Sound (22 page)

The foot soldier led Billhook past the cannon and the flagstaff, up through the beach reeds where a thin track had already been trampled by sheep, pigs and men. McCone laboured over the keg behind them, muttering that Britons didn't know their County Mayo from their Galway. They walked into a clearing where the place was changed from the last time Billhook was there, by two huts of wood, bark and thatched with reeds, several white canvas tents and rough yards for the stock. The two sheep had already been hobbled.

A convict stood with his arms tied around the warty trunk of a gum tree. In a strange embrace, his cheek was pressed to the peeling bark as though the tree were his lover. Two steps away, the Major had stripped away his jacket as his efforts in flogging the man was making him hot. Sweat ran from his forehead, through his sideburns and dripped from his florid jowls. Beside him, the surgeon checked for broken skin and counted out the strokes on slim fingers, a small smile on his pinched face.

“No man would flog Ryan: not soldier, navvy nor convict. Private Dickens said no. He'll be sent away for that,” whispered McCone to Billhook, as he rolled his barrel alongside. “So the Major said he'd do 'im himself.”

“What did the man do?”

“Started trouble about the meat rations. See, there is only food in the settlement for one month.”

Billhook grunted and smiled, thinking about red berries, seal meat, fish and muttonbirds, and of the island pelicans who flew away from futile English rifles. He watched the Major shake out his lash for another go at the man.

Thwack. “Sixteen, sir,” said the surgeon.

It was a dull kind of beating, thought Billhook. The soldiers were trying to ignore it, stifling yawns. The convicts were forced by the overseers to stand in a row behind the heaving shoulders of the Major and not turn away their heads. Only the surgeon watched with any interest. Billhook wondered at the bone-hard form of this white man's punishment, this banal exercise of power and demonstration, so different from the chaotic bloodspilling that happened in his own world of islands and boats.

“Twenty-five, sir.”

“I trust you will cease questioning my authority, John Ryan,” said the Major to the convict's welted, reddened back as he threw down the lash. He nodded to the overseer. “You are hereby on half flour and beef for a week. Back on full rations in seven days, pending your good behaviour.” He looked disgusted with his work but he did not spit.

The overseer untied the convict from the tree, who shook the tension out of his arms, turned around and flicked shanks of black hair from his face. “You are most welcome, Major,” he said in an American accent, and looked his flogger straight in the eyes. The Major held his stare.

McCone sucked breath in through pursed lips. “He'd not want to make trouble for us all, that John Ryan.” Billhook looked at him. “I have been on Maria Island in my recent past and this place is a heaven compared.”

Clouds cleared away from the sun and the damp earth steamed. The garrison relaxed their shoulders after standing to attention during the flogging and began to move about. Prisoners wandered away to their work. Someone called for dinner. Corporal Shore spoke to the Major, who was shrugging into his coat, and nodded towards Billhook. As the Major raised his eyes to the sealer, another man in naval costume walked over the knoll from the sea and called the Major aside.

His words “sealers”, “boat”, “during the storm”, “native women” floated across the muddy, trampled ground to Billhook. He wanted to hear more. Jimmy the Nail must have spoken to someone aboard the brig. Asking for rations no doubt. Offering up Dancer and Sal for flour even.

Again, the Major looked at Billhook. He waved him over.

The Major smelled like salted pork and sweat. Although he had not broken the prisoner's skin during the flogging, his fingers were spattered with blood. He held Billhook with blue eyes so clear and knowing, that after watching the prisoner's punishment and challenge, Billhook struggled to maintain his gaze. His shame surprised him. He could see the right and the power in the man; that the Major was happiest being in control of other men. But his wasn't the look of a tyrant. His entitlement as leader was earned by steady, clever labour and by knowing when to beat a man and when to be kind.

“William Hook, I have word that your friends are aboard the
Amity
requesting victuals.”

“My friends,” Billhook repeated. “Victuals.” He was hungry and the words he had been planning since he saw the Englishmen on Green Island ran away from his mind, not to be found.

“They tell the lieutenant that they are crew from the
Governor Brisbane
and the
Hunter
and that they have been cruelly abandoned by their masters for up to eighteen months now.”
Billhook nodded. The Major continued. “Are you associated with these men?”

“I have been so, sir, though I am now cast out from them.”

The Major considered this piece of information, his chin and eyes turning to one side. “Mmm. I have given orders for your crew to be kept aboard the
Amity
tonight. In the morning I will conduct interviews.” The Major sighed. “One of our best men was speared by the natives yesterday. The blacksmith.”

“By the men on Michaelmas?”

“You know of the natives who were left on Michaelmas Island?”

“I do.”

“You have much to tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Billhook breathed in and with a ragged voice, told the Major of his concern for Moennan and Tama Hine. “Returning the girl Moennan to her people will make the blackfellas pleased with you,” he said. “You could do that, sir.”

The Major looked intently at Billhook. “The women who presented today were from Van Diemen's Land, not King George Sound.”

“Sir, three are from this coast. Two were carried off when we marooned the black men on the island.”

“And were you present during the killing of the native on Green Island?”

“Yes, sir. I know who shot him, sir.”

“William Hook, you will provide a statement to me naming this man and the events on Green Island in the morning.”

“Yes sir.”

“Is this murderer one of the men who came into the harbour during the storm today?”

“I do not know sir.” Billhook fingered an orca tooth at his
throat. His belly grumbled. After the intense exchange of information, he became aware again of the strange people, animals and labour around him. The order of things was about to change, he thought. He didn't like it. But he understood it. He laid out his mistruth to the Major in his most careful English. “He is the same man who took Tama Hine and Moennan away. His name is Samuel Bailey.”

He woke in the bottom of the navvy's jolly-boat, wrapped in a sail. Something stabbed at his ribs, and then again. He grunted away from the pain and shut his eyes but the poking continued. What was this? This sharp shunting at him?

In the gloomy sky, he saw the outline of a man, leaning over the boat.

“Smidmore. Stop. Stop it, man.”

Trying to sit up, he remembered the tousle-headed lieutenant handcuffing him to a shackle on the boat, before tucking him in to his sail. He wrenched at his chain in frustration.

“Thought I saw you on the rocks yesterday,” said Smidmore. Water dripped from his long hair and onto Billhook's chest. “Right before I fetched that tack in my eye. Dancer, I reckon she saw you too. What you doing here?”

“Where are the girls?”

“Sal's gone with Randall to the Swan River, looking for seal.” Smidmore was heavy on Randall's name. He still smarted from his loss of Sal. “Mary is out on Breaksea.”

Billhook wriggled upright and wiped aside the canvas. His back ached from the boat's ribs. “No. Where is the kid?”

“Oh!” Smidmore laughed, nastily. “Of course. The kid.”

“Where is she, Smidmore?”

“She ain't with us.”

“Where is Tama Hine?”

Smidmore leaned in to stare close at Billhook. “I should kill
you now, you fucking black traitor. While I got the chance.”

“I took the girls to keep Bailey off them.”

“I have no quarrel with you there, Billhook. Even pinching the boat. Everyone for themselves. Nah, the story you been giving to that Major nob about the blackfella on Green Island. You told him I shot the man dead.”

“No.”

“The lieutenant came aboard and said we was to give statements today. That they knew about the shooting. They took our guns. Six guns they got. And our boat. I'll swing for that killing, Billhook.”

“No white man ever swung for shooting a blackfella.”

“Makes it a better reason to finish you off now. I'll not be going back to captivity, nor threats of the rope, Billhook. I be going back to Kangaroo Island. I'll take you and this little boat, right here and now.”

“I said Bailey did it. I said Bailey shot the blackfella.”

Smidmore began to laugh quietly, as the sky was lightening in the east and he didn't want to be heard by stirring soldiers. “Bailey.”

“Where are the girls?”

Smidmore pushed himself away from Billhook and the gunwales of the boat. He turned and walked back into the water, wading through the shallows. Just as he began to despair of an answer, Billhook heard the sealer mutter, “Bailey's got them on Eclipse Island.”

From early in the morning, people from the country surrounding King George Sound began arriving at the English garrison. First came two young men, their chests and arms painted. Then three older men and some boy children dressed in small cloaks. As the shadows began to shorten, one of the boys left and returned with three elderly women, one of whom walked with the aid of a stick. The two other women helped her when she failed. Billhook watched her fold her legs and sink down onto a kangaroo skin prepared for her. Powerful old kui, that one, he thought. The warriors had decreed the scene safe enough for her to attend. The shape of her face traced echoes of Moennan and he wondered if she was Moennan's grandmother.

All day they waited. Occasionally one of the men would groan with impatience and leave the garrison. The old women and a boy sat under a tree, looking glummer as the sun climbed the sky. The Major busied himself with domestic matters: transcribing Billhook's statement of the killing in his tent, occasionally coming out to clarify something with Billhook, or inspect the construction of the livestock yards. Major was as impatient and nervy as the countrymen and women. He needed this day to go well.

Pigeon was shipped to shore from the brig, where the other sealers were still being held.

“Major Boss wants me to talk to these blackfellas here,” he
told Billhook, looking proud of his new role as negotiator. “Keep 'em happy, you know.”

Billhook shook his head and walked away, remembering Pigeon's gleeful face as he dragged a teary Moennan out of the bush. Something dark in him hoped the old kui would recognise Pigeon. But the old people would get no justice from this sorry tale and as the day wore on, he became afraid that they would not even get their countrywoman back.

As the sun started its decline into the western coast hills, a great shout went up. The countrymen had been watching the channel and they were first to see Lieutenant Festing's skiff sail into the harbour. The Major quickly told Pigeon to explain to them what was going to happen. If she was in the boat, the Major would personally walk her to her family and present her, he said. He directed Pigeon to stay with them and comfort them until she arrived at the garrison.

“You, William Hook, you stay here with Corporal Shore.”

He spoke to the other soldiers in hushed tones, so that Billhook couldn't hear his words. The Major must want a show here, he thought, a show of English power. No more blacksmith ambushes.

The Major paced back and forth, waiting for the boat. He snapped at the surgeon who hovered about him like a terrier. Then he walked down to the shore. The soldiers followed, some hastily donning their red jackets, others checking their guns.

Billhook could see the skiff's sails being lowered and the men fitting oars to crab into shore. Then his view was ruined by a dozen privates crowding the boat. He saw one man lift out a ragged bundle and walk to the shore. Another man carried a larger cargo ashore. At the garrison, the mood intensified. The kui talked quickly, her words pitching into short wails. A countryman patted her, soothingly.

Live fish could have swum in Billhook's stomach. He tried to see between the soldiers as they closed around the boat again. Was it them? Tama Hine? That little bundle? And Moennan? Were they alive? For a moment he closed his eyes and appealed to his mother. Mother, what have I done? Have I done right this time?

In swift, coordinated movements, the soldiers stepped away from the boat. They made two lines from the boat to the reedy dune, faced each other and placed out their arms to space themselves. They turned about until they were facing the strange crowd of exiles and countrymen at the garrison.

“Forward march,” shouted the sergeant. There were other people, including the Major, behind them but Billhook could not see them for soldiers. They marched in two lines towards the garrison, past the white tents and the storehouse. When the first soldiers arrived within twenty steps of where the families, Billhook and Pigeon stood, they stopped suddenly.

Through the avenue walked the private who'd refused to flog the prisoner Ryan. He led Samuel Bailey, his hands cuffed in front of him. Bailey raised drink-ruined eyes to Billhook but gave little sign he knew him, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth and that was all. He was shambling, taking small steps. Billhook realised that he wore leg irons. The soldier dragged him from the column of soldiers and took him to the storehouse.