The Devil's Eye (7 page)

A crew member brought a vast bowl of punch onto the deck and placed it near them.

‘Who won the cricket?’ asked Harold.

‘What match?’

‘Any match.’

‘What happened to Bowden’s man?’ Maggie interrupted. ‘The pearl buyer and his pearl?’

‘Oh,’ said Fuhrman. ‘I haven’t seen him for more than a week.’

In a landscape of shattered rocks and brittle vegetation Constable Jack Kenny ordered the patrol to stop and make camp. He had dismounted and was climbing a rocky outcrop when Dr Roth rode up.

‘Can’t you find a more comfortable piece of real estate?’

‘We can defend this,’ said Kenny standing at the top of the pile.

Roth looked around. ‘Why?’

Kenny climbed down into the spiny grass and had the troopers dismount. Roth, still holding the shotgun, appeared to be examining the ground for snakes.

The troopers hobbled their horses. Corporal Bruce and Euro searched the area for signs of natives, Pompey prepared a fire and Davey unpacked the tents.

‘It’s always interesting on a Native Police patrol,’ said Roth, inspecting the bloody carcass of the bird hanging
in a swarm of flies from Pompey’s saddle. ‘Was this bird shot with an exploding bullet?’ The bird’s wing and half its back had been torn away.

Kenny hobbled his horses, and they stood companionably side by side. The late afternoon shadows cut the landscape to pieces.

‘And what do you find interesting about this patrol?’ asked Kenny.

‘It’s a chance to learn something new.’

‘Like a spear in the back.’

‘That would be interesting. As long as it wasn’t my back.’ The Protector of Aboriginals nodded to himself. ‘In fact, a spear in someone’s back would give me the chance to practise medicine and ethnography at the same time. I could try to repair the man who was speared and I’d also have a spear for my collection.’

‘And if you could stop me from shooting the Myall who speared him, you could be practising at being a Protector as well.’

Roth turned in surprise. ‘Right you are, Constable.’

Kenny walked away to supervise his troopers.

‘Which one’s that fellow again, the one lighting the fire?’ said Roth, following. ‘Looks nervous.’

‘Pompey. He’s from Mackay. Speared in the ribs at the Lynd Junction a year or so ago.’

Pompey moved gracelessly and as if in pain. He kept one eye on the lengthening shadows.

‘That’s Davey putting up the troopers’ tent,’ continued Kenny. ‘Shy. Speaks a language I’ve never
heard and I’ve no idea where he comes from. He won’t say or maybe he doesn’t know himself.’

Bruce and Euro returned then from the long grass. Bruce reported no sign of any wild blacks, no recent tracks, but many snakes. To prove it he held up a sleek copper-coloured serpent, still writhing, its cracked head dripping blood on the gravel. Roth stepped forward to take a closer look and Kenny told them to throw the thing away if they weren’t going to eat it.

Kenny said to Roth, ‘Corporal Bruce is from Normanton. And you know as much about Euro as I do.’

Euro was from the Normanby River, the Bakanambia group, and a Koko-warra man. He knew most of the languages between Cooktown and Cape Melville, especially Koko-yimidir and he was therefore transferred from the Musgrave Camp to the Eight Mile where he could be of more use.

‘The other trackers think Euro’s a sorcerer,’ said Roth.

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘No need to.’

All the troopers, for all their attention to their duties, seemed apprehensive.

The bird was duly roasted, and placed on a bark plate in front of Roth. The troopers ate their tinned beef by the firelight. Euro stood guard, staring out into the night.

‘If you’re going to give them guns, you should teach your troopers how to shoot,’ said Roth, picking up a leg.

Kenny was exhausted. He didn’t want to think about Hope; he didn’t want a conversation with Roth. He managed to say, ‘One shot killed the turkey.’

‘Yes, but it’s full of bullet fragments and sour flesh. The drumsticks are the only parts not blown to pieces.’

When they’d finished, the troopers were given tobacco and sat smoking on the far side of the fire. Roth took his ease against his saddle.

‘You don’t really believe, Jack, that we could be attacked?’

There’d been reports of Aborigines sticking up travellers on this road for tobacco and flour. Two had been identified as the men who’d murdered Donald McKenzie, and one apparently had a gun.

‘Perhaps we should be giving them
more
tobacco and flour,’ said Roth. ‘If that’s all they want.’

‘I thought that was your job.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘What exactly is your job, Dr Roth?’

‘Apparently to annoy Native Police officers.’ Roth took out his flask. ‘I also, in my spare time, take the poor wretched blacks with syphilis out of town and incarcerate them at your lock hospital until they die or get better. Surely you’ve noticed. I issue work permits. Everyone ignores them. I visit the missions which are doing a good job of accelerating the decline of the people they try to
save. Schwarz’s is the notable exception, and I’m hoping he’ll tell me his trick. I write reports by the score so that Brisbane can ignore them. I record the languages of dying tribes that no one will ever bother to read. I sometimes think that I am not so much a Protector as an observer of the slow annihilation of a race.’

Roth offered his flask to Kenny, who shook his head and said, ‘Do you want me to feel sorry for
you
or the blacks?’

Roth smirked and took a swig. ‘What’s your opinion, Constable? Of the Aboriginal question.’

Kenny said, ‘I don’t have opinions.’

Roth laughed aloud this time. ‘Your observations, then. What works best?’

‘Nothing.’

Roth didn’t reply, but stared into the fire. Then he stood, walked to the edge of the light and brought back a big stick.

By the firelight, in front of Kenny, he drew what seemed to be the spire of a cathedral in the dust.

‘Here’s Cape York,’ he said. ‘Here’s where we are.’ He jabbed the stick halfway down the right-hand side. Above the hole he’d made he took a bite out of the spire. Corporal Bruce had stood up and walked over.

‘Princess Charlotte Bay,’ Roth said.

Bruce looked from the dust drawing to the dark scrub around him.

Roth continued. ‘Here’s the Saltwater River,’ drawing a line running from the west to the bite, ‘and
the cape telegraph line,’ a straight line running down the middle, top to bottom. He scratched the dust inside the triangle.

‘And this,’ he said, ‘is the Eighteen Mile Camp, in the middle here, where many of the tribes meet. And the Musgrave Police Camp’s right here,’ the stick making a little crater along the bottom side.

He stood back and looked at Kenny, who said, ‘So?’

‘I’m glad you asked. Imagine a central reserve here. One big area for the blacks. You could have your patrols either side of it, if you like, but it’s a more efficient way of keeping an eye on things, don’t you think? No more stick-ups. Everyone knows where they stand. Anyone silly enough to venture into the reserve without permission gets what they deserve.’

Kenny said, ‘That’s Sergeant Whiteford’s territory. He’d have something to say about that.’

‘He did,’ said Roth. ‘He suggested it.’

Kenny stared at the ground. Grand ideas in the dust. He’d seen them before.

It was a big slab of land, but it would be hard to contain, what, a thousand blacks?

‘Well of course you couldn’t contain them, but you could encourage them to stay by having the Eighteen Mile Camp remain the central point for distributing blankets, tobacco, flour, the occasional bullock.’

‘The occasional bullock? For one thousand people?’

‘There are swamps and lagoons all over here. Plenty of fish and game. It may cost a little more but think of
the savings in human misery alone. It would stop the fishermen and the miners interfering with the women, and the trouble that provokes.’ Roth lowered his voice. ‘You more than anyone else, Jack, must know that there are already hundreds of half-castes in this area? Hundreds! What’s to be done with them?’

‘So separate the blacks completely?’

Roth nodded. ‘Let them live in their own country. With their own families. What’s best for them is best for us. In the long run.’

Something scuttled out of the darkness towards the fire. Kenny grabbed Roth’s stick and in a flash brought it down on the scorpion. He flicked it into the fire before Roth could examine it.

The movement was enough for the other troopers to be on their feet with their guns pointing into the dark.

Kenny crawled into his tent. Roth had said he preferred to sleep beneath the stars, despite the scorpions, and Kenny was too tired to argue. There was little advantage anyway in a tent on a night like this. The insects came and went at will, though the canvas did give some protection against things that crawled. On the previous patrol Kenny had shot a spider. He thought he should warn Roth about the spiders. He thought of spiders and Roth to keep Hope out of his head, and he eventually fell asleep.

During the night the air grew heavy and, getting up to check the horses, Kenny found that a mist as warm as steam had settled over the camp. Euro was on duty, standing on one leg, motionless, with his back to the dying coals, his rifle across his shoulders and both hands hanging over it native style.

Beside the fire Roth in his undershirt was snoring like a pig.

When Kenny returned, Euro was in the same spot. But both legs were planted on the ground.

Euro held the rifle at his side with the barrel pointing outwards, into the night.

Kenny kept walking to his tent and took his revolver from its holster, returning to stand beside Euro, who still hadn’t said a word.

Euro had the rifle up to his shoulder now, and was looking down the barrel. Kenny raised his revolver and pointed it in the same direction.

‘Come up behind you,’ said Euro.

‘How many?’

Euro’s head flinched aside as something black flew between them, past Kenny’s neck. Kenny fired. There was a howl and Euro fired, the crack of the Martini-Henry making Kenny flinch this time.

The other troopers were instantly at their side, fumbling with their trousers and rifles.

‘Shoot,’ yelled Kenny. Pompey managed to send another bullet into the night, before Euro said, ‘Gone now.’

‘Stop shooting.’

Kenny followed Euro forward into the dark mist, his revolver held out in front of him, pushing aside the sharp dripping blades of grass.

He looked around, but neither he nor Euro could see the area well enough.

They crept back and found the troopers were all standing now with their backs to the fire and their guns pointed outwards.

Walter Roth had the shotgun pointed at Kenny’s chest.

‘I thought you said it was loaded,’ said Roth.

Beside Roth the spear lay on the ground, having gouged a furrow near his head.

‘You have your spear, Dr Roth,’ said Kenny. ‘Looks like one of your wishes has come true.’

The Thursday Island Government Resident walked down to the port where the lugger
North Wales
was at the end of the jetty, waiting for a breeze.

Stepping out between the tram tracks over the blue-green water gave John Douglas the illusion, at least, that the air was cooler.

He picked his way with his walking stick, the swirling current and flashes of fish visible through the cracks at his feet.

Beach had knocked at dawn and handed him the telegram. He’d read it on the verandah and wondered aloud how to get another message to Captain Porter.

‘Urgent?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Telegram,’ said Beach.

‘Is there a telegraph office at Port Stewart?’

‘Oh no. Coen is the closest. I see what you mean. I’d suggest then putting a letter on the next steamer south. It can drop it off at the Channel Rocks lightships. Is
Captain Porter actually in Bathurst Bay, I wonder? Some of the fleets are in the Claremonts.’

‘Bathurst Bay, I understand,’ said Douglas, sure that Beach knew exactly where the
Crest of the Wave
was.

‘The next steamer south is the
Duke of Norfolk.
Due Saturday.’

‘Nothing earlier?’

‘Afraid not. There’s a lugger, the
North Wales
, of course. She’s heading to the south, to Cooktown. In fact,’ said Beach, who suddenly turned and pointed down to the port, ‘that’s the
North Wales
down there. That lugger at the end of the wharf.’

Douglas looked. ‘Who does she belong to?’

‘She’s being sold to William Hamilton, who’s taking her across to Samurai with a crew of Manilamen. Supposed to have left for Cooktown a week ago.’

‘Mr Hamilton wouldn’t be happy about the delay.’

‘Furious,’ said Beach with a smile, ‘I suspect. You might need to hurry, though. She’ll be gone on the hint of a breeze.’

As Douglas stepped along the wharf, he passed a small Japanese man carrying a tower of empty wooden crates on his back. The man had his head down and took small quick steps, never making a noise, probably not seeing the Resident, unlikely in any case to speak. The balancing feat belonged in a circus, thought Douglas, turning to watch him shuffle towards the shore.

There was no doubt the Japanese were taking over the place. Every week scores arrived by steamer sponsored by some business or other. Too industrious, he thought. They made money diving and then had the hide to lease their own luggers, even to build them, and bring their countrymen in as crews.

If anyone wanted to test the arguments for and against a White Australia, he had only to come to Thursday Island. The white pearling masters raged against government interference in their industry and demanded unfettered access to cheap coloured labour, but then demanded the government do something to stop the infernal aliens taking over the industry. This was the very nub of the alien difficulty. Douglas often felt that he was governing children.

His thoughts ran along in this direction until he found himself beside the tops of two masts, the lugger below the level of the wharf, the tide still ebbing.

He peered over the side, down onto the deck where the last crates were being stowed.

‘Captain Powell?’

A young man, clean shaven with his arms folded, looked up and raised a hand to shade his eyes. Two shirtless brown men were loading the hold; others were already tending ropes.

‘Is that Mr Douglas?’

‘You are preparing to leave, I see.’

‘Presently, your Honour.’ William Powell looked
uncomfortable, as if Douglas might have come personally to arrest him.

‘I’m told you’ll pass through Bathurst Bay.’

‘Near enough.’

‘I wonder if you would be so kind as to take a letter with you for the pearling fleet that’s anchored there?’

Powell seemed to brighten. ‘Of course, of course. Do you want to come aboard?’

But getting aboard was going to be difficult. Douglas surveyed the ladder down to the deck and decided not to attempt it.

He said, ‘I have a letter for Captain Porter on the
Crest of the Wave
.’ He took the envelope from his pocket and held it up. ‘To be delivered into his hands only.’

‘Right.’

‘There’s ten shillings for your trouble.’

Powell climbed the ladder and stood beside Douglas. ‘Won’t be any trouble, Mr Douglas.’ Douglas clumsily held out the ten-shilling note, but Powell shook his head. It was an extravagant amount of money for delivering a letter. Sea captains were notoriously generous and easily offended and Douglas felt he might embarrass the man if he kept insisting, so he put the banknote away and put the letter into the captain’s hand.

Powell nodded and said, ‘I have other letters from Mr James Clark as well. No trouble.’

They stood awkwardly, nodding at each other. Douglas asked, ‘I don’t suppose you happen to know a man called Thomas? An Indian fellow?’

Powell shook his head.

‘What about a Kanaka named Joe Harry?’

‘Joe Harry? Yes. Clark’s fleet. He’s with the
Crest of the Wave
, isn’t he?’

‘Is he?’ Douglas twisted his cane.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it. What’s happened?’ said Porter.

Douglas tugged his beard for a moment, wondering about the implications.

‘I’ve had a telegram this morning from the Cooktown police. It’s about two boys apparently speared by blacks down at Cape Melville. The one called Thomas is in hospital. Thomas has apparently recovered enough to tell them that the other fellow is Joe Harry.’

‘Oh.’

‘Dead.’

‘I see.’

Having said it aloud, and seeing Powell’s cool reaction to the news, he wondered how much he should be worrying. No one else seemed surprised.

‘Well,’ said Powell. ‘That’s a shame. I’ll get this note to Porter as soon as I can.’

‘Thank you,’ and Douglas made a small bow before saying, as if by the way, ‘Do you know my daughter? Maggie?’

Powell put his head to one side like a curious puppy, but said he did, of course. Captain Porter’s charming wife.

‘My daughter,’ repeated Douglas. ‘She’s on the
Crest of the Wave.
’

Powell raised his eyebrows and mouthed, oh.

‘A private letter,’ he said, producing another envelope. He put it into Powell’s hands.

‘I understand,’ said Powell.

Douglas felt grateful.

‘Perhaps you might pass the news on to any of the other captains, of course. About the spearing. If you hear anything, perhaps you can send a telegram from Cooktown when you get there,’ and taking out the ten-shilling note again he held it out to Powell, who pocketed it and nodded, acknowledging that this was now a business matter.

John Douglas walked slowly back down the wharf. As he stepped ashore and onto Victoria-parade a breeze rustled the palms. When he looked back, the
North Wales
had raised her mainsail and was pulling out into the shipping channel.