easier on the boy.

Flynn took a tin of Egyptian hand-rolled cheroots from the voluminous pocket of his shirt and offered one to Cameron. He blew smoke in a dense cloud towards the ceiling and drummed impatiently on the table with the fingers of his left hand while he waited for his drink to arrive. The creaking of cordage and timbers; above them on the deck the sighing
wah, wah!
of the Malay crew as they gathered around their story-teller.

'And have you had a good season, my boy?'

'It's my first year, so I'm still learning.' He felt the weight of the pearl in the pouch at his neck. 'But aye - not bad.'

Flynn leaned eagerly across the table. 'Did you find any pearls?'

'Some small ones.'

'Let me show you something,' Flynn said. He pushed his plate to one side, reached into his pocket and pulled out a tobacco tin. He took off the lid and tipped the contents on the table. There were a dozen pearls, nothing to speak of, but there was one much larger than the others, a perfect round with shimmering lustre, faintly pink against the white of the tablecloth.

'Look at that!' Flynn said.

Cameron leaned forward. He could smell Flynn's breath, an oily mixture of gin and curry.

'Seventy, eighty grains! Worth a thousand pounds at least! A thousand pounds!' Flynn repeated the words like a benediction. 'That's what you call a pearl!'

Cameron tried to look impressed. 'Aye, it's a beauty all right.'

Flynn frowned when he heard the caveat. 'You'll never see another like it!'

'Aye, perhaps.'

'No doubt about it! It's the find of the season!' Offended by Cameron's lack of enthusiasm, he scooped the little pile back into the tobacco tin with an imperious gesture. 'The find of the season!' he repeated.

Cameron could not contain himself. He pulled the leather thong over his head and opened the pouch. He let the pearl drop in his palm and stared at it for a moment, marvelling at its texture, its weight, the roseate sheen that lent it an almost other-worldly beauty. In the manner of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, he grinned and let it fall on the table.

Flynn's jaw fell open and he stared. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse with admiration.

'Jesus Christ and all the Blesséd Saints in Heaven. Where did you find that?'

***

The pearl rested again in the leather pouch about Cameron's neck, but Flynn could talk of nothing else. The gin had made him emotional and his eyes were heavy and wet. 'I've been on these pearling grounds nearly ten years and I've never seen another like it,' he murmured. He took another long gulp of his gin. 'The sea makes a pearl like that just once in every lifetime. And you found it, my boy, you found it! That pearl will grace the neck of an Empress or a Queen one day, you mark my words. Maybe even the Queen of England herself.' Then he added, quickly: 'May God bring down hail and punishment on the English and their bloody Empire just the same.'