The Secret Fate of Mary Watson (32 page)

He nods and puts a hand out for the rifle. But I shake my head. Look at the position of the sun again. Time is of the essence as the afternoon wears down.

‘You’d better fetch water,’ I tell him. ‘We’re almost out … fill both buckets. Go now, before it gets dark.’

He doesn’t need any further encouragement.

He’s been gone half an hour when I feel the skin over my kidneys pull tight. I’m being watched. I whip my head around and over to the stand of pandanus that Ah Leung cleared of grass with his cane knife not so long ago. The black man stands next to the wall of the iron privy. He’s tall and muscular with a loin-covering made of feathers; a cooking-pot belly. Strings of teeth around his neck. His chest is crisscrossed with some kind of branding that raises the surface of the skin like the ridges sandworms make on the beach. The spear by his side must be eight feet long. Vertical yellow stripes smear down either cheek. Even at this distance, his eyes glow with unwavering purpose. I know that my life was spared last night. But there’s no pity in that gaze.

I bring the barrel of the rifle up and aim at his body. ‘What do you want? We’ve done nothing to you.’ My voice cracks. ‘Go away or I’ll shoot.’

I pull the butt of the rifle a little closer, line up the sight, so he knows I’m not bluffing. He disappears behind the privy and into the longer stand of trees on the way to the swamp. When my heart stops ricketting, I realise Ah Sam is over there collecting water, with only the revolver. I can’t go to help him. I can’t leave Ferrier on his own.

Ah Sam cries out and I throw open the door and pull him in. I fire the rifle three times, four, though there are no blacks to be seen. I slam the door shut and drop the bar. Ferrier wails.

The Chinaman buckles at the knees, holds onto the table. There’s a spear protruding from his shoulder. He looks up at me, helpless. His breath comes in gasps.

I drag the mattress off Carrie’s cot and throw it onto the floor. ‘Lie down, Ah Sam. This way. On your stomach.’

He sinks face first. His eyes flicker, then close. I feel for his pulse at the wrist: fast, and weak. I fetch the sewing scissors and cut his pyjamas around the spear to get a clearer view of the wound. Something Inspector Fitzgerald said aeons ago comes back to me. How the blacks dip their spear tips in putrefying corpses. It’s infection that kills, not the initial wound. I have to get the spearhead out and quickly. Ah Sam’s eyelids are still fluttering. I wish he’d fall into a painless stupor.

Ferrier’s given up crying, though my ears still ring with his distress. Only the odd, desolate little hiccough from the cradle. I grab a wad of cloth. Tear a sheet into strips. Mix up potassium permanganate and a bit of our precious remaining water in a mug, stirring with a spoon until the crystals dissolve.

The flesh puts up a sickening resistance when I try to pull out the spear. Ah Sam gives deep, quavering moans, gripping the edges of the mattress white-knuckled. I brace my foot and put my back into it. The spear comes out, and the momentum topples me onto the floor. The wound geysers blood. I scramble over with the cloth, press it down for perhaps five minutes until my fingers are numb and I sense the pulses slowing beneath. I pull the cloth away. Still bleeding but not profusely.

I turn my head to the side for a few seconds, dry-heaving at the warm, metallic stink of blood. It’s everywhere. All over the mattress and floor. All over me. I leave the material in place. Dip my curved upholstery needle and lengths of coarse sail thread in what’s left of the disinfected water. Then start stitching. Ah Sam’s eyes spring open. He writhes in pain.

‘You must stay still.’

Maybe I should fetch the rum. But I’m almost finished. He falls back into a quiet agony.

Finished. I ease him onto his side. Clear up the mess as best I can with rags and no water. Then I fetch Ah Sam’s carved wooden box. I’ve watched him often enough, and follow the routine as I remember it. Pick up a small stick of opium, break it into shards, push them with one finger into the bowl of the pipe. Light it with a match and inhale on the stem. Now the smell, with a sickening poppy sweetness at the back of my throat.

‘Ah Sam.’

His eyes are closed, but his mouth opens when I nudge the pipe stem against it. It occurs to me it’s not much different to tempting a sleeping baby with a nipple. His first attempt to draw in is feeble, barely sparking the bowl, but the second is stronger. The opium spits and clicks. I hold the pipe as he inhales. Ease it slightly to the side of his mouth so the used smoke can escape.

‘I not get water, missy.’ His words are starting to slur already. ‘Sorry, I drop the bucket.’

‘It’s all right, Ah Sam.’

But it’s not all right. We have barely three inches of clean water left. And the afternoon is sinking fast.

‘Sorry,’ he says again.

‘Don’t talk now. I’ve taken out the spear. You rest.’

I ease the pipe back to the centre of his mouth. He sucks, but it’s almost out. The opium is gone. I watch his shallow breathing until his muscles relax and he’s finally fully asleep. A stray hair has escaped from his queue. I loop it away from his face with a finger, then stand.

Ferrier’s fallen into a fitful sleep again. I pull up a crate to the table and sit staring at the limestone wall. It’s quiet outside. Deathly quiet. What will we do without water?

Then I remember something. The slops basin under the bench. I grab it, careful not to spill a drop. Four inches at least: cloudy, and with a scum on top, but water nevertheless. I scoop a few spoonfuls of it into a clean pannikin. Pick up a pinch of potassium permanganate from the jar before sealing the lid. I drop the crystals into the pannikin and stir gently with my finger. If the water turns pink, it’s safe to drink.

The water turns brown.

I wake with a start. The rocking chair quivers. Ferrier, dozing in my arms, frowns. From the light seeping through closed shutters, I can tell it’s dusk. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

Ah Sam hasn’t moved from where I left him. I watch him breathing evenly. But all of a sudden, I’m tense, far too tight. Almost terrified.

Then I notice the voices. Outside, down at the beach. Not the blacks. More like the banter and catcalls of a lugger crew just landed on shore. Percy!

Do I wake Ah Sam? But to what use? There are too many voices. We’re outnumbered. There’s nowhere to hide. All bets have been placed and the pot’s just right. Nothing to do but show our hands. Futility washes over me in one long wave.

I hear the cracking of a gun. Another shot, then another. High-pitched ululations. The now-familiar whistle-hiss of spears through air.

Then silence.

I take Ferrier over to the cradle and place him gently on the
small mattress. I bend down and touch my lips to his forehead at the hairline. It’s like kissing the softest peach down. ‘I’m sorry, darling boy.’

I walk over to the peephole and look out. I can see three spears lying on the ground, and the lavish purples, pinks and oranges saturating the sky. The field of view is too small to see who was speaking. Whoever it is, I’m better off outside where I can see them, rather than hunkered down inside waiting for them to break down the door. Or shoot through it.

I take a deep breath. Pick up the rifle. Pull up the bar. Ferrier grumbles but doesn’t wake.

Dark is falling quickly. I’m halfway down to the beach when I see a silhouette of a man walking towards me. He carries some kind of satchel over one shoulder. Behind him, three other men. I should be flattered, I suppose, if Percy thinks he’ll need so many assassins to take care of me.

‘Come one step further and you’re dead,’ I shout into the gloom, and lift the rifle.

I point it at the figure in front, but I can’t seem to grip it properly. My hands are too tired from patching up Ah Sam. My arms feel weak. If I pull the trigger, the recoil is likely to tear my finger off. I don’t care.

The silhouette in front seems larger than Percy, but the light is too poor to be sure. He stops. The men behind him stop. A few seconds pass before the big man speaks.

‘That’s hardly a fit way to greet your employer.’

Now it’s my ears playing tricks as well. Roberts! But then his beard resolves in the darkness. I recognise the broad set of his shoulders. A cloud uncovers the last of the sun, lighting a fire behind him. I’m taken by surprise, but not reassured.

‘Let me guess, Captain, you’ve come to kill me. I warn you, I’ll put up a struggle.’

My voice doesn’t sound like my own. Someone older. Someone harder. A rat, cornered and left with no option but to fight.

I hear a shuffling sound behind me. Ah Sam has dragged himself to his feet and is staggering towards the men.

‘Ah Sam. No! Come back.’

He doesn’t even have the revolver. I can do nothing but watch. He stumbles up to Roberts, mumbles a few words I can’t hear, then collapses onto his chest.

‘I have the ship’s surgeon here,’ Roberts says calmly, holding the unconscious Ah Sam erect with one burly arm. ‘Let’s get him into the house.’ When I don’t respond, he drawls, ‘You’d rather he died, would you?’

I lower the gun a few inches. The group moves closer and I raise it again.

‘Just you and the surgeon,’ I tell him.

He’s close enough now for me to see his eyes roll skywards in exasperation. He turns and mutters something to the men behind him. They wander back towards the rowboat pulled up on shore. Against the fading sunset, I can see their guns. One of them grabs something from between the seats. I point the rifle in his direction.

Roberts intervenes again. ‘It’s a medical bag, nothing more.’

Behind him, I notice for the first time the outline of what looks in the semi-darkness to be a Chinese junk moored a hundred yards out in the bay.

Roberts half-drags, half-carries Ah Sam towards the house. The other man with the bag follows. I’m determined to get there first. Ferrier’s inside. By the time they walk over the threshold, I’ve lit a lamp and am standing guard next to the cradle.

‘Just relax, will you?’ Roberts throws his hat and satchel on the table.

The man with the medical bag has coaxed Ah Sam back down onto the mattress on his stomach and is rubbing something into his wound.

Roberts sits in my rocking chair, puts his boots on a nearby crate. ‘This place smells like a cross between an opium den and an abattoir.’

‘We’ve no water.’ My throat is dry from just saying the words. ‘I couldn’t clean up.’

He looks at a blood-soaked rag on the floor, then cocks his head towards the door. ‘You’ve had a spot of trouble with the blacks, I see.’

Some sound — a mangled laugh — escapes me. My tongue slips its harness. ‘Ah Leung is dead. They killed him over at the farm.’

Roberts shrugs. ‘Small loss.’

He seems so calm, so much himself. I rub my dry lips, suddenly uncertain. I’m thirsty. Very thirsty. I wonder if it’s affecting my judgement.

‘Where’s Percy?’

‘You needn’t worry about him any more.’ There’s a lightness behind his deep voice, almost a chuckle.

‘Are you working for the French, like he is?’

‘No. And I wish you’d put that bloody rifle down. You’re making Anderson nervous.’

Anderson must be the surgeon. He has large hands, I notice, and a bald spot in his brown hair on the crown of his head. He pinches the skin gently on the back of one of Ah Sam’s hands and turns to Roberts.

‘We need some fresh water. He’s dehydrated, as well as everything else.’

Again, I lick my lips. Ferrier stirs behind me.

‘Go and tell Davis and Green to fetch some,’ Roberts says to Anderson.

‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘The natives. That’s where they hide. Over at the swamp.’

‘We’ve water in the rowboat and on the junk. Plenty of it.’ He eyes me steadily, his voice gentler this time. ‘Put the gun down, Mary.’

I lay it carefully on the shelf, still within reach and put a hand on the cradle for support.

‘Did you know Percy was working for the French?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘All along.’ He looks around. ‘Do you have any food? The men will need to eat.’

It seems such an odd question under the circumstances … like asking whether I have ever flown to the moon.

‘Um. I don’t know. I’ll look. But I have to go into the bedroom and feed the baby first.’

I lift Ferrier out of his cradle. My hands are shaking so much, I almost drop him.

‘You’re thirsty too, aren’t you?’ Roberts comes over and holds out his arms. I pull Ferrier away from him, shield him with my body. But he brings my face around with one cupped hand. ‘It won’t do him any good if you drop him on the floor.’

I think about this. Roberts takes a step back, but makes a wriggling motion with his fingers. After a few agonising seconds of indecision, I hand Ferrier over. The comparison is comical. A creature so small up against one so big. A beetle on a cliff face.

Roberts rests the baby over his shoulder, pats him awkwardly but softly enough. The span of his hand reaches almost all the way across Ferrier’s back. As for Ferrier, he’s apparently forgotten his hunger and thirst. This new perch interests him, or rather the vegetation he’s found on it. He tugs at the beard, fascinated. Roberts winces theatrically, which inspires Ferrier to repeat the experiment, this time with a larger handful, a more forceful pull.

‘I might have to sign you up, you little blighter. Put you on torture duty.’ Roberts catches my eye. ‘Go to my satchel. There’s a canteen of water in there. You’ll pass out if you try to feed him without a drink.’

I find the canteen at the bottom of the bag. Under a looking glass, a book, a compass and a wad of cash. I unplug the cork and drink greedily. Then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. There’s still some left in the bottle.

‘Ah Sam?’ I offer.

Anderson looks up, gives a small nod. I hand him the bottle. He pours a little into his cupped palm, holds it to Ah Sam’s lips. The Chinaman manages to swallow a little of it then turns his head away.

‘A small amount is best for the moment,’ Anderson says. ‘Too much would just make him heave.’

‘The child is getting more than enough liquid if this wet end is anything to go by,’ Roberts says, holding Ferrier away from his body, his nose screwed up.

I go to retrieve him, but Ferrier doesn’t want to let go of his new-found hairy toy. I have to peel back his tiny fingers one by one while Roberts grumbles like a deep earthquake. I take the baby into the bedroom, sit on the bed and give him the breast. By the time
I’ve changed him and gone back into the communal room, Ah Sam is sitting up on the mattress, pale, but looking much better. I place Ferrier in the cradle, passing him a wooden peg to play with and maul with his gums.

‘You’ll be all right now, Ah Sam,’ Roberts says.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Boss! Ah Sam?’ I look down at the Chinaman, bemused and hurt.

He stares back at me, apology in his eyes.

Roberts is inspecting the last remaining box of ammunition on the shelf.

‘How long has Ah Sam been one of your minions?’ I ask.

‘I mentioned back in Townsville that I used to work for the Chinese government all those years ago. Ah Sam was similarly employed. Our paths have crossed many times since then.’

A stocky crewman with wiry black hair brings a few more canteens of water into the house. His pants are tucked into boots that are cracked at the toe.

‘Where do you want these, missus?’

‘Over in the corner.’ Roberts answers for me, pointing. He perches uncomfortably on a stool. None of our seats is large enough for him, except the rocking chair.

Before he leaves, the crewman turns back to the captain. ‘The blacks’ camp is behind the hill.’ Threads of blood lust pull tight in his brown eyes.

‘Leave them be,’ Roberts says. ‘We’ll be off the island soon enough.’

The crewman mumbles something. Roberts’s response is swift and cold. ‘Keep your mouth shut, Henson, and people might not notice you’re a fool. Exactly how do you reckon one woman and a
wounded Chinaman could account for … how many? Twenty blacks? You’d have us leave a massacre behind so blatant even incompetent idiots like Fitzgerald and Brooke would know we’ve passed through.’

Henson leaves, abashed. I go foraging for still-edible potatoes in the bin under the bench.

‘Are you going to take us off the island, Captain?’

‘Of course. I didn’t come here for the balmy air and coconuts.’

While I was feeding the baby, he must have noticed Bob’s rum and poured himself a slug. I watch as he downs what’s left in the pannikin and pours in some more. I put the few potatoes that are passable in a dish, sit opposite him and start peeling. Part of me knows that I’m exhausted, that I desperately need sleep. But I’m even more desperate to know what’s happening. Why Roberts is here. And what comes next.

‘Where’s Percy? You owe me an explanation.’

Roberts looks into the bowl. He turns to the surgeon. ‘Rations are short here. Send the boat back to the junk for meat and bread. And make sure a proper watch is set on the beach. No fires, but ensure the blacks know we’re armed and alert.’

It’s clear he’s sent the surgeon away so that we can talk. He gives me a candid look as soon as the other man has gone.

‘Fuller’s fine, I’m sure. Off to tell his Froggy friends where to find a catboat carrying a few dozen rifles bound for New Guinea.’

‘No! You mean he’ll get away with betraying you? I can’t believe it.’

‘He didn’t betray me. On the contrary, he’s been very helpful, albeit inadvertently. I wouldn’t stop his quest for the world.’

‘I wish you’d stop talking in circles. All I know is I risked my life going up that hill. And it seems it was all just a game. I’ve gone through all of this for nothing.’

‘Oh, no. Not for nothing. That reminds me. The money in my satchel is yours. There’s another packet in the front compartment for you, Ah Sam.’

The Chinaman looks up. His colour is better, and he’s had more water to drink. I notice that my mouth is hanging open. I close it, but I can’t take my eyes away from Roberts’s smug face.

‘You need more explanation, don’t you?’ he asks.

‘I could have been killed. It doesn’t matter so much for me, but the baby …’ I feel the emotion well up in my throat.

He takes another long sip of rum, then puts the pannikin down on the table with a thump. ‘I assessed you carefully in Cooktown, when I last saw you. I knew that you were having a baby. Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of putting a woman’s life in danger, particularly one with a child. I knew Ah Sam’s protection could only stretch so far.’

‘So, the coded messages, the signalling — they were diversions. Let me guess. You had someone on another island sending and receiving the real signals?’

‘No. Not exactly.’ He’s sick of the too-small stool and goes to sit in the rocking chair. Pulls a crate over and rests his boots on it. He stares into the middle distance. ‘Do you remember me speaking back in Townsville about Britain’s decoy ships? The political machinations over territory? Just five years ago, Disraeli spent four million pounds to buy the Suez Canal. He did so because Egypt was essentially bankrupt. If the hopeless government of Ismail Pasha had fallen, Grevy would have pounced. Even so, we still share financial administration of that bloody country with France. For the moment, at least.’ He grunts and frowns. ‘Forget I said that. That’s another project, another time. Anyway, the French have invested a great deal in
their network of spies. Now the Germans are getting involved. Bismarck thinks colonies a great waste of energy, but the captains of German industry would love to change his mind. They imagine colonies to be a bottomless trove of free resources … though they’re hopeless at colonial administration. Utterly hopeless. And they, too, have spies.’

I shake my head, bemused. ‘What has any of this to do with Percy and Charley? Or with me, for that matter?’

‘I’m getting to that. What we’ve done — no, what
you’ve
done — is give them exactly what they wanted: information on what measures Her Majesty has taken to protect the Empire’s trade in the east. But, because we already know what they’ve learned, how they’ve learned it, and, often, whom they’ve told, we now have a very good idea of who their contacts are. The French think themselves very clever indeed, though all they’re doing is wandering about inside the trap we’ve set. That boat that Fuller’s intercepting is carrying forty-odd Gewehr 71 rifles, and the crew is Prussian. Now the French will be very peeved with the Germans, even though it’s a perfectly reasonable shipment in support of Germany’s trade mission in New Guinea. But the French know it’s suspicious, because they learned of it by intercepting the message traffic of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office.’