The Devil's Eye (14 page)

Constable Jack Kenny thought Dr Walter Roth might have fallen asleep in the saddle, until Roth’s hat suddenly tilted back and a plume of blue smoke rose above it to be swept forward by the breeze.

‘You’re a member of the Catholic Church, aren’t you, Jack?’ Roth called back to him, without turning.

He’d found it was easier to answer Roth’s questions. Resistance took more effort than he had to spare.

‘Roman Catholic.’

Kenny was weary of the day and the thoughts revolving in his head. After the interview at the Starcke River Camp, Kenny was convinced that the injured Indian had made most of it up. He’d wished he’d been given time to interrogate him. It was Roth’s fault.

Not that it would have made a scrap of difference to the patrol. Regardless of the truth, the patrol’s purpose was to show the blacks that whatever had happened, retribution was swift.

They followed a native track over sand dunes and the salt flats peppered with sharp, stunted trees. The track was occasionally visible to Kenny, but when he thought it was lost the troopers unerringly picked it up.

Roth let his horse drop back. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Spiffing,’ said Kenny.

Roth pulled the flask from a nook in his saddle and handed it to Kenny. ‘
I say old chap, that drink was spiffin’! You bet, it’s Lager brewed by Griffin
,’ he quoted. ‘Except in this case it’s whisky brewed by McDonald.’

The troopers were concentrating on the track ahead. Kenny accepted the flask and took a swig. He handed it back while trying to catch his breath.

Roth said, ‘In which part of Ireland was your father born?’

‘Tipperary,’ Kenny spluttered.

‘You don’t drink like an Irishman.’

‘I was born in New South Wales.’

‘What?’

‘New South Wales.’

‘Well, never mind. Any thoughts of the priesthood?’

Kenny coughed long after it was necessary. His mother had actually wanted him to be a priest, but he had no brothers to spare. And then she died. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Good. No doubts about marriage then.’ Roth showed Kenny the palm of his hand. ‘At some stage, is all I’m saying. One day. Down the track.’

Kenny sighed. ‘Down the track.’

‘I imagine, though, for a boy from an Irish Catholic family, marrying someone like, well let’s take Hope Douglas as an example; marrying Miss Douglas would pose some problems.’

The whisky was already doing its trick. Kenny’s head felt lighter. ‘Do you mean, her belonging to the English Church?’

‘That’s one problem, I suppose,’ said Roth.

‘Yes.’

‘Your father would approve of such a marriage?’

Would he? Probably be delighted. ‘Hard to say.’

There was some talking amongst the troopers ahead and one of them pointed at the face of a dune, where Kenny saw an extraordinarily long snake disappear into a shrub leaving a sinuous trail on the sand. The blowing sand quickly covered it. Roth stood in the stirrups, but restrained himself from galloping over.

‘What about your sister?’ said Roth, after a time. ‘Would she approve of a Protestant in the family?’

‘Of course not.’

‘No. And it’s a moot point anyway, isn’t it, because if you were to marry now, you’d have to ask for permission from the Police Commissioner. And you haven’t served long enough.’

Kenny knew he was being baited again. ‘What about you, Dr Roth?’

‘You can call me Roth, if you like. Or just Doctor.’

‘You’re not married. Do you have someone in mind?’

Roth, puffing on his cigarette, said, ‘Damned cheek,’
but he seemed to consider the question. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I do have someone in mind.’

‘In Cooktown?’

Roth barked a laugh. ‘Of course not in Cooktown,’ he said, and then looking archly at Kenny, ‘Not that there isn’t a wealth of eligible young ladies in Cooktown.’

‘What about Sarah?’ said Kenny.

‘Marry your sister? Apart from everything else, that would make us brothers-in-law,’ Roth said. ‘And she’s Catholic, I understand.’

‘Which church do you belong to, Dr Roth?’

‘No church, as such. I’m a Jew.’

Kenny stared.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know?’ said Roth.

Kenny felt embarrassed for some reason. ‘No.’

‘Do you think Sarah would marry a Jew?’

‘I don’t…’

‘Not that she isn’t a lovely woman. Stoic,’ and Roth appeared to be seeking other qualities. ‘She can cook, I imagine. I’ll tell you something you must never tell anyone,’ and Roth leant sideways in his saddle towards Kenny, who had to lean in to hear. ‘I have met a lady in Brisbane. Not the white-silk, mousseline, brilliantine type. God no. Can’t cook for sixpence, but sharp as a pin. Family has sheep and land, lots of land. Just the thing. Prefers horses and such. Lovely figure too.’ He straightened up and looked off into the distance as if visualising her plain slender form on horseback.

‘What’s the lady’s name?’ said Kenny.

‘Jack, when I said lady I meant
Lady
,’ said Roth, shifting in his saddle. ‘Lady Bell.’

They rode in silence for a while. Kenny now believed Roth was pulling his leg. He couldn’t imagine…well, he honestly didn’t know what to believe any more.

‘What are you going to do about it then?’ said Roth.

‘About what?’

‘Your engagement to Hope Douglas.’

Kenny groaned, but said nothing.

Roth said, ‘Hope holds you in high esteem, you know. God knows why. She’s asked me about you.’

Kenny reined his horse, and Roth’s pony stopped too.

‘What business is it of yours?’

The wind flung a mist of sand from the top of a dune over the trail, and they shielded their eyes with their hands.

Roth appeared to be suddenly serious. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’

‘Hope is under my protection.’

Kenny shook his head, not understanding.

‘I’m the Protector,’ said Roth.

The horses skittered around each other and Kenny said, ‘But Hope isn’t an Aboriginal.’

Roth let the statement hang there between them for a long moment. ‘Few people would know by looking at her. But by birth, she most certainly is.’

Kenny rounded on Roth. ‘That’s a damned lie, you bastard, and I’ll kill you for it.’

The wind whistled around them and the troopers, who’d stopped far ahead, were looking back.

Roth brought his horse close and said, ‘Her mother was a half-caste Cape Aborigine. Remarkably light herself, easy to employ. Her father it has to be said is white, but that still makes Hope, by law, black.’

‘Her father is John Douglas.’ Kenny could conjure up her face, smooth and strong. ‘She’s as white as you are.’

‘I agree she has very light skin. Almost white,’ said Roth. ‘But almost white isn’t white. By law, almost white is black. I must say, it is remarkable how white she looks. But I thought you of all people must have suspected. Didn’t you?’

Kenny opened and closed his mouth. He looked down and saw that he’d drawn his revolver. ‘She works as a nurse in a hospital. She has to be white to be a nurse.’

‘Korteum doesn’t know. No one knows but me. And now you. And her father, of course. Tricky business. A substantial reputation involved. You understand?’

Roth hadn’t noticed the gun, heavy by his side. Kenny wondered dimly if he actually had the strength to raise it.

‘But her father
is
John Douglas,’ said Kenny.

‘That’s right.’

‘Mother of God!’ said Kenny. His horse reared and the revolver came up as he reached for the reins. Roth and his pony shied backwards.

After a few turns in the sand by both horses, they settled and the Native Policeman sat there, dazed. After a while, he holstered the revolver and Roth ventured closer.

‘Had to tell you,’ said Roth. ‘The facts would come out eventually. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t quite sure of your intentions towards her. You’re so damned…closed.’

Kenny found it impossible to think of Hope as black. Surely Roth was mistaken. How could someone he wanted to marry be someone else entirely? He could not equate her with the fly-covered blacks he’d seen about town, or even the shy dark faces of the girls at the mission.

‘You understand that there’s a matter of law, in this case,’ said Roth. The flask appeared and Kenny took it.

‘What do you mean by that?’ he said, weakly.

‘When she was born, she spent several years at the mission. She has papers. Do you still want to marry her?’

Above the buffeting of the wind in his ears, Kenny thought he could hear the sound of distant thunder.

The luggers came into the bay from first light, gliding one after the other towards their schooners. The
Zoe
was already anchored under the cape. The crew called out the names of the luggers as they appeared: ‘
Leopold
, ahoy
Vera
,
Kathleen
,
Zanoni
, no that’s the
Kate
,
Boomerang
, here’s
Pearl King
.’

The luggers were of a type, but like a young woman approaching on a path, each announced her presence with a certain sway of the hips, the way she held herself, so that even before her face was seen her name was known.

The boats were low in the water, showing hardly any freeboard, and they rode the swell with degrees of grace.

Some crews sang and laughed, their voices carrying faintly across to the
Zoe
as they folded their wings to glide under the protection of their mother ships.

The skippers would each go aboard to report the catch, the sea conditions, the state of their equipment,
and to take on salted beef, rice, tobacco and liquor for the next week.

This was all normally done with a sort of chaotic efficiency, but soon there was a crush of boats around the schooners, the early luggers hemmed in by others arriving. Some appeared to collide. There was a lot of arm waving.

‘We should unload,’ said Sam, looking at the sky. ‘I won’t be fighting with that lot.’ A forest of masts swayed in battle around the schooners.

Willie Tanna dreaded his appointments aboard the
Crest of the Wave.
He had believed that Maggie had somehow read his thoughts about Hope, but now he was certain that she had not. So why did she want to see him? He didn’t want to speak to Maggie about Hope, but it had given him an idea. If he could get Sam to give him the pearl he would ask Maggie what should be done with it. It was the only way to be rid of the cursed thing, and Sam would see the sense in it. Maggie was the only white person in the fleet who he could trust.

‘We should unload now,’ said Sam. The clouds were low and thick. There were no shadows.

‘You really think a storm is coming?’ asked Willie.

Sam sucked his teeth. ‘A great devil of a storm.’

They looked at the crowd around the schooners.

Willie said, ‘If the devil was coming, wouldn’t the schooners be running for shelter?’

Sam shook his head. ‘They think they are sheltered here. They can’t do anything anyway until they’ve stowed all the shell.’

‘Well, there’s nothing we can do either until those fools sort themselves out.’

The
Zoe
’s crew were aft, washing clothes and sharing a cigarette.

Sam whispered, ‘I thought you’d be happy. Aren’t you happy about the pearl?’

‘Not until we get rid of it,’ said Willie. ‘Where is it anyway?’

‘Safe.’

‘But where?’

Sam looked around. ‘I’ll tell you. If we’re not unloading, let’s go ashore.’

‘What?’

‘We need water and firewood.’

Willie ran a hand through his hair. ‘I thought you said a storm was coming.’

‘We can talk.’

‘Good idea. Charley!’

Charley Brain looked up.

‘We’re going ashore. Get an empty barrel and bring the dinghy up.’

It seemed to Maggie Porter that a fight might break out. Men were swearing and Captain Porter would occasionally put his head over the side and tell them to damned well shut up.

The air was hot and greasy, vibrating as if a big steamer had come alongside.

Tempers were given full expression and when two boats collided, someone screamed, and Porter in a fury went below and brought up the carbine.

A Malay was brought aboard whimpering over a crushed hand, which Maggie inspected, cleaned and bound. He could move his fingers so she sent him back.

‘I can’t take much more of this,’ muttered Porter, as he went from one complaining skipper to the next.

Alice, oblivious to the heat and noise, pointed to a black cockatoo perched high up on the foremast shrouds. It looked down upon the scene like a heathen god, screeched a curse, and then careered away
towards the west. Alice then began crawling around a sulking Tommy De Lange.

Porter had brushed aside Tommy’s clipboard of forms and told him to take a lugger over to the Claremonts and tell Bowden about his speared Indian pearl buyer.

‘You’re friendly with that Joe Harry, aren’t you?’ Porter had said. ‘I’ll get the
Vision
to take you when she comes in. Where in the hell is Joe Harry, anyway? If he’s late, he’d better wish he really was dead.’

The day had worn on and the
Vision
didn’t appear. Captain Porter ordered Poor Tommy to supervise the opening and cleaning of shell.

‘That’s the only way you’re going to find any damned pearls,’ Porter told him. ‘And throw that damned paperwork away.’

Maggie found Tommy sitting on a crate.

The crew was opening shell and tossing the slimy meat into buckets. The cleaned shell was graded and crated. Poor Tommy would plunge both hands into the bucket of oyster meat when it was full and probe it with his fingers for overlooked pearls, before tossing the lot overboard to the waiting fish.

Maggie felt sorry for Poor Tommy again and said, ‘Any pearls yet, Tommy?’

Poor Tommy blinked at her miserably. ‘Mrs Porter, we may never know.’

Maggie went below to finish another letter. She put the letter away when Porter came down into the cabin and for a moment she believed she was going to tell him that he was going to be a father again. She stood, with every intention of doing so. He had paused in front of the barometer, tapping the glass again.

He frowned and came over, kissing Alice’s head absently.

‘I’ll be glad to be rid of that damned lot today,’ he said and went back on deck.

The moment had passed and she was glad she’d held her tongue.

The day became more dull, more oppressive. The luggers offloaded their shell, took aboard their stores, and went away to anchor in the bay and make the most of their free afternoon.

Drinks were already being passed around as the bay was quickly populated. Men called to one another in a dozen languages, laughed, and now, in spite of the tension that surely everyone felt, came the sounds of accordions and fiddles, tin whistles, some drums, a zither, and other instruments Maggie could not recognise.

She felt she might be at a music hall, and when the conductor arrived he’d weave the cacophony into some satisfying order. But this orchestra seemed always doomed to be kept waiting.