The Devil's Eye (5 page)

Out to sea off Cape Melville, out of sight of the schooners in Bathurst Bay, the crew of the pearling lugger
Zoe
were still sweating over her dismantled air pump. The sun was high and the heat had worn them down; their hands were ragged from the machinery and they were beyond cursing at the nuts that slipped from their fingers.

Willie Tanna, the diver and skipper of the
Zoe
, was aft, looking like a large grey grub sitting in the shade of the mainsail. He’d already suited up, but despite the delay he was calm. Many skippers would have been infuriated, shouting by now. Willie wasn’t like that. He had a lazy faith in fate. He told himself that the fixing of the pump would take as long as it took and his life depended on it being fixed well, so they could take their time.

Anyway, it was the tender’s job to worry. When the Singapore man Charley Brain dropped the same nut for a third time the
Zoe
’s tender and cook,
Sam, did a little dance of frustration and then slapped him on the back of the head.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ shouted Sam.

Charley looked up at Willie and shrugged. ‘Samting bugarup.’

‘See. Something’s buggered up,’ said Willie. ‘It’s not Charley’s fault. Why don’t we have coffee? We’ll have coffee and the pump will get fixed.’

‘Coffee. Good idea,’ and Sam gave Charley another light tap to the head. Charley stood without unfolding and made his bent way to the galley. He emerged with a silver pot and went to the transom to wash it in the sea. One of the flat, bored-looking fish that hung around the luggers came to investigate and Willie heard Charley coo to it: ‘
Salamat pagi. Apa khabar
?’

The rest of the crew worked slowly on the pump with their shirts off, four shades of brown. The light breeze was steady but the best time for diving had already been lost.

Well, what could he do? Willie leant back on an elbow. He could see the seabed ten fathoms below as if through the bottom of a gin bottle. There was sand, a dark bed of seagrass, white patches that marked coral. Perhaps the lack of real wind wasn’t a bad thing. The current might take him through the weed this time and there’d be shell there, for sure.

‘We’ll drift over the weed,’ said Willie.

‘Not likely,’ said Sam, standing above the men who sat scratching their heads over the dismantled machinery.

‘What about the patience of Job?’ said Willie. ‘Isn’t that what you keep telling me?’

‘
We count them happy which endure
,’ said Sam, watching Charley set the pot on the deck stove. ‘But what will you tell Captain Porter when we turn up with one crate of wormy shell? “Patience master. No beat poor Tanna boy, me find more shell next time.”’

‘Captain Porter has never beaten anyone.’

‘He will when I tell him that we spent three days on a patch that’s produced less than a dozen pair, and most of them wormy.’

That wasn’t true and it was Sam who had insisted on diving here, but Willie let it pass.

‘We’ll clean up today,’ he said.

‘That’s what you said yesterday.’

‘The patience of Job.’

Sam looked up at the sky and mouthed a prayer. He then came over and sat heavily next to Willie, putting an arm around the shoulders of the diving suit. ‘Do you want to get out of the suit?’

‘I think they’ve nearly fixed it.’ Willie nodded at the men who seemed to be putting the pump back together, but so slowly it was agony to watch. He looked off to the horizon. There were a few boats under sail, but most of the fleet was no doubt over the horizon and awash with shell.

Sam whispered in his ear. ‘God will guide you. Do you feel His presence?’

‘No,’ said Willie. It unnerved him when Sam talked like this.

‘You want to go back to Tanna Island and have a wife, children, a garden?’

‘No.’

Sam pretended to be surprised. ‘God wants you to have babies and wives.’

‘Why?’

Sam took his hand away and stood, shouting, ‘Well, get drunk then! Fornicate! I don’t care.’

The men at the pump turned around and laughed and Sam shouted at them to get back to work. He sat down again.

He said, quietly, ‘We’re all relying on you, but you have to listen to God’s voice. It’s very important. He will show you.’

Willie said he’d try, ‘But if God doesn’t help the boys put that pump together today, we’ll never find your pearl.’

‘Shush!’ Sam looked over his shoulder to make sure no one had heard. ‘I’m the only one who can stop you going to hell, Willie Tanna.’

It was the top of the tide and the tide would ebb to the north, not over the seagrass, but over a patch that the lugger had worked the day before.

Willie had been anxious to make the most of the offshore morning breeze, because it would turn back to
the north and tacking against it to start another run would be costly. Now, having wasted the morning, he’d have to work harder.

But what he was looking forward to now was being on the bottom where it was cool and relatively quiet.

The coffee came; the crew fixed the pump.

‘Remember,’ Sam told him. ‘Two pulls and two shakes of the lifeline if you see that old crocodile. I’ll have you up before he can lick his lips.’

Sam was bent over, washing the heavy brass diving helmet in a bucket of soapy water. The crew were at their stations.

‘I’m not afraid of any crocodile,’ said Willie.

‘Pray with me.’

‘What I’m afraid of is you pulling me up fast. Don’t do it again.’

Sam took Willie’s gloved hand and closed his eyes. Willie snatched his hand back. ‘Let’s just say that God gives us a pearl,’ he hissed, as Sam continued praying silently with his eyes shut.

Sam opened his eyes. ‘Amen.’

‘What do we do with it?’

‘Keep it safe. Sell it ashore.’

‘Joe Harry and Thomas both say they will buy any pearl we fish.’

‘And that’s why we won’t sell it to them. Someone else is buying from them. We sell it directly to him. You see?’

‘No,’ said Willie and he took a deep breath. ‘Just don’t pull me up fast.’

Sam put the clean helmet in a bucket of salt water and began fussing with the corselet, leads, lifeline and lashings.

‘Right then,’ said Sam.

‘Raise the anchor,’ shouted Willie, throwing his cigarette over the side.

The tide was running out, the crew weighed the main anchor and let go a light drift anchor. The mainsail came down and the lugger swung around so that its nose pointed towards Barrow Island.

Sam looked over the side with his usual concern. ‘If the current runs a bit faster I’ll hang the main anchor over the back. You might have to step out a bit to keep up.’

Willie stood, a giant baby, and waddled to the side dragging his leaden boots. Far to the north were the sails of a schooner.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Waller.

‘It must be the
Admiral
.’

‘About time. We need gaskets.’

Willie looked doubtfully at the pump but then grabbed a shroud, turned around and stepped backwards onto the ladder and into the sea until his corselet was level with the deck.

Sam sent the hands to the pump handles. ‘Don’t
wear the damned thing out before the skipper gets down,’ he told them.

They grinned at each other, spat in their hands, and turned the handles. The pump made a series of small sneezes.

Sam leant down and lashed the leads on Willie’s back and chest, and then ceremonially lifted the massive helmet from its bucket of water.

‘Don’t forget what I said,’ said Sam.

‘Fornication is a mortal sin?’

‘Two pulls and
two
shakes,’ and he carefully put the helmet over Willie’s head.

Willie watched Sam’s face appear and vanish in turn as the helmet was screwed into the suit. Each time he appeared, Sam would smile in a manner he must have thought was reassuring.

Willie had a habit of closing his eyes at the end of this process and wouldn’t open them until he heard the back stud click to secure the helmet to the suit.

The pump handlers found a rhythm and their song came to Willie from far away as Sam tugged at every possible lead, knot and bolt. Willie opened his eyes as Sam screwed on the face plate. He then rapped the helmet with his knuckle.

With a big-gloved hand, Willie took the shell bag from the deck beside the ladder, grabbed the plumper rope and stepped backwards. He saw Sam give him the thumbs-up just before he slid beneath the surface of the bottle-green sea.

Along the track north from Cooktown the country unfolded, hill after hill, to reveal plains of sharp grasses, thick vine forests, and finally now this thin poor stone country that would accompany Jack Kenny and Walter Roth all the way to Munburra.

Constable Kenny was struck again by how wide and high the sky, and how heavy the air with insects and heat. Normally he’d relish this ride, the escape from civilisation, but Dr Roth rode beside him like a black cloud and the thread of Kenny’s thoughts was caught on Hope Douglas.

Roth seemed to sense this.

After they’d ridden in silence for some time, the doctor had suddenly said, as if hoping to strike up a conversation, ‘So, Jack, your father’s recovered and back home. That must be a blessing for you and your sister. Do you know, I believe that Hope was the tonic. Wouldn’t leave him in peace. Oh, to pass water like a fire pump! He should send a declaration to the papers…’

‘Shut up,’ said Kenny.

Roth, with a look of genuine shock, said, ‘So sorry,’ but Kenny’s mind was now set running along the lines of Hope herself.

If he’d ridden straight home and not proposed marriage he would have slept better. He’d been plagued through the night with doubts, and then carnal thoughts of Hope: her nape, her lips, her body beneath all that clothing.

She’d said yes! Had she? Of course; she had kissed him. But why? There was no shortage of men for any single woman in Cooktown, and an officer in the Native Police had less to offer than most. A forced transfer from one outpost to another was their immediate future.

And he’d have to beg the Police Commissioner for permission to marry. And the Bishop, of course, because Hope was not Catholic. And the formidable John Douglas himself.

‘Dear God!’ he said aloud, seeing the impossibility of it all.

Roth had fallen silent again and now looked across at him, ‘Are you all right?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It clearly does. You can tell me. I’m a doctor.’ He held up a hand. ‘I’ve taken the Hippocratic Oath. I swear by placebo and panacea that I won’t tell a soul.’

‘I’m not your patient.’

‘Give me two bob then. I’ll prescribe whatever you like.’

Kenny held his tongue.

‘I’m serious Jack. You look exhausted.’ Roth eyed him. ‘There’s no shame. I’ve seen every ailment under this infernal sun.’

‘I’m all right.’

Shortly after, Roth blurted out: ‘My God, you haven’t got the girl in trouble have you?’

‘What?’

‘Is she in the family way?’

Kenny flinched as if struck this time and once again Sydney skittered sideways down the track. ‘Jesus Christ and all the saints! No.’

They didn’t say a word for the next two hours, although Roth eventually started humming.

Kenny ordered a stop for lunch beside a gully where there was a waterhole and the trees were big enough to shade six men and eleven horses.

The troopers kept wide of him, sensing his fury, as he unpacked the saddlebag and hobbled his horses. How could Roth possibly have guessed at any relationship between himself and Hope? The man must be goading him. He couldn’t possibly know.

Though Roth had earlier removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, now without the air passing over him he began to redden and the flies came to lap at the sweat on the hair of his arms.

Kenny felt some satisfaction from Roth’s discomfort, but the doctor refused to complain. He simply stood against the big rough-barked tree and fanned himself with his hat.

Lunch was arranged with a practised efficiency and a luncheon-meat sandwich was thrust into Roth’s hand, and a tin cup of coffee placed at his feet. The troopers squatted down to eat and Kenny sat with them. Roth came over and squatted beside him.

‘I never knew the Native Police ate so well on patrol. Is this part of the regulation rations?’ asked Roth.

‘No.’

‘What do they pay you?’

‘Hardly enough to eat at all.’

Kenny considered the Protector. Roth was a little older, perhaps. They were both new chums to Cooktown. He assumed Roth was unmarried. Now he reflected again on their odd opposition: they’d both been employed to deal with the Aboriginal question; Roth to protect the moribund Aborigines from the other races, and Kenny to protect the other races, especially the whites, from the stubborn Aborigines who refused to face facts.

Still, the Protector and the Constable bore a passing resemblance, although if Kenny had to describe Roth officially, say as a wanted felon, he’d put him down as stout build, sunburnt complexion, brown hair, brown moustache, large black hat, a swaggering gait—a bookmaker at pony races. The last was more of an
impression, he supposed, of Roth’s type and likely known associates.

‘Who’s the small cove, on your far right?’ said Roth, breaking Kenny’s train of thought.

‘Euro.’

‘I knew I recognised him. Euro. He was with Sergeant Whiteford’s patrol when we went up to the Musgrave last year.’ Roth seemed to have cooled.

Kenny beckoned Euro. ‘
Dauun ngantanum
Dr Roth
nila ngantanum galmba nami
,’ Kenny told Euro. ‘
Nulu koko ngantanum manu
.’

Roth didn’t look at all impressed, but he said, ‘Is the boy Koko-yimidir? I thought he came from the Normanby?’

‘He is Koko-warra but understands Koko-yimidir better than English.’

Roth nodded. ‘Ask him,’ he said, ‘if he could teach me some words.’

Later, as they rode through the afternoon, Dr Roth said, ‘What do you make of your boys?’

It was hard for Jack Kenny to make anything of them at that moment. All were obscured. High grass bent over the track. The horses liked it because it kept the flies away, but it also hid holes full of fine powder that erupted underfoot. The dust crept into the saddlebags and contaminated everything, and it was now a permanent cloud that followed them across the countryside.

‘They’re good men,’ said Kenny.

‘Are they better than a white man? For the job they do? Tracking and such.’

Kenny looked at Roth, who’d pulled the brim of his hat down over his face, so that he was as inscrutable as the troopers at that moment.

‘Most white men wouldn’t do this job.’

‘You do this job,’ said Roth.

Kenny had no answer. He liked horses, he liked the bush, and he needed to eat. He suspected that that wasn’t the answer Roth was looking for.

‘Do you like action?’ the Protector persisted.

‘Action?’

‘The physical challenge of pursuing a man and capturing him. The chase? The hunt?’

It dawned on Kenny what Roth was asking. ‘You think I’m off to disperse the blacks at Cape Melville!’

The dust swirled. Roth said, ‘Cooper was evasive about the purpose of this patrol. And you are well armed.’

‘You don’t seem to appreciate the danger, Dr Roth!’

Roth’s pony snorted. The horses’ hooves were muffled by the road’s thick dust, and their effort was expressed by the creaking of saddles.

‘Do you have a weapon?’ asked Kenny.

‘Of course not.’

Kenny drew his packhorse close and without stopping reached behind a pack and produced a shotgun, holding it up by the barrel. It was a fat, short
and evil-looking weapon. From the look on Roth’s face, it might have reminded him of the death adder that had a few months earlier killed his mule.

Kenny said, ‘Take it.’

‘Why?’

‘Take the shotgun. Just above my hand,’ said Kenny. ‘Careful there.’

‘You’re pulling my leg,’ said Roth, reluctantly taking the thing.

‘You can give this to Schwarz when you get to Cape Bedford.’

‘Did the reverend ask for a shotgun?’

‘He did not.’

‘Then why do you believe he wants one?’

Kenny said, ‘It’s Schwarz’s own shotgun. He lent it to me when I was last up this way. For snakes around the house. But my sister refuses to use it.’

At that moment a gunshot cracked up ahead and Kenny drew his revolver, telling Roth, ‘It’s loaded,’ and leaving him in a cloud of dust.

When Kenny reached the troopers, they were off the track and looking at something in the grass. Corporal Bruce dismounted.

Roth galloped up holding the shotgun upside down. Bruce raised a large and bloodied bird from the grass.

‘Dinner,’ said Kenny.