The Secret Fate of Mary Watson (21 page)

3RD JULY 1880

An afternoon in Gehenna. Stripped, hacked and portioned. A hot red smell in my nose. Grease under my fingernails.

The blade flashes in Porter’s hand as he bends over the dead goat, holding one of its horns. He flenses the skin from the body in economical tearing motions, aided by the wedge of the knife, until there is just a ribbed bag of shadowy organs, rivers of crimson veins just under the surface.

The intestines stream into the dirt when he runs the blade up from pelvis to rib, the muscle in his thin arm flexing like a ball squeezed then released. The black boys know the routine in a way that I don’t. They run to grab as much as they can of the slippery mess and then stand back waiting for the rest.

Porter turns the carcass over, makes an incision to expose the kidneys, cuts the ties that hold them like coin purses to a belt, then
flicks them towards Charley and Darby. I step back to avoid a splash of blood, and hold my nose.

‘Thanks, boss.’ Charley’s still expectant.

‘Shoo now,’ Porter says.

The boys move to a spot three feet away and look hungry there, instead.

The Kanakas have slipped silently into the background.

Porter glances up at me, his forehead shining. His fingers are dripping. There’s a strange, almost indifferent lust in his eyes.

‘You have to give them all some,’ he tells me. ‘It’s good policy to keep the workers happy.’

I motion with my head to the Islander men. They move closer. Porter portions the meat and I hand out the pieces, each with its garnish of flies. Charley leers at the collapsed purple pouches of lungs in the cavity.

‘All right, take them, you little guts,’ Porter says with a grin, deftly cutting the organs free and tossing them over. ‘One day I swear you’ll eat so much you’ll explode.’

Back in the cookhouse, Ah Sam and I begin our preparations. Even in winter, fresh meat won’t last longer than two days. From under the tub, he drags out a small tin safe with a flyproof insert of wire netting. We work as a team. I cut slits into the surface of each portion. He massages salt thickly into each cut, then places the pieces on a wooden slatted rack. He sets a dish beneath it so the brine can drain away.

‘What now?’ I ask, washing my hands in a few inches of brackish water.

He points to the salt pig. ‘Tomorrow more salt.’ He straightens up. Presses a fist into the base of his spine. ‘Next day, more salt. Three days altogether. Then store in tub.’

He helps me chop up some of the fresh meat that’s left for stew. The corn and cabbage I collected from Ah Leung go into the pot. Soon, a savoury steam rises up. Ah Sam asks if I want potato. I tell him the ones in the house have sprouted and are green all the way through when cut. I’ll give them back to Ah Leung for planting.

‘Just boil some more water for rice,’ I say.

He raises an eyebrow, but obeys.

I wonder what’s so controversial about rice. It’s not long before I find out.

The sun’s gone down, bloody as the goat. It’s dinnertime. Bob greets his plate of food with a scowl and that old argumentative glint in his tight eye. He pokes the rice with his fork.

‘I’m not going to eat that muck. I’ve not sunk so low.’

Porter’s watchful, his eyes moving from Bob to me. He forks in a mouthful of stew and chews slowly. Percy looks up with a spark in his gaze, as though sensing the night’s entertainment’s about to unfold.

I count to ten in my head, then another ten.

I listen to the bristles of wind outside, painting the sky in wide brush strokes. I try to conjure up some oriental calm.

‘The potatoes are green,’ I say. ‘And rice is the only dry food the insects leave alone. Would you rather have a mouthful of creepy-crawlies?’

Bob raises the eyebrow on the sinister side of his face. ‘Aye.’ He takes a swallow of rum from his pannikin. ‘So long as they’re not Chinese creepy-crawlies.’

‘You could always cook your own dinner, Watson,’ Percy says pleasantly.

‘And ye could mind the shit coming out of yer gob.’

A knot in my stomach tightens. Porter puts a hand on Bob’s arm. Bob shakes him off.

Carrie’s already put down her fork, her eyes small, like a wary animal’s.

Percy takes a mouthful of rice, exaggerates his pleasure in its chewing. ‘Delicious, Mary. I always think rice adds an indefinable something to any meal.’

And then the whole sorry carnival cranks up its routine.

‘Come outside and fight like a man. Or don’t ye have the mettle to back up the mouth.’

‘I’m a lover, not a fighter, Watson. Unlike you with those trollops at Charley’s.’

Bob lunges over the table. Plates, food and cups go flying. Percy lands a punch.

I’ve had enough. I upend the table and, while I’m at it, kick over the scraps bucket. Drag my arm along one of the shelves so that fishing gear, bottles of buttons, canisters of food go flying. I doubt they even notice.

‘Kill each other. See if I care. I’m not staying around to watch this. Come on, Carrie.’

The door bangs against its frame. I have no firm plan but to head for the moon in the distance. I can hear Porter calling my name from the doorway, but I don’t turn. Behind us, there are fading expletives and the fleshy whack of knuckles.

‘Where are we going?’ Carrie asks. ‘I’m cold. I haven’t got my shawl.’

I slow down enough for her to catch up and put my arm around her. ‘We’ll sit on the beach for a while until they cool off.’

‘But it’s so dark. It’s not safe.’

The molten-rush to my head has subsided. The moon’s a great, new-minted sovereign in the black silk money-bag of the sky. Its light is eerie, a cold, colourless pall, but it does make everything from here to the swamp visible.

‘Nothing can sneak up on us,’ I say.

We sit on the sand with our skirts folded beneath us. The ocean whispers. That same moon that can seem so anaemic and out of place on land is in its element over the water: a silver gown laid over a rumpled bed.

‘I’m sorry, Carrie. It’s a rough life for a young girl.’

‘You’re a young girl too,’ she says.

I turn to see a deep-yellow light bobbing towards us from the direction of the house. It could be any of the men. I watch, but don’t stand.

Porter’s face, underlit by the lantern, looks old, sagging over its support of bones.

‘Are you coming back?’ he asks.

Neither of us moves, so he sits down next to Carrie and stares out to sea. White foam creeps up the damp sand, then leaves ribbon trails as it retreats over the pock of pipis, the small quiver of gleaming stones.

‘Have you noticed how the ocean smells salty blue by day? But at night it’s more a weedy indigo?’ I don’t know why I’ve said it.

‘Colours don’t smell.’ He smiles in the dark. ‘But I somehow know what you mean. Are you coming back?’ Again, that patient tone.

‘Is the fight over?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You mustn’t get upset about those two. They’ve been at each other from the beginning: like bucks sparring.’

‘They’re not young bucks and they should know better.’

‘Yes, they should.’

We sit in silence for a bit longer. Carrie rests her head on my shoulder. I absently stroke her hair.

‘Have you always been the peacemaker, Porter?’

He shrugs, a bit tightly, as though I’ve accused him of being boring.

‘You’re a kind man. This business, this island … it doesn’t seem the place for you.’

He hesitates before speaking. ‘Trouble is, I don’t know anything else but slug fishing. And the longer a man does work like this, the more time he spends alone, the more he’s set in his ways. But … it gets pretty lonely after a while.’ He rubs his mouth. ‘I suppose a man, even if he managed to get a girl, wouldn’t quite know how to act.’

‘Like Bob?’ Carrie says. I’ve almost forgotten she’s there. ‘He’s not very good with Mary, is he?’

‘No, not very.’

The words are spoken easily enough, but I sense resentment there too. Not fresh, but old. A burned-on crust. What would he envy Bob for? His business? His ability to find a wife? Something that happened a long time ago that I have no knowledge of?

‘She doesn’t love him, you know,’ Carrie says. ‘Maybe that’s why Bob is so angry all the time.’

‘Carrie. Hush.’

‘Tell you that, did she?’ Porter pulls his knees a little closer up to his chest.

‘No … I just know.’

‘Carrie a romantic,’ I say dryly.

‘There are worse things to be.’

Carrie finishes the conversation off for all of us. ‘It’s only fair, though. Bob doesn’t love her either.’

By ten o’clock, the two men, at least temporarily, have settled their differences. Carrie’s asleep. Porter and Percy have gone to their huts for the night. It’s just Bob and me. It’s a shock to hear him say in an ordinary voice, ‘Today would have been my poor mother’s birthday.’ He gingerly reaches for what will soon be a black eye.

I pull a sock over a smooth knucklebone. Pick up a darning needle. ‘Oh?’ I draw the needle through, readjust the material. After half an hour’s cleaning up the mess in the house, I’m not sympathetic.

He’s sitting in a partial patch of darkness, outside the civilised circle of lantern light. I can hear the wet-fish suck on his pipe, the slow click as the medicinal balls roll into the past. His movements look like shadow puppets on a wall.

‘Aye, she was a wonderful mother,’ he says. ‘But addled in the head.’

I think back to the letter I found in his box:
Things would have been different if Mother was a normal woman.

‘She killed my father, did ye know?’

I count a slow six seconds. Listen to the insomniac sea turning over in its bed. Another suck on the pipe. Another brooding silence. The shift of stones close to the house. A lizard?

The balls rotate a half-click. Bob’s fingers in the dark work away like industrious worms, independent of his mind, or so he thinks. Truth is, I’m starting to read his moods by their rhythm. They tell me now it’s safe to ask a question.

‘Killed him? How?’

‘Rat poison. She served it up one night on his beef.’

‘Did she mistake it for mustard?’

But he’s not interested in discussing the details. ‘Just so ye know: I’m not addled in the head like her.’

I bring the cotton thread up to my teeth and bite through it. ‘Of all the things I think you are, Bob, mad is not one of them.’

It occurs to me I should say something more. He’s holding out an olive branch of sorts. And it does make my life easier when he’s in a reasonable mood.

‘You know, I think it might be Australia that leaves the lid off the rat poison.’

He looks up, head cocked quizzically. ‘What nonsense is that?’

‘Well, it’s so big, isn’t it? So empty. So full of that lonely blue light, with dry green beneath it.’ As I speak, I feel a sudden pang for Truro. For everything writ small and delicate. The peach-pink hollyhocks that line the lanes, turning their faces like rapturous parishioners towards the church on the hill. ‘It’s a wonder more of us don’t lose our minds.’

He looks at me flatly. ‘One problem with that. My mother, the rat poison — it happened in Aberdeen.’

6TH JULY 1880

It’s ten in the morning. Bob was off at dawn to take the slugs to Cooktown in
Isabella
. He’s promised to be back in a few days, or even tomorrow, with a new broom, newspapers, mail and fresh oranges. Carrie’s collecting shells down on the beach. Porter has gone line-fishing on the north side of the bay. Percy and I are discussing the merits of a certain brass lamp he has set up on the small table between us. The door is open so that I can see or hear anyone approach.

He holds the lamp up by its handle for me to peer through the overlapping triangles of glass.

‘It’s a simple set-up. The fewer moving parts the better with these things. Basically, what you have here is a kerosene-lit candle in a protective case. You control the flame with this wheel.’

His long fingers turn the gauge one way and then the other. The flame obediently flares and subsides.

‘But surely that’s not enough light? And how do I direct it?’

The comma of his smile twitches. ‘Meet the latest in nautical gadgetry: the polygon reflector.’ He tips what I thought was a fixed glass case up and down and then sideways. It makes the flame a distorted smear. ‘You can only really see how it works at night. It’s the same principle as a lighthouse. The panels concentrate the light according to which way they’re turned, like a segmented eye.’

‘How do I stop the candle going out in the wind?’

He lifts a dark upturned box off the floor. ‘It’s shielded. The flame won’t blow out. Still, don’t remove this until you’re in position or there’s a danger dear husband will see the light. Neither do you want another boat caught in its crosslight. The beauty of the reflector is that you can direct the light with accuracy. Look here,’ he touchs a strip of metal atop the lamp with his index finger, ‘this is the sight, just like on a rifle. You wait for the signal from your contact, and aim at it like you’re about to shoot. You’ll need to keep it very steady. The feet,’ he points to four threaded bars in the wooden base, ‘are adjustable. You should be able to make it stable on any fairly hard surface, even a rough one. Any questions?’

‘Only a few that might make me sound stupid.’

‘It’s better to sound stupid now than to
be
stupid on top of that hill,’ he says.

I look at the signalling lantern again. ‘I wonder why the process needs to be so complicated. I understand that the purpose of the signalling is to make sure the coast is clear of French boats so that Roberts’s handover of guns can proceed.’

‘Yes.’

‘So the first boat will flash a message to me on Cook’s Look,
and then I will relay it to you when you’re out fishing. Then you’ll signal another boat further up the coast.’

‘You don’t sound stupid yet.’

‘Why is the triangle necessary? Why can’t the signalling boat send his message directly to you?’

‘You don’t come from a nautical background, do you?’

I shake my head. His eyes pass over the things on the table between us. He picks up a ball of twine and holds it up.

‘The world is round. So is the ocean.’ He positions one finger either side of centre of the ball so that there is a swelling between them. ‘Imagine my fingers are two boats and this twine is the ocean. See the bulge that prevents them seeing each other? The distance vessels can signal at sea is limited by the ocean’s curve. The higher you are, of course, the further you can see. From Cook’s Look you can signal to both of us.’

‘I see. And the boat you intend to signal further up the coast is close enough not to need another high point like Cook’s Look.’

‘Correct. Any more questions?’

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘Fine.’ He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a narrow bundle wrapped in a rag. He unwinds it, revealing a silver-plated compass — brand new by the looks — three pencils, a folded sheet of paper and a box of matches. ‘The ship you’ll be signalling to will have no trouble finding Cook’s Look, but you won’t know where to look for her. I’ll give you the correct direction to search beforehand; that’s what the compass is for. The pencils and paper are for recording your messages. Keep them here.’ He rewraps the bundle and slips it under a metal clamp screwed to the lamp’s wooden base.

He pushes a spring-loaded lever on the side of the lamp several times; it raises and lowers a black metal square over the glass front. ‘This is the shutter. Push it down and you’re signalling. Let it go and the beam is cut off.’

He illustrates the effect by shining the light on the palm of his hand. It gives off a much brighter glow than I’d imagined.

Percy continues on about how to exchange passwords with the contact, and with him when he’s positioned at his co-ordinates. How each message will need to be repeated; how to ask for a message to be repeated if there’s any confusion about what was sent; how to confirm that a message has been received. It’s complicated but it all makes sense. When he asks me to repeat what I’ve been told, I do so without hesitation.

When he’s finally satisfied that I understand, Percy reduces the flame until it disappears. The lamp is still warm; he lowers the wooden cover over it and snaps shut the catches.

‘That’s all there is to it. Your contact will signal for ten seconds once every thirty seconds to help you keep sighted on his position. Get some practice covering and uncovering the light smoothly. Don’t make a mistake or we’ll both be sunk.’

‘I can’t keep it in the house,’ I say.

‘Of course not. It’ll be in my hut, under a pile of clothes in the southeast corner. On my shelf you’ll find a bottle of kerosene, more matches in a waterproof box, extra pencils and paper. Use them as you need them.’

We both hear Carrie whistling, crunching over the gravel towards the door. Percy calmly sweeps the lantern and case under the table, covering it with a stack of hessian bags. By the time she walks in, he has his pack of cards out of his pocket and is introducing me to the finer points of whist.

She puts her hat down on a box in the corner.

‘Find any shells?’ Percy’s getting to his feet.

‘No. But there’s a schooner dropped anchor in the bay. I saw three men in a rowboat heading for shore.’ She claps her hands. ‘Company for a change, instead of lizards and rancid old slugs.’

‘I’d better get a welcoming party together then.’ Percy picks up the bundle of hessian bags and steps towards the door. ‘I’m glad you like the design of the new brooding cage for the chickens,’ he says to me. ‘Carrie, why don’t you find Ah Sam: get him to put the water on and make tea for our visitors?’

‘But my hair! I need to do something with it. And I have my oldest dress on.’ She grabs her hat again, but not before peering in the mirror on the shelf for half a minute first.

Percy winks at me on the way out.

‘The lady of the island, Mrs Watson. Her sister, Carrie.’

Percy’s performing the introductions. There seems far too little space in the poky house for the three visitors: Captain Laymond, goutish, middle-aged, with a chiselled goatee; and two of his crewmen, short, slight, caps in hand. Carrie looks supremely disappointed in what the sea has washed up. The darker-skinned of the two crewmen, on the other hand, is staring at her as if a mermaid has materialised.

Carrie murmurs something about going for a walk, leaving the four men and myself. Ah Sam busies in, dumps the teapot on the table and just as quickly leaves. I doubt we’ll see anything of Ah Leung. These are strangers who might very well have seen the “Wanted” poster.

‘Please, Captain, take a seat. I apologise for our rustic circumstances.’

What I’d thought serviceable furniture — crates for seats, a rickety table with saucers of water under the legs to keep ants from the food — all of a sudden seems embarrassingly primitive.

‘This is a palace compared to life on board, Mrs Watson.’

He smiles vacantly, then turns to Percy to discuss business. He’s headed for New Guinea, it seems, delivering medicine and shovels to the new goldfields. Sunlight shines through the narrow shutters in prison bars, dazzling the dust motes into somersaults and falling in fingerlengths on the table. The crewmen guzzle my tea and cake. The swarthy one keeps glancing out the open door, obviously hoping for another glimpse of Carrie.

‘More gingerbread?’

I play the dutiful hostess towards Laymond, smile fixed in place, wondering if he carries a note from Captain Roberts. I even open my mouth to ask at one point, but Percy, reading my mind, looks across the table and says ‘no’ with his eyes. All three men take an extra piece of cake. No one seems to notice the extra crunch of weevils.

Twenty minutes later, the teapot is empty, the last gingerbread crumbs have been fingered up, the weather and shipping news has petered out. Carrie returns just as they stand to leave.

The captain’s drained of small talk. ‘I’m sorry I missed your good husband, Mrs Watson. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve a note from a ladyfriend of yours, passed to Captain Roberts out of Townsville and subsequently to me when he found I was travelling north.’ He reaches into his trouser pocket and offers me an envelope which once was white.

Carrie’s eyes brighten. ‘Who is it, Mary? And why didn’t she just send it to Cooktown?’

She tries to intercept it with her busy fingers, but I get there first.

‘It’s probably one of my chums from Brisbane who knows that Captain Roberts and I were acquainted during my time in Cooktown. She may have seen him and taken the opportunity to pass a letter on.’ I fold it neatly and I place it in the pocket of my apron. ‘A special treat for after dinner.’

‘Nothing for me, Captain Laymond?’ Carrie asks hopefully.

‘Alas no, miss.’

The crewman who is so transfixed by her makes a small noise in his throat, as though he would happily give her no end of things and a letter would be the least of them.

Porter wanders in with his fishing rod and a clanking bucket full of bream. The scaly-silver smell fills the small space. He wipes his hand on his trousers and Percy goes through the introductions again. I wonder if I’m the only one in the room to pick up on Percy’s impatience.

By the time a second round of niceties has been observed, the afternoon has worn on. If we don’t get rid of them soon, they’ll expect to stay for dinner and drink Bob’s rum. Percy decides the time’s come as well.

‘I would extend our hospitality, Captain, to yourself and your crew on board. We should, of course, be delighted to have you all spend the rest of the day and evening with us. But with Captain Watson gone … and the ladies …’ He wears a slight look of discomfort and sends an additional quick tilt of his head towards the amorous crewman.

Laymond nods twice, reluctantly, and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. Either he’s encountered Bob’s temper before, or else he appreciates the awkwardness. ‘Say no more.’ Nevertheless, he glances longingly at the flagons lined up on the shelf in the corner.

We all walk down to the beach to see them off. Carrie skips ahead. The cool scent of clean bone wafts up from the sand. Small wavelets jostle each other near the shore.

The oars of their rowboat lift and fall wetly as they head towards the schooner.

When Carrie wanders up to the house again, out of eye and ear shot, I pass the note to Percy. ‘Take this. She’ll search until she finds it, otherwise.’

He pockets it in one smooth movement. I lift my hand to the men rowing back to the schooner. None of the three respond.

It’s almost dark when I notice white steam from the stack of another ship, anchored far out in the harbour. I fetch the looking glass from the house and hold it up to my eye. Hard to make out, as the ship’s backlit by a glowing sunset, but it looks as though a French flag’s flying at its stern. There are two masts made of steel with the smokestack equidistant between them; big guns silhouetted on deck at bow and stern. An odd, scooped hull makes the ship sit low in the water. It’s a French man-o’-war. I call out to Percy, who has just come back from chopping wood in the mangrove swamp.

He takes the glass from me and snorts when he holds it up to his eye. ‘What now? Bloody Frogs. That’s all we need.’

He hands the glass back in annoyance. I take another peek. They’ve lowered a small boat over the side. Four spider-like figures climb down a rope ladder, balance themselves, then sit, taking up the oars. The ship behind them is now a bulky shadow on the flushed ocean.

‘There’s four of them headed for shore,’ I tell Percy.

‘Damn it. I don’t want them on the island.’ He runs a rough
hand through his hair. ‘Though it’s probably just a courtesy call. Smiles on the surface and daggers underneath.’

‘I suppose it would look suspicious if we don’t act welcoming.’

Percy sighs deeply. ‘I suppose so. Look, I’ll go down to the beach and meet them. Maybe go back to the ship with them and make small talk for a while. That should be enough to appease them into keeping their noses out of our business. Here, give me that glass again.’

I hand it over. The blond hairs on his forearm as he holds it aloft turn golden in the fading light.

‘Wouldn’t they find it strange that we don’t want them on the island?’ I ask. Then a grim scenario occurs to me. ‘What if they’ve found out about the drop and they’ve come to take care of us?’

‘You’ve read too many murder mysteries. They’re not armed.’ He moves his head forward slightly as though looking closer. ‘One of them’s even raising his hand in greeting.’

‘Of course they’re not armed. If you go back with them, they’ll torture you until you’ve told them everything you know. Then they’ll kill you.’

But I don’t really believe it. I can see the men’s outlines with my naked eye now. Their bodies are relaxed, not combative.

Percy hands me back the looking glass. He walks leisurely towards the water. ‘I’ll tell them there’s someone in the house with a fever,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘The last thing they’ll want is a dose of our foreign germs.’ Something about his voice gets my attention.

I notice again that careful intonation that I’d puzzled over back in Brisbane. Percy’s told me nothing about his life. Perhaps he originally had a Cockney accent, and has carefully coached
himself out of its twang and into the more gentlemanly style of the Queen’s English. Everyone wants a fresh start in the colony. And Percy is more ambitious than most …