The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 42

An important question occurs to me through the fug. I grab Ah Sam, one hand on each arm. 'Did you see any natives at the farm?'

He shakes his head, and I relax just a little.

'Good. They're still reluctant to attack during the day. We'll be safe until nightfall.' I keep my eyes pinned to his. 'Show Laura where Percy's hut is, but don't get too close to her. She can't stay here on the beach. Take her some food and a drink.'

Laura peers with that death's head over her shoulder. 'Oi. I know when I'm bein' talked about.'

'You must be tired,' I say, a bit louder. 'Ah Sam will show you a shack along the beach where you can rest. He'll bring you some food.'

'Don't want no food. Wouldn't mind a cuppa tea, though. I'm parched. An' a lie-down wouldn't go amiss.' She struggles to her feet. 'This shack. Does it face the sea? I don't want to miss Bob when 'e gets back.'

'Yes, it does. Would you like me to mind Wilfred while you sleep?'

I take a handkerchief out of my pocket and hold it over my mouth. I don't want to take the baby from her. But neither can I bear the thought of it rotting in her arms. I'm a mother too, after all.

'No, ya greedy piece. Ya got me man. Ya ain't gettin' me baby.'

She trudges off behind Ah Sam towards Percy's shack. I watch until she turns into a swaying stick insect in the distance.

By the time Ah Sam has taken a drink to her and come back to where I'm standing, I feel as though my legs are full of half-set jelly. He seems to have recovered from the shock of finding Ah Leung. He looks at my face and clicks his tongue at what he sees.

'I stand guard. You sleep ...'

He puts a hand out for the rifle and, after a second's hesitation, I hand it over. He gives me the revolver.

'Perhaps just for a little while,' I say. 'Will you wake me in a few hours?'

He nods, and I stagger towards the house. Ferrier still hasn't woken. He's breathing deeply as I pa.s.s the cradle. I look down at him for a moment. His fist is up against his mouth. His hair's so soft, it's like ducks' down. That poor wretch, Laura. Would I go mad too if my baby was dead? Yes. There would be no other state in which to live.

I put the bar down on the door. Don't even take off my boots in the bedroom. Just lay the revolver on the crate that pa.s.ses for a bedside table and collapse on the bed.

It's noon when I open my eyes. Ferrier's bellowing. I hadn't meant to be out of commission so long. The wind is up outside. An offsh.o.r.e breeze from the east. There's a sound like someone thumping a rug against the back wall of the house. The twist and swish of panda.n.u.s leaves: a thousand noisy husks. The loose edge of tin on the smokehouse roof lifts with a series of screeches. The ocean is a nest of trapped snakes.

I stretch, taking a long inventory of my aches and pains. At least my head is clear.

'I'm coming, baby.'

By the time I reach the cradle, Ferrier hits his highest pitch. I change his napkin while he squeals and protests, his face tomato red. Then I sit in the rocking chair and feed him, humming a lullaby I remember from my own childhood. He looks up at me from under his long lashes, smiles around the nipple. All is forgiven. Finally, I got it right. Already, the tears have dried on his cheeks. I smile back. Offer my finger to his palm and he grasps it, like the mouth of a sea anemone closing over a morsel of food.

It's half an hour later when I can place him back in the cradle and brave the wind outside. Ah Sam, still on guard, is just holding his thin frame steady. The gusts are intent on bullying him out to sea. The white-spray of the waves near sh.o.r.e flies backwards in manes. Bob's sea kelpies returned for another gallop. I hold my hair back with one hand and approach Ah Sam. He mustn't hear me because, when I put a hand on his shoulder, he twirls around wild-eyed, his finger on the trigger.

I put both of my palms up. 'Steady! It's only me.'

He lowers the rifle again and takes a deep breath. 'You should not sneak up like that.'

'I wasn't sneaking. Percy hasn't come? No one's come?'

He shakes his head and I feel myself frowning. I was so sure he would be back, that there would be a confrontation. What if he doesn't come? The good news so far: we've survived being killed by a murderous Chinaman and a French spy. The bad news: we're still at the mercy of the blacks and stuck on the island.

Which tugs at the hem of another thought. Something's missing on the sh.o.r.eline. What is it? Scarves of sand blow off the beach and into the water.

'What happened to the rowboat Laura came in?'

Ah Sam's shoulders slump. He points to a dark spot in the distance, riding the waves and the troughs of the ocean, heading at a fast clip towards Brisbane.

'Oh, no! Why didn't you pull it ash.o.r.e?'

'I did, missy! That wind too strong. I try to get it back. But then hear the woman cry out ... I go to check ... boat blow away.'

'Laura cried out? Why? The blacks?'

He shakes his head again. His queue rides the wind. 'She cry out once, then die. She too much sick.'

Laura. Dead. It occurs to me with a sickening jolt that, not counting the blacks, there's an even ratio of dead bodies to live people on the island.

I see, then, how exhausted Ah Sam is. Sand's blasted his face to pink. His eyes are two dark pits.

'It's your turn, Ah Sam. Go and have a sleep in the house. If you hear Ferrier stir, you can look after him. I'll yell loudly if I need you. Go. We both have to be as strong as possible.'

He looks nervously behind him.

'We'll be all right until night falls. Go on.'

We swap weapons again. I watch him stagger towards the house, pushing against the wind. Today, for the first time since I've known him, he well and truly looks his age.

When Ah Sam wakes it's three o'clock. No Percy. The wind's subsided to a few petulant gusts around the trees and the pinkish sun hangs lower in the sky.

'Is Ferrier all right?' I ask. 'He must need feeding.'

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 panda.n.u.s that Ah Leung cleared of gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.t 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 pota.s.sium 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 coa.r.s.e sail thread in what's left of the disinfected water. Then start st.i.tching. 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 sc.u.m on top, but water nevertheless. I scoop a few spoonfuls of it into a clean pannikin. Pick up a pinch of pota.s.sium 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.

57.

The future makes up its own mind.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 a.s.sa.s.sins 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 pa.s.s 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 rea.s.sured.

'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 sh.o.r.e. 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.