Amy's Touch (33 page)

T
he South Pacific Ocean was like a sea of glass, smooth and shimmering, as the
Geraldine
approached the Tongan coastline late one afternoon. They’d passed several smaller and some larger ships in the shipping lane between the islands, so when Danny noticed an antiquated steamer of about two and a half tons heading in his direction he paid it little attention—until its course began to veer dangerously close to the lugger.

‘Want me to alter course, Captain?’ Verne, who had the wheel, asked.

‘No, we’re on the right side of the channel, we have right of way. The steamer should give way to us. The skipper must be drunk or half asleep. Sound the foghorn, that should warn him to change course.’

Verne did so, but the steamer’s course didn’t change. Danny’s gaze narrowed, his suspicions rising after he trained a pair of binoculars on the other vessel. He could only see one man, a native, on deck, where there should have been three or four men attending to various tasks. Without conscious thought of Abe he recalled the older man’s obsession about pirates. What if the steamer intended to run up alongside the lugger, where its crew would try to board it? Pirates could tell by the way the
Geraldine
sat low in the water that they were loaded with cargo. Better to be safe than sorry, he decided.

‘I’ll take the wheel, Verne. Go to my cabin and break out the rifles and the shotgun. Just in case.’

‘You think they might be pirates?’ the Englishman asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Danny shrugged. ‘If so, there’s only five of us and there could be a dozen of them with all kinds of weapons. I don’t plan to be taken unawares. When you issue the rifles, tell the men to keep them close but hidden. If they are pirates, we’re going to give them an almighty surprise.’

Verne grinned at the prospect of a little excitement—the voyage from Fiji to Tonga had been uneventful so far. ‘Whatever you say, Captain.’

Danny’s gaze stayed trained on the steamer, which was chugging along at between three and five knots per hour. When the two ships were about three hundred feet apart—loud enough for him to hail the steamer with the megaphone and tell them to change course—the other ship’s speed began to increase. The steamer came closer and closer, appearing to be on a collision course with the
Geraldine
. Danny stepped out of the wheelhouse and hailed the other ship. There was no response. Now he knew for sure: soon they’d be under attack. He gave the order to Verne to pass down to Jamie, Ming and Quincey: ‘As soon as you see anyone with weapons, shoot one round over their head then the next round straight at them.’

Seemingly seconds later the steamer was almost upon them and, from various hiding positions on its deck, natives appeared, Malaysian in appearance and stripped to the waist, some bearing long swords and grappling hooks attached to ropes and others armed with pistols. Shots began to be fired indiscriminately at the lugger.

Danny head-counted ten pirates, which meant his men were seriously outnumbered. And he knew from stories Abe had told him, and those he’d overheard in bars, that pirates who roamed parts of the South Pacific seeking easy targets were ferocious fighters and wouldn’t give up their intended booty without a struggle. He gave the order to change course, and threw the
Geraldine
into starboard reverse to stop the steamer from ramming the port side. Doing so would angle the stern of his ship away from theirs and make it harder for them to board. But if they boarded in numbers, he knew his crew wouldn’t stand much of a chance.

The ocean soon resounded with the sounds of rifle and pistol fire and men shouting and yelling. Danny saw Verne fend off a grappling hook from the deck rail and shoot the pirate who’d thrown it. Danny picked up his own shotgun, took aim and fired one round into the Malays on the steamer. Two men fell to the deck and didn’t get up.
Heart pounding, Danny ran to the ship’s bow, where one pirate had managed to jump on board. The man was small and dark and his eyes gleamed with hatred.

‘I kill you, English dog,’ he yelled as, brandishing his sword and slashing the air with it, he rushed towards Danny.

Danny turned the shotgun around, butt forward, and jabbed it into the pirate’s stomach, after which he hit the man across the face with the barrel. The Malay collapsed onto the deck, moaning and bleeding profusely.

As he caught his breath Danny saw Jamie, the big Fijian, lift one of the Malays up in the air and throw him overboard. By his calculations, they’d demolished half of the pirates with only Quincey receiving a flesh wound to the shoulder. But was it enough to make the pirates retreat? He was sure they hadn’t expected such strong opposition but they had a reputation for being tough, and often desperate.

A bullet whizzed past his ear and, seeing the culprit, Danny fired his shotgun again, without aiming it. The spread of buckshot pellets caught the pirate in the chest.

The pirates’ leader sounded the steamer’s whistle and spun the ship’s propeller away from the
Geraldine
. They were giving up! As the steamer pulled away the man doing the steering emerged from his wheelhouse and stood on the deck, hands on hips, staring at the lugger’s crew. Then, curiously, he lifted his right arm in a salute, presumably as a token of respect for their fighting ability, and disappeared back inside the wheelhouse.

Ming, grinning from ear to ear, came up to Danny. ‘We show them good, Cap’n Danny. They tell other pirates no go near the
Geraldine
. Her men too tough.’

‘There’s still one on board, at the bow. I think he’s unconscious,’ Danny told Ming and the others who’d gathered behind the cook. ‘We’ll tie him up and hand him over to the police when we dock in Tonga.’

‘No you won’t, Captain. Look.’ Quincey pointed to the bow.

All the men looked to where Quincey was pointing. The injured pirate, blood smeared over his chest and loose-fitting trousers, had climbed over the railing and was staring down at the bow waves. He stood up straight and, with a defiant shake of his fist, dived into the ocean.

‘The man’s a fool. All that blood. The sharks’ll have him in no time,’ Verne prophesied.

‘That’s probably a better and quicker end than a slow death in a primitive Tongan prison cell,’ Jamie said with a sage shake of his head.

‘Thanks, men,’ Danny said. ‘All of you. I think this episode deserves a reward. Tonight at supper I’ll open the bottle of port I keep on board, strictly for medicinal purposes. And if I can manage it there’ll be an extra bonus in your pay packets when we get home.’ He grinned at each of them. ‘Now, let’s get things shipshape. The deck at the bow has to be scrubbed. We’ll lay off the port till dawn, until the tide changes.’

He didn’t have to tell his men what to do. They knew. Quincey would go below deck to attend to the lugger’s engine. Ming would retreat to the galley to prepare the evening meal. Jamie would scrub the bloodied deck and Verne would check that the cargo was secure, then join him in the wheelhouse…Within a year Verne would know enough to do the island runs on the
Geraldine
and Danny could alternate his captaincy between it and his other vessel,
Amy’s Rainbow
, and spend time ashore on his plantation, learning the coconut and pineapple business.

Danny allowed himself a satisfied grin. The situation was back to normal on the
Geraldine
, and what a story he’d have for Abe and Gretel when the lugger returned to Suva.

A
s Jim, Mike and Randall rode over the western slopes of Drovers Way they saw a depressing sight. Many sheep were dead or dying. The majority of cattle were too weak to stand, and rotting carcasses that had been savaged by wild dogs and dingoes dotted the slopes. In its fourth year, the drought was taking its toll, and with the additional problem of the 1929 stockmarket crash in the United States, which had affected many countries, including Australia, the situation was grim.

Each man had a rifle strapped to the back of his saddle and a box of cartridges in his shirt pocket. Their job was unpleasant but humane: to put the remaining stock that were too weak to survive out of their misery. And so, for more than an hour the silence of the countryside was shattered by intermittent rifle fire, and the noise resounded like thunder around the rolling slopes and the rugged, time-scarred hills of the Flinders.

Day after day matters were becoming more grim on the property. Boolcunda Creek had been dry for two years and the earth dams Randall had put in at various points had turned into dust bowls. Sinking three bores and windmill structures had been expensive—he’d had to borrow from the bank to fund them. These gave a small percentage of stock relief, but the pastures, once green and, if not lush, at least adequate for his flock of sheep and cattle, had been picked clean. Without regular autumn and winter rains to nurture
growth, all that now remained was bare earth and root clumps, which gave no nourishment for any animals, domestic or otherwise.

When the unpleasant deed was done and quiet returned to the bush, the three men mounted their horses to return to the homestead. Randall took off his battered hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead. The flecks of silver at his temples had become more pronounced as the drought and economic depression lengthened. He’d heard of at least three families who’d boarded up their homesteads and walked off their properties, probably never to return. Even Walpole, with all his wealth, was hurting, which from Randall’s perspective was some consolation. Bill was now too concerned about the survival of his own properties to continue his vendetta against Drovers Way.

The only bright lights in Randall’s daily life were his daughter, Kate, who was four years old, and that Amy was pregnant again, though she wasn’t having an easy time of it. She had morning sickness that seemed to last all day and, uncharacteristically, an ongoing tiredness. So much so that she’d stopped working at the hospital, and had handed over the reins of the Country Women’s League to Winnie Cohen.

But what stung his pride the most was knowing that Amy was aware they were holding on to Drovers by a thread, though neither had actually voiced their fears
. If
the bank called in the loan—he’d had two extensions granted because he couldn’t make repayments—
if
the drought went on for another six months…
If,
God forbid, Amy lost the baby! Annoyed by his negativity he forced the gloominess—the black moods were more frequent these days—to the back of his mind. He rammed his hat onto his head and led Jim and Mike off at a gallop. The three raced down the slope and across the dry creek bed, and only slowed to a canter when the homestead came into view.

Dinner that evening in Drovers’ roomy kitchen began with some good news from Amy.

‘Guess what, everyone? The tea shoppe in Gindaroo sold one of my paintings—the one I did down by the creek—to a travelling salesman for ten guineas.’ Amy hadn’t had much opportunity to paint since Kate’s birth, but throughout the house hung more than a dozen paintings of country scenes, and one of the smaller bedrooms had been converted into a studio.

‘A bargain for him,’ said Mike, who fancied himself as an amateur art critic. ‘Your paintings are very good; they’re worth more than that.’

‘I agree.’ Randall backed Mike up.

‘Ten guineas is not to be sneezed at,’ Amy retorted. ‘If I could sell one painting a week, it would make a difference here.’ She glanced towards Randall. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

‘Of course. Every pound helps.’

Jim Allen’s wife, Nora, whom he’d married a year ago, now helped with the housework and cooking. She ladled chicken soup into bowls then cut slabs of thick homemade bread into slices and put them on the table. The Allens had had a whirlwind courtship. Jim had met Nora at a local dance, the attraction had been mutual and instantaneous, and six weeks later Reverend Whitton had married them. After which, everyone on Drovers had worked to renovate the property’s original homestead for Mr and Mrs Jim Allen to live in.

As everyone began to eat, Kate included, Amy glanced at each person at the table. Mike and Jim hadn’t received wages for months, but they never complained about the situation. Nora, a tall, angular woman, attractive if not beautiful, was sitting next to Jim, doing what many country women in kitchens all over the Flinders were doing every night: giving the women small portions so the men got more of whatever could be conjured up in the cooking pot, to keep them healthy and able to work.

Covertly, Amy studied her husband. Randall was trying to put a brave face on everything, insisting they were ‘managing’, but she knew otherwise. His nightmares were recurring with greater frequency, and the after-effects—long silences and a kind of depression—were getting stronger, which put a strain on their marriage. He was a proud man, who rightly saw himself as the family’s breadwinner, and he silently resented the fact that for the last two years she had provided the property with enough cash from her savings to keep Drovers viable. Unbeknownst to Randall, some of that cash had also come from her father, who was now semi-retired.

As she scooped soup into her spoon, Amy spared a few thoughts for her friend Winnie. Finally Winnie had accepted her daughter’s romance. Rebekkah, now a fully trained nursing sister, was married and happy with Gavin Pearce. Being strong in her faith, Winnie hadn’t found it easy to come to terms with her daughter’s marriage to a gentile, but Amy knew her friend had contented herself with the
knowledge that the children from that union would, in accordance with the customs of her faith, be Jewish.

Amy’s thoughts were diverted again as she watched Kate drop a crust of bread into her apron pocket. She knew who it was for: Tinga. As Kate had begun to crawl, to walk and then to run, she and Tinga had become firm friends. Tinga’s duties as a working dog had diminished because there was little stock to herd, but still, whenever necessary, he managed to bark an alarm to get Amy’s rascally, mischievous daughter out of trouble.

Adventurous by nature, undoubtedly a McLean trait, Kate had no fear of any of the animals on Drovers, including Hercules the bull. Though hard-pressed, Randall continued to resist the temptation to sell Hercules because the bull would be invaluable for restocking and servicing stock on other properties once the drought ended…If and when it ended! City-bred Amy hadn’t experienced the privations of a lengthy drought, and during it she’d come to appreciate and marvel at the stoicism of the people of the district who, no matter how hard it became and what had to be endured, stayed faithful to the land.

Amy rose to help Nora serve the main course: mutton chops in a curry sauce, boiled potatoes and carrots, and tinned peas.

Little Kate looked at her plate. Her young, expressive features showed her opinion of the meal. ‘Mutton again, Mummy?’

Amy smiled. ‘Yes, darling, but the curry sauce makes it special.’

‘What’s for sweets?’ Kate wanted to know as she pushed a piece of boiled potato around her plate.

Amy’s smile widened. Her daughter knew the rules. If she didn’t eat what was on her plate she didn’t get dessert. ‘No sweets tonight, Kate. But tomorrow night I’m going to make a bread and butter pudding. You like that, don’t you?’

Kate’s head bobbed up and down affirmatively.

Amy and Nora had decided a while ago that two courses were ample for the men’s needs, and when soup or cold cuts were served before the main meal they didn’t make dessert, a reality that disappointed Kate and probably the men, but was a necessary measure in these hard times.

‘In town today I heard that the Jacksons from Kildare, near Hawker, have sold all their stock and are moving to his brother’s place in Adelaide,’ said Mike. He had the knack of being able to ferret out all the local news and gossip.

‘He’s not the first to go and he won’t be the last,’ Randall returned gloomily.

Amy caught the tone of depression in her husband’s voice and sympathised. It was hard for him to be cheerful, impossible really, having to shoot stock, scrounge for every pound and, when he had it, think twice about spending it. Momentarily her hand covered his and she squeezed it gently. ‘In a few weeks it’ll be autumn. There will be rain, I know there will, and in the winter we’ll have our new baby.’ She glanced at Kate. ‘A brother or sister for you, Kate.’

‘Don’t want a brother, I want a sister,’ Kate said decisively. ‘Boys are…do you know what they’re made of?’ she said in a singsong tone. ‘Snaps and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. Ugh! Who’d want to be made of that?’

‘And what are little girls made of?’ Jim asked the question. Someone was expected to.

‘Sugar and spice and all things nice, Uncle Jim.’

The adults at the table laughed, and even Randall, whose features reflected his moodiness, smiled. Kate often said funny things that managed to lighten everyone’s mood.

A knock at the back door made everyone go quiet. The door opened and Joe Walpole stood in the doorway. ‘Good evening, all. Sorry, didn’t know you’d be having dinner.’

A muscle flexed in Randall’s jaw. These days he didn’t disguise his dislike of Joe, but the country sense of hospitality, instilled in him from birth, made him offer, ‘Come in, Joe.’ He raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Hungry? There’s enough in the pot for you if you are.’

Joe, shifting from one foot to the other, looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Thanks, Randall, I’ve eaten. I’m here on business.’

‘Really?’ Randall was mildly intrigued. ‘What kind of business?’

‘I’ll wait on the back porch till you’ve finished eating, then we’ll talk. All right?’

‘Sure.’

‘I wonder what he wants?’ Amy asked, her expression curious.

‘Whatever it is, it probably won’t be good for Drovers,’ Jim said matter-of-factly.

‘You’re right there,’ said Mike. ‘He’s sly and conniving, just like his father.’

‘Actually, I’d trust Bill more than I’d trust Joe.’ Randall’s comment was a telling remark from a man who liked neither of the male
Walpoles. Having finished his meal, he got up from the table. ‘Better see what he wants.’

Randall joined Joe on the back porch. Summer’s twilight was lingering, casting lengthening shadows across the back yard and the vegetable patch, but not a breath of a breeze stirred to cool the evening down.

‘So, Joe, what can I do for you?’

Joe rubbed his hands together and fingered the collar of his shirt nervously. ‘Dad wants me to ask if you’re in the market to sell Hercules?’

‘Why? What’s wrong with your bull?’

‘Bloody stupid animal dropped dead yesterday. Probably had a heart attack in the heat.’ Joe shrugged indifferently. ‘We’d selected the strongest heifers in the herd, brought them close to the homestead to be serviced, and before Angus could start he just fell over and died.’

Randall’s lips twitched as he tried not to smile. ‘That’s bad luck.’

‘You could name your price. Hercules has good bloodlines, as good as Angus’s were. Dad’s keen to buy.’

‘He’s not for sale.’ Randall’s tone was firm.

‘Shit, Randall.’ Joe started to get anxious. His hands began to clench and unclench nervously. ‘It’s not like you couldn’t do with the money. Everyone knows you’re just hanging on here, and you have precious little stock of your own for Hercules to service.’

‘I will have once the drought breaks.’ Randall enjoyed watching Joe squirm. Bill Walpole must be desperate to have asked his son to plead his case.

Joe ran a hand through his stringy hair. ‘Geez, Randall, please. Will you think about it?’

Randall paused for several moments, seemingly doing as Joe had suggested. ‘There could be a way…’ he said slowly. He had a rough idea of the size of Walpole’s Ingleside herd and that they’d lost very little stock. ‘This is the deal. I’ll lease Hercules to you for, say, one hundred pounds for the month. That’s a bargain, considering your problem. And when your heifers calve I want twenty-five per cent of the calves born.’

‘What!’ Joe’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with shock.

Randall smiled briefly; this time he couldn’t help himself. God, it was satisfying to get one up on his enemy. ‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. Of course, you could scout around the district for a substitute for Hercules, but we know he’s got the best bloodlines.’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Joe whined, his look sour. ‘All right. It’s a deal.’ He held out his hand. ‘We’ll shake on it, shall we?’

Randall grasped Joe’s hand. ‘We’ll do more than that. I want the agreement in writing from Bill, signed by him, before I let you take Hercules, together with a guarantee that if anything untoward happens to the bull, if he gets sick or dies, I’ll be fully compensated for the loss.’

‘Christ!’ Joe’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘Don’t you trust a Walpole’s word?’

‘Of course I do.’ Randall was surprised how easily the lie tripped off his tongue. There weren’t too many graziers in the district who trusted Bill Walpole’s word; in the past he’d reneged on several promises. ‘Even so, a man would be a fool not to back your word up with something on paper.’ And, he murmured, ‘I might be many things, but I’m not a fool.’

‘I can see that.’ Joe’s tone was sardonic. Obviously he wasn’t pleased at being outsmarted. ‘I’ll see you in the morning then, with the paperwork and a trailer for the bull.’

Randall watched Joe strike back to his automobile, rev the engine and, spinning the wheels too hard, which threw up a cloud of dust, roar out of the yard and up the road.

Later that night, in bed, Randall and Amy had a good laugh about how he’d got the better of the Walpoles.