The Devil's Eye (13 page)

Thursday Island’s Government Resident, the Honourable John Douglas, was at breakfast admiring the butter dish that Maggie had brought back from Auckland after the birth of Alice. It was a pretty piece of crystal and probably cost a few bob, but the butter was already a yellow puddle that wouldn’t stick to his knife.

Douglas had slept badly. When he’d finally nodded off he’d been woken by the white leghorns.

He was about to crack his boiled eggs when someone shouted, ‘Hello,’ at the door. Why was it that no one knocked any more, even when doors were closed?

‘Yes,’ he roared.

‘Telegram,’ said Hugh Percy Beach, ‘your Honour.’

The Honourable John Douglas was entitled to be honourable in two ways: as a former Premier of Queensland and as the son of a lord. He also felt that he should live up to the honorific by
behaving
honourably, and at times this was a trial.

‘Open that damned door for him would you please, Mr…’ He couldn’t remember the Japanese man’s name, but he heard him padding down the hallway.

‘Shoo awayee,’ he heard him say.

‘Damnation! Come in, Mr Beach,’ yelled Douglas.

The Jap came padding back flapping his tea towel and talking to himself and went off in a huff to the kitchen to do God knew what to the food.

Douglas stood and wiped his hand with the napkin which he laid carefully on his plate beside the unbroken eggs as Beach came down the hallway.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but here’s another telegram,’ Beach said again, putting the paper into Douglas’s outstretched hand.

‘Yes,’ said Douglas, looking at it. He put it down beside his plate, sat and motioned to the chair near him. ‘So thoughtful of you to bring it yourself again, Mr Beach. Coffee?’

‘Why, yes. Thank you.’

‘Coffee!’ roared Douglas.

‘Whatee?’

‘Coffee!’ What was God’s purpose, he thought, in inflicting heathens upon me?

He said to Beach, ‘What church do you belong to, Mr Beach? Not the English Church, I gather.’

Beach said, ‘Catholic.’

‘Oh? I was married by the Catholic Bishop of Brisbane. Quinn. Do you know him?’

‘Yes. I thought…I didn’t realise,’ said Beach, sitting forward. ‘You’re Catholic?’

‘Good Lord, no. No. My wife insisted, you see.
She
was Catholic.’ He lowered his voice and leant closer to Beach. ‘It was hush-hush because I was Premier at the time. The Bishop did it in secret. Do you know that after all that trouble, he actually forgot to register it? The wedding, that is. Wasn’t used to doing weddings in person, and forgot. They fined him ten pounds, mind you. I made damned sure they did, too.’

‘I see,’ said Beach, uncomfortable now to be hearing such personal and distressing news from someone he respected but hardly knew. ‘So…?’

‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Douglas. ‘It was registered eventually, of course. I believe that I
am
married, Mr Beach, in the eyes of the law. And your Catholic God.’ He concentrated on his eggs again and sawed off the top.

Douglas heard himself prattling on and didn’t seem to be able to stop. He ate his egg with toast.

‘You do believe in God, don’t you, Mr Beach?’

Hugh Percy Beach was convinced now that the old man had lost his marbles. How did one deal with the insane? Agree with them.

‘Of course. Yes. Absolutely.’

‘You told me the other day that you’re a man of science. Can a man of science also believe in God?’

‘Oh yes. Well, with a qualification. I suppose it depends. Uhm…’

‘Depends? What could it possibly depend on? If you have faith then there should be no qualification. In science or in God.’

‘Oh, I see. What I meant was that I understand that there are forces of nature and forces of God. And I suppose there are times when one has his faith, ah, tested, and at times one doubts what he sees in nature, and even doubts, sometimes, God’s ultimately, uhm, benevolent frame of mind.’

‘Benevolent frame of mind,’ Douglas repeated, slowly sawing the top off his second egg. ‘You’re right, of course. Faith needs to be tested. Have you ever thought of becoming a magistrate, Mr Beach?’

Mad, thought Beach. A magistrate?

‘Something funny?’ said Douglas.

‘What?’

‘You smiled.’

‘Oh.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you study at the bar or anything of that sort. I meant a judge. Judges need only to be able to read and understand what words such as “qualification” mean. In fact, it’s probably the most important word, and you can use it all the time if you want. You’re a JP, aren’t you? Yes, of course you are. You did the examination before me. Think about it. I’m short of magistrates. It’s difficult to find a magistrate here who isn’t in some way in the pearling business. And it’s hard to find a defendant who isn’t a pearler. You see the problem?’

Beach said indeed he did.

‘Do you own a boat?’

‘Just a skiff. Hardly ever use it.’

‘Splendid.’

Douglas bit into his toast. Coffee came and Beach sipped carefully.

‘What’s it say?’ said Douglas, tapping the telegram beside his plate.

‘Oh I don’t…’

‘Nonsense. It’s important enough for you to deliver it personally. You know what’s in it, as usual. Who’s dead and who’s alive now?’

‘It’s from Hope.’

Douglas put his cup down. He picked up the telegram and looked at the cover.

‘When’s she coming home?’ He said this almost hopefully.

Beach cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you should read it.’

‘I don’t have my glasses, Mr Beach. What does Hope say? What’s the gist of it?’

‘I believe the gist of it is that she wonders what you would consider appropriate for her by way of a husband.’

Douglas sat back in his chair. ‘A husband?’

‘I believe she’s talking about a proposal of marriage.’

Douglas put the telegram down and looked through the window down at the languid port, the unmoving masts, and the dull film over a sea without colour that reflected nothing but the uniform blue-grey sky.

‘I see. Nothing yet from Maggie, I suppose?’ Beach balefully shook his head.

Douglas escorted Beach to the front door, down the steps to the gate, and out the gate as far as the grass road.

He had read the brief telegram several times, after his eggs. Hope was her blunt self, but gave no suggestion as to who the theoretical man might be. It was obvious she had met someone and he had asked for her hand. Well then!

‘What do you think of the weather, Mr Beach?’

With obvious relief, Beach said, ‘Yes, yes. Another lightning display! Sheet lightning, but from a great distance, further south than the night before, and from my observations I judge that the great storm, which is certainly what it is, is passing towards the south from the east.’

‘The pearling fleets are down the coast. How far away do you think this great storm is?’

‘Impossible to say, but I’ll be getting Wragge’s new report this morning and he should have a fair idea. It certainly came no closer to us last night. So, south-east, somewhere down the coast and still out in the Coral Sea. Strange, that it appears to be so quiet. No thunder at all, for all that lightning.’

‘Such a phenomenal amount of lightning from one storm.’

‘Phenomenal. I’ve never seen anything like it. I certainly would have liked to have seen it a little closer, nearer at hand.’

‘A hurricane?’

‘I should say so.’

‘Tell me what you learn from Mr Wragge, would you? I should like to know that Maggie and my granddaughter, and the fleet, of course, are not in harm’s way.’

The schooners in Bathurst Bay rocked on a long languid swell that reflected a quite beautiful red and pink line of clouds to the east. The sun wasn’t yet up. Over the water drifted smoke from cooking fires. Men scrubbed decks and washed themselves from buckets.

The
Admiral
was now anchored between the
Crest of the Wave
and the
Sagitta.
As Maggie and Alice watched, one of the
Admiral
’s crew caught a fish, its scales red against the hull, but it flipped free just short of becoming breakfast. Maggie heard quite clearly the splash and curses across the water.

A Mohammedan priest on one of the luggers began calling the faithful to prayer. Around the bay, between the cathedral peaks of Cape Melville and Bathurst Head and amongst those who were awake, the work and chatter stopped.

The two Mohammedans who happened to be scrubbing the deck of the
Crest of the Wave
faced the dark west, laid mats, and bowed.

Behind them a red sun boiled to the surface of the sea and the last dark pools of night seeped back into the black rocks and valleys of the cape.

Maggie went forward to check on the sick Japanese diver who’d been brought aboard the day before.

He was conscious now and watched her closely. She smiled and he smiled back, but then winced with the effort. She made eating gestures with her hands and he shook his head. There was blood on his chin and she wiped it away. Porter had told her there was nothing to be done but to let diver’s disease take its course. She went back to her cabin.

She was thinking about her father. His letter, which had arrived on the
North Wales
, was typically polite and austere, and so it required a great deal of reflection and reading between the lines to extract the true sentiment.

My dear Maggie
,

It was a surprise to me that you left the Residence as you did, in such a precipitous manner, but I want you to know that I do fully understand your reasons for doing so. As you expressed in the letter you left for me, and which I found after only a short time, you saw an opportunity to be with your husband and you felt you had to go. I wish all wives had the same conviction of loyalty!

‘Precipitous’ was a rebuke. She had cut him deeply.

And she had put him in a panic because he couldn’t immediately find the letter she said she’d left. She could imagine him raging around the house and spilling things from tables.

‘I wish all wives had the same conviction of loyalty!’

A nod towards a virtue, but then ‘loyalty’ was a barb, reminding her that it applied to a father as well as a husband.

Still, it was a better letter than she had expected.

Your appointment with Hope is misguided, but I can do nothing more but advise you again not to press her. I have said enough and I hope you will heed me. There are things you do not know.

Well, of course, he also did not know that one of his daughters was pregnant. He would soon realise, and perhaps already did, that Hope’s return was essential.

Take care that my granddaughter stays out of the sun and the sea. Always, dear Maggie, your affectionate father, John Douglas.

Her letter to him would be arriving on Thursday Island either that day or the next, if Fuhrman on the lightship had managed to catch the attention of a north-bound steamer.

What would he make of her news? She hoped it would cheer him up, but there appeared to be little
she could do to lighten his gloom. Indeed, she felt she only added to it. She held Alice close and kissed the top of her head. The sun was turning the child’s hair auburn.

Poor Tommy emerged, rubbing his hair and seeming not to notice the praying men as he went to a bucket to wash his face.

He came over, dripping, to Maggie and Alice and lit a cigarette.

‘Today’s the day of reckoning, Mrs Porter,’ said Tommy. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. ‘How is that, Tommy?’

‘We’ll see how many pearls have really been fished. I’ve been promised more like the one I showed you. And I’ve drawn up forms for thirty-seven luggers. Shell received, pearls recovered, the quality rated from one to ten, and where it was found.’

‘For all three fleets?’

Tommy nodded.

‘What does Captain Porter say?’

Tommy leant forward and in a low voice said, ‘Mrs Porter, he doesn’t seem happy.’

‘It’s a lot of extra paperwork.’

‘Mr James Clark’s orders, though. Will you be free to help, Mrs Porter?’

‘Tommy, I can’t drag Alice between the schooners.’

‘I mean with the other stuff.’

‘The books for stores and shell?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Porter.’

The morning became more oppressive. Maggie carried Alice below, and found her husband sitting alone at his table in the master cabin.

Captain Porter had a pencil in his hand, poised, and he stared ahead at the sea clock that was screwed into the wall. Beside it a photograph of an older, earlier William Field Porter, a sea captain, adventurer, politician, glowered back. What a burden a name could be, thought Maggie.

She tapped on the wooden panelling and still he didn’t move. His hair was unbrushed. Even seated he filled the cabin.

She stepped through the door and the light followed her. In front of him were sheets of paper and a letter.

‘What’s a word for “damned stupid, idiotic and foolish”?’ he asked.

‘Why don’t you just say, “foolish”?’

‘Because it’s not the damned word I’m looking for.’

‘Tell me what you’ve written.’

‘Mr James Clark has somehow had word that everyone down here is finding high-quality pearls. It’s that damned Indian pearl dealer who’s been sniffing around our luggers. I’ll wager it was no savage who tried to knock him on the head. Someone knew what he was up to. That Joe Harry seems to have something
to do with it. And now I’ve heard that Tommy himself is openly asking every crew member he sees about pearls. Do you know what that means? Every damned diver will be going on a damned treasure hunt and they’ll end up cutting each other’s throats.’

‘Show me the letter,’ said Maggie.

Porter threw it in front of her, onto the table. ‘Stupid, idiotic, foolish.’

Maggie put the baby down and read the letter. It did indeed ask Captain Porter to discover to the best of his ability the source of any large round pearls that came his way and to explore any such area from whence they came, to establish if there were more—

with due consideration to the take of shell. However, if the quality of the pearl is as high as reported, its value, and the value of any others that might be found in the vicinity, is significant to this enterprise.

‘I see,’ said Maggie. ‘What were you going to say in reply?’

‘I was going to say, “The competition for pearl over pearlshell is unproductive. There is no guarantee more pearls will be found, but there is the certainty that the take of shell will fall as a result, and therefore it is more likely that money will be lost. I believe the order to concentrate on pearls is—” Well, I can’t say stupid, or idiotic, or foolish.’

‘Unwise?’

‘That suggests he’s not wise. This is Mr James Clark. He owns this,’ and he swept his arm around the cabin, but he could have meant the entire bay, the coast, the continent, their lives.

‘How about, “counterproductive at this stage”.’

‘Good. Damn it, thank you Maggie. I’ll ask Fuhrman to put it on the next steamer north.’

‘What about Poor Tommy? He’s ready to conduct his own little survey.’

‘No, he’s not. I’m just about to give him a job. He can run over to Bowden’s fleet and tell him about Thomas’s close brush with death. That’ll put the wind up them if they don’t already know it. In any case, it will get Tommy off my hands.’

‘But it’s Saturday.’

‘Exactly.’

Alice gurgled.

Porter finished his letter, stood and went to the cabin door. He paused at the barometer. ‘That’s odd,’ he said, and he tapped at the glass as if it, too, could be made to do what he said. ‘Every day since we’ve been here, the pressure’s been twenty-nine point eight inches and it rises a little during the day, before falling again at night. Twenty-nine point eight.’

Tap tap
at the tube.

Maggie felt she had to ask, ‘What’s odd, then?’

‘Look. It’s twenty-nine point seven six.’

Maggie picked Alice up off the floor and went to look. ‘It doesn’t seem to be much of a fall.’

‘The point is that it shouldn’t fall at all. So, I believe there’s a storm about.’

‘Good,’ said Maggie. ‘We can all have a bath.’

But Porter didn’t look pleased.