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| PAPERBACK BOOKS | ||
BOOK ONE
Mrs Monds paused reflectively and looked up at the smiling solicitor. “This is still rather hard for me to understand,” she said. Nonetheless, the mass of fog outside, and the heavy raindrops beating on the windows made her feel glad to be inside the plush and comfortable office of the legal firm of Weston, Fox and Hort. To begin with it was warm, unlike the weather outside, and very unlike the flaking plaster and the cold stonewalls of her ancient little hovel, where she lived, down the gloomy streets of haggard eighteenth century London.
“You say all this once belonged to my son, Andrew? Andrew Monds?” She
enquired incredulously, while peering at the stained and grubby drawings,
nautical charts and associated writings spread out on the table before her,
“and turned up in Australia amongst Aboriginals?”
“Yes, Mrs Monds,” was the quick reply from the dapper little man,
enthusiasm beaming from his eyes.
“Ah,” she said in recognition, “The Spotted Dolphin! We’ve
heard that name before. It has been spoken of within my family now for what must
be two hundred years!” Then, wide-eyed in wonder, she leaned forward as she
noticed her son’s handwriting on a stained and water damaged page. Memories
came flooding back as she visualized his face. Then a tear came to the old
woman’s eyes as warm thoughts touched her heart.
“I’ll try to explain what little I know myself, it’s a fascinating
story!” her smiling host announced. “Surely the most intriguing case that
we’ve ever handled here at Weston, Fox and Hort. It may even change the way
Australians view their history.”
“Please go on,” she invited. “I won’t leave until you do!
Australia, Aboriginals! How curious!” she couldn’t help but utter, as the
legal representative continued, expounding the bits and pieces he had fondly
gathered together about an amazing tale. One that conjured up the image of a
tall ship on a distant tropical ocean, sea spray, and the flash of sunlight
gleaming off the bulge of wind filled sails. *
*
*
Sea birds argued in squawking bird talk, high amongst the hemp rope
rigging, while the wide blue Timor Sea rose and fell below, emulating the
changing moods and colors of the endless skies above.
“Up with the anchor!” rang out through the crisp clean ocean air, and
all strained back to take the slack, and feel their muscles burn. The metal
links rose complainingly, clanking through the portal to the clinking ratchet
arm, hoisting free the anchor on the stubborn starboard side.
Throwing himself against the gunwale Cyrus Rainbird rested, distracted by
the effort, but now he stared up dreamily through a mass of sails and rigging,
eyes adrift, wrestling with his thoughts. A maze of hemp rope lines and lashings
crisscrossed above his head, as if a giant spider had taken up residency on the
mastheads and draped the entire clipper from prow to stern, in the long curved
strands of an endless web. Then he heard a familiar cough and caught sight of
the twinkling eyes of the wiry little captain.
“Good morning,” Captain Hylan offered warily, looking up at the tall
young man whose cautious smile flickered briefly in response to the captain’s
own meager effort.
Rainbird had eyes that shone a piercing blue, a long if not aristocratic
nose, and the beginnings of a golden beard that hid the rest of his strong young
face. He had been crewing on an expedition to the antipodes, manned by a mixed
company of armed service men, merchant seamen, topographers and a noted
scientist and anthropologist, who sought specimens of flora and fauna, as well
as human bones for study and debate.
With the wind borne haste of a tall ship’s grace, Hyland’s little
clipper, The Whippet, had carried them far, virtually tracing the entire
route taken by Beagle…the once celebrated ship of Charles Darwin,
during her final journeys in these waters. Then north to Java they pushed before
the wind, to reconnoiter with the steamers, which were preparing to lay the
submarine cable that would eventually link the far flung outpost of Port Darwin
and the rest of Australia, to England, with the technological wonder of its
day…the telegraph.
And as Cyrus Rainbird wondered what the captain was going to say, his
thoughts flew back to the violence of the last few days, and his confrontation
with Professor Bowden. Just two days before, shrouds of misty weather had parted
to reveal a huge, sea going war canoe, cutting its wake across Van Dieman Gulf,
propelled by 30 dark and brawny tribesmen. With cries of alarm, the frantic
natives worked hard to turn the great dug out log they paddled, with a mad
flurry of desperate strokes and manoeuvrings, only to be assailed and chased by The
Whippet, whose ship’s boat then dropped, at the coming sight of land to
continue the chase, like a ferret to a rabbit.
From the open sea and surf to the muddy tidal flats of an island, they
pulled and leaned against their oars, with their hearts pounding in their chests
and carbines by their sides, until they discovered the opening of a hidden
stream, which flowed out through the dense rhizophora mangle of an impregnable
mangrove maze. Stubbornly they continued the chase, following silt trails
through the shallows of the watery warren, and then glided in beneath the
weeping palms of a jungle-enshrouded river.
Captain Hyland glanced around, and then stepped in closer to the tall lad
to whisper in his ear. “Just say nothing, you’re in enough trouble already.
You’re not supposed to talk like that to the one in charge, but I’ve got it
all worked out…now come!” the captain beckoned as his face turned to the
sounds of hurried steps. “Professor Bowden wants to have his little talk.”
With that he turned and legged it toward the prow, where he stopped to take a
good deep breath of fresh sea air, before he turned again to meet the faces of
the men, who were gathering behind him.
“We are all sons of the empire, and loyal to the Queen…of this I have
no doubt. But there’s been too much bickering!” he admonished, his eyes
darting from face to face searching for reactions. “I understand quite clearly
the thrust of this debate, and so let me nip it in the bud! Follow my advice
good people. Please, keep your opinions to yourselves, and we’ll all get along
fine, at least till we get back to England.” Professor Bowden scowled at the little captain, his eyes glowing with more then just the hint of lingering indignation.
“Is that all?” he stormed. “A major breach of protocol has
occurred! An example must be set!” Then stepping forward with a look designed
to humiliate those dolts beneath his rank and standing, he stared down at the
captain.
“On other ships, this man would have been flogged for
insubordination!”
“And who’s going to flog me?” Rainbird chirped up…six and a half
feet of lurching broad shouldered intimidation, displaying yet again that
alarming disregard he had developed for the dictums of those in charge.
Bowden stepped back in dismay, looked around anxiously for support, and
then shot back his reply with the help of a wagging finger. “It’ll not be
hard, I wager, to find a rightfully indignant soul, who has the gumption to flog
a coward. Let me make it clear, as adviser to the navy and director of
operations for this expedition, I also have authority as her majesty’s
representative! I am in charge!!”
Hyland wilted with a sigh, he had no stomach for this. He knew the
professor was right. All of that was carefully explained, long before the ship
had left London. It wasn’t the same as being press ganged, but because the
Admiralty jointly funded this expedition, the whole crew, technically, could be
drafted, if the situation warranted it …if British interests were being
threatened.
Brashly, Cyrus intervened…yet again…at the risk of further sensor;
his hulking presence up to this point, more evocative of a big lazy cat being
lectured by the mice, rather than a condemned man… his manner blasé to the
point of arrogance…but then his eyes narrowed and he stirred with a menacing
air. He took their measure with an icy stare, his voice a throaty rumble, almost
a growl as he fought to cool down his emotions and make his words sound calm.
“Call me a coward and sure, I disobeyed certain orders,” he admitted,
“but you know how all this started…men lie dead! Guns were used, that was
unnecessary force, and then you desecrated their bodies and their graves. I want
an inquiry!”
“Keep your place sailor!” Bowden raged. “Who gave you permission to
speak? How many times must it be explained…those natives who attacked us were
an unacceptable risk. Indeed, you must know that for yourself. Would you have
preferred someone from our party to be lying dead instead? These savages have to
know their place! These waters need to be secured, made safe for the march of
progress!”
Cyrus struck back remembering well the carnage, and what the roar of
carbines had wrought upon the flesh of men, who could only retaliate with
spears…wounds that gushed a scarlet trail, dripping off the glossy green of
jungle leaves, and lead the crew and their smoking guns up from the river, to a
cluster of valiantly defended huts. Here the boom of the rifles joined in volley
after volley, to fill the jungle with their thunder.
“That was their place!” he bellowed. “We arrived threateningly and
uninvited, creating a confrontation and then, when they retaliated, we met them
with more smoke and powder, and then stole everything we could. Aren’t we
civilized? Where’s compassion for our fellow man?”
“Compassion!” Bowden snorted disbelievingly, as if lecturing a dolt.
“What compassion would they have shown you young sailor, might I ask?
After killing you, they may well have cooked you up and devoured you! Don’t
sour the victory for my men. As far as I can tell, we are the first to engage
those savages on their own soil, since the time Fort Dundas was operational, and
dare I say, the first to exact victory. And as for the skulls, and those carved
poles, I claim them for the lofty purpose of scientific research. The primitive
savages of this land are but strands in the trail of human evolution, and must
be studied before they all die out. Even now, the southern most aboriginals of
the island of Tasmania are believed to be all but extinct.”
Cyrus spoke up again. “If we keep shooting them, of course they’re
all going to be extinct.” Professor Bowden had dark demanding eyes, and his
mouth turned up arrogantly into a mocking grin. He had realized the hypocrisy of
his own words, even as they escaped his lips. But he was the professor, the
learned one, and his pride was at stake so…if he couldn’t confound them with
science, then something that sounded like science would do just as well, and he
would dazzle them with that.
“Any ethnological group that wilts and cannot prosper when confronted
by the superior civilizations of others, has judged itself unfit to endure in
the race for survival,” he continued. “Science proves that nature prospers
abundantly, and then endures by survival of the fittest…not by compassion for
the weak!” He hesitated then, his eyes wide and probing, searching the faces
before him, like a vicar eyes his flock in a sermon from the pulpit…wondering
if he had pushed his point too far.
Twenty years before, Charles Darwin had set society aflame with his
theory of evolution…a passion, which now burned in the heart of this fervent
apostle. Strands of wispy hair sprang up messily across the top of his head,
while he palmed his balding dome. “Anyway,” the professor continued, still
fired by the passion of his convictions, “these are expensive expeditions,
sponsors want their monies worth. Why even the institute of Science and
Anthropological Studies in Germany has a better collection then we have in
London!” he lamented.
Cyrus sighed as he stared on bleakly, and his eyes began to drift away
from their faces, to gaze out across the dazzling sun kissed glow of the Timor
Sea, drinking in the glorious view of the endless beaches, which snaked off into
the distance…like thread wound off the end of a golden ribbon. Lost in
thought, he almost didn’t see them…his own shipmates, who gathered near with
chains.
“Come on mate,” a grizzled old salt called Pete, earnestly implored.
“We don’t want to do this, we know you’re no coward, you’ve got the
heart of a lion, but we’ll get the irons ourselves, just wear the bracelets
overnight, please. If you behave yourself, by tomorrow this will all blow over,
resist and I bet lord Muck over there will get those gung ho Royal Navy chaps to
grab ya, of that you can be sure, and if they flogged ya, they’d be cruel and
vicious and all. Not like us, ya mates, we’ll be gentle, just go through the
motions, like to fool them, so tomorrow we can all gather around with no hard
feelings, and have a good laugh about it.”
“I see,” said Cyrus, “great plan that, you know your mates, because
there the ones that clap you in irons, then only flog ya lightly. With mates
like you chaps, who needs enemies?” Rainbird strode away laughing with his old
friends in pursuit.
“Oh come on now, there’s nowhere you can go, there’s no other way
for it, you’ll get us all in trouble too!” Pete wearily protested.
“Touch me!” Cyrus exclaimed, “and I’ll throw you in the drink.”
“Oh, don’t do that!” Gummy Bert Adams protested, almost toothless
from age and the curse of scurvy…an affliction from voyages of the past.
“You know I can’t swim, and stop waltzing away from us like that.”
“Sorry Bert,” was the sincere reply, “but I’ll chuck that bloody
professor in, that’s for sure.”
“Ya can’t do that!” was the anguished cry from all concerned,
“he’ll…hang ya! Come on Cyrus, slow down will you?” the chorus
continued, and in a group they paraded around the sunlit deck, gesturing and
arguing, but more like friends out for a walk, brothers through a thousand
storms across ten thousand leagues…until Bowden lost his temper.
“Head him off, blast ya. Can’t you see he’s playing games, you’re
all going around in bloody circles, he can’t go anywhere you fools, just grab
him!” Then suddenly his eyes widened catching sight of something unexpected.
Coming fast on the strong west wind was a line of triangular shaped sails.
“Malays!” he muttered. Soon every eye was portside, speculation
growing with a hum of fearful words, and the alarming talk of pirates. Taking
advantage of the distraction to scramble topside, Cyrus straddled the canvas
folds of the foresail, and then stood upon the crossbeam where he hollered out
to one and all.
“They’re only fishing, no need to be alarmed lads, they are after
trepang…sea cucumber. Look they’ve got trawl lines out!” thus relieving
all the fears.
Onwards, they came across a sea of Prussian blue, at least a dozen praus,
their huge mat sails filled tight, snapped taut with the willing wind. In full
flight they were a magnificent sight, at the time when the men of Macassa came
to harvest Australian waters for the lucrative Chinese markets, as they had done
for centuries, until custom duties were enforced. However, keen for peaceful
coexistence, the friendly Malays began waving…a host of brown faces displaying
eager smiles…their hips girded in colorful sarongs, black hair flying in the
wind as the first prau leveled with the clipper.
Cyrus continued climbing. With loose-limbed agile swings, he scrambled
ape like through the rigging…to the very top…up upon the dizzying heights of
the lofty mainmast. Here he brooded on his perch, with a cool wind in his face,
rocking with the sway above the sunlit glow of the endless sea, while he watched
the fleet glide closer, skimming through the glimmer, as they cut yon aqua
ocean’s sheen, with trails of frothy white.
An opportunity was presenting itself, he thought, and he coolly weighed
his options. Stay here and get a flogging, or jump ship and head back to the
Australian mainland? Lingering high above the problems down below, he ignored
the irritating orders barked at him from those who strode the deck. Gamely he
dangled in the air between the mainmast and the mizzen, defiantly taking his
time, riding with the wind, before he picked his spot and dropped down before
the captain.
“What say I leave with the Malays…save us a lot of strife, won’t
it?” Hyland gasped, then after cautiously glancing around for the cantankerous
professor, he coughed then fixed him squarely in the eye.
“I cannot give you leave to do this lad, but off the record, God speed,
and if I had your youth I’d probably join you.”
“He’s a decent sort,” thought Cyrus, as he looked back toward the
wizened little man. Always with a pipe to his lips and a rye smile on his
weather beaten face, sprouting groves of graying stubble.
“I really hoped these warmer waters would have helped me get over that
damned cough,” he wheezed. “But anyway lad, I truly wish you well, send us a
letter one day.” Cyrus flashed a smile, the cheerful determination on his face
belying the pangs of guilt and apprehension he was feeling about jumping ship.
It didn’t feel right, it was running away, but he knew he was going to do it.
“Not only will I send you a note, but I’ll come and visit you in me
own ship,” he said with a wink. The captain blinked, anxiously glanced around
again then soberly responded. “I don’t doubt that one little bit, young
Rainbird, fare ye well.”
His stomach fluttered and he felt a heady surge as he took big nervous
breaths. Then abandoning all possessions, save the shillings in his purse, Cyrus
Rainbird took a running jump to hurtle off the gunwales, then felt the sudden
jarring freshness overwhelm him as he plunged into the balmy waters.
The first prau had passed by now, leaving him bobbing in its wake, before
he struck out for the next, and by the time the third was about to come level
with The Whippet, his big hands had grasped its trailing dredge lines and
he hauled himself aboard…through the foam and broken waters sloughing off the
stern. For five hot sun drenched days he camped with the bemused Malays under
shady trees, back up from the bright sandy beaches, behind their huge smoke
sheds of palm leaves and bamboo, before arriving at the customs duty depot on
the Bowen Straights.
And when he arrived at the frontier town of Palmerston, after hitching a
ride on a pearling lugger, he did not linger in the doldrums long, not knowing
what to do. Everywhere bewhiskered faces and the lips of men with eager eyes,
were speaking glowingly of gold! El Dorado beckoned and vessels and tubs of
every kind, from steam and sail, to junks and pearling luggers, had cut loose to
harbour in the north and journey up the rivers.
Cyrus looked around him, excited by what he saw, sensing the excitement
and atmosphere in the air. Pole huts with bark roofs were popping up everywhere,
to form a rustic settlement, amongst the shade of the casuarinas trees, while
men with plans, passion, and excitement in their eyes, strode the dusty rutted
streets alongside horses, oxen and wagons, loaded with equipment.
Jingling the last remaining shillings in his pocket and slapping at
mosquitoes, he wondered where to start. “Can’t afford a horse,” he told
himself. “So what do I buy first, food, a pick, a shovel?” Suddenly he
missed his shipboard mates, Pete, Gummy and the Captain…now so far away.
Perspiration glowed upon his cheeks and stung his eyes, the sun pounded down
upon him as he watched the hustle and bustle of a booming frontier town. His
empty stomach growled like a hungry beast. “Ah well,” he muttered, “sure
does beat a flogging.”
*
*
*
The camp site was an enchanting but isolated clearing at the base of a
great fig tree, its buttress roots anchored to the forests floor like the legs
of a mighty throne…the expanse of its canopy reigning, cathedral like above
the lesser trees. But alas, the grandeur of nature’s picturesqueness, bore no
joy for the tearful man who had seated himself on a fallen branch, illuminated
in the filtered glow of the afternoon sun, which had burst through in beams,
beneath its massive boughs.
He had a canvas tent and a merry little fire, but the near empty bottle
of instant happiness resting by his feet, hadn’t said good-bye to all the
miseries which the letter in his hands had seemingly now caused him…the sounds
of his sobs and sadness guarded, muted by the insulating walls of verdant scrub
that hid him. The bush was still and silent, the humidity oppressive, even
insects…except the mosquitoes…ceased their buzzing and lulled about silently
in the shade, as he sat there by himself.
However, despite his efforts to be so, he wasn’t really alone, because
drawing near…yet still concealed amongst the leaves and branches…after
battling the scrub rather than tramp the muddy track nearby, another man had
cautiously approached and was now peering through the undergrowth, clear blue
eyes quietly observing what seemed to be the forlorn form of the obviously heart
broken.
So with unheralded aplomb, as you do out in the bush…without a door to
knock on…the watcher suddenly made his presence known, a tall bloke though
really just a lad…unexpectedly bursting through the leafy surrounds, as if he
had strode in out of nowhere.
“Hello, the name’s Rainbird,” he said, with a wide grin and
flashing teeth. “Would I be welcome to sit awhile, by your pleasant fire and
brew myself some tea?” The beginning of a conversation, he hoped, which might
lead to the explanation, as to why a man should look so bleak. Leonard
McKenzie’s mouth dropped open in surprise, as he dumbly looked him up and
down, then mild embarrassment appeared upon his face. “Sure, just plant
yourself down, anywhere you like,” he said, with a lilt and bur upon his voice
as thick as the heath and heather of his Scottish highland home, while thrusting
out an arm in an exuberant gesture of welcome…attempting to stand, before
thinking better of it…as pleasantries were exchanged.
Cyrus settled near the fire, offering a brief explanation of how he came
to be there, and his adventures so far, though avoiding the fact that he had
jumped ship to stay in Australia…not wanting to try and explain to strangers,
the row he had with a certain representative of the British Royal Navy…he was
still rather sensitive about that, while all the time resisting the urge to ask
too many pointed questions of his own, and they talked until the evening’s
darkness blanked out the world around them.
“You see I needed to make a quid,” McKenzie said, “so I sought to
join the merry bunch of human flotsam, washed up on these bonny shores. Keen as
all the rest I was to make me self a fortune.” With that he paused to wipe
away a tear, feeling dizzy and almost passing out as he looked up into the
night, and noticed stars, those damned romantic stars. Even now they twinkled
ever brightly through the spaces in the leaves, and he felt again the pain of
love now lost. “But as I was digging in the dirt, battling thirst, and fever
and getting bitten by mosquitoes, she was doing some gold digging of her own.”
“Now we’re getting to it,” Cyrus thought, as he stared blankly at
the teary eyes and round bewhiskered face.
“As I was scratching around in the mud…and getting nowhere… she was
finding what she wanted. And it definitely doesn’t include me anymore!” he
solemnly declared, shaking his wooly head…as if he still couldn’t believe
it. Then he shook as he laughed out loud, a mocking self-depreciating chuckle,
from deep down in his belly, as if to free himself, at last, from his miseries
with mirth, flinging off the last of his remorse, the way a dog dries itself by
shaking off the water, and then he changed the subject, almost sounding sober.
“What’s the biggest croc you’ve ever seen?” he challenged,
reaching down behind his back…in his inebriated state almost pivoting too far
on the fulcrum of his wide posterior…before restoring his balance, and
bringing up proudly in his hands to the illuminating glow of the campfires
dancing flame, a new Martini Henri rifle. “Not the kind of thing one should be
alone with, when you’re down like me,” he said. “I’m kind of glad you
came along actually, cause I think I know a better use for this thing now.”
Cyrus merely shrugged, “about twenty feet I guess.”
“That’s nothing!” Leonard McKenzie contended, “I know where
there’s a monster!” Short in stature, wide of girth, and somewhat rotund in
appearance, McKenzie had a complexion that burned easily in the sun…when not
protected under a pith helmet, or the wide brimmed hat, he was apt to wear upon
his ruddy head. Nonetheless it was a head that contained a good brain for
business, despite his passion for the Scotch: “made from the gently roasted
grains and peaty waters of his homeland, many miles away,” he would fondly
relate, or in reality, anything which contained alcohol. Many a canny scheme for
sure and instant wealth had hatched behind those animated eyes. But as is the
way, more were the opportunities lost, to the curse of the demon drink.
“Mining is my main interest laddie,” McKenzie was keen to relate,
“but I hear the croc skins are selling well.” Then he paused and his eyes
hardened, “most chaps would be too scared to go to the places I want to go,
they just like to stick to beaten tracks, frightened of the bush! Frightened of
the blacks, frightened of the crocs! So I say, why don’t we hunt them crocs
first, before we pan the creeks for gold? We may, or may not find gold, and
I’m not promising instant riches, but you never know do you. Yes!” he said
with confidence in his voice, firelight in his eyes and a wink to seal the deal,
“either way, we could make ourselves a quid.”
So while the embers smoldered at their feet a partnership was formed and
in the days and weeks to come they readied all their needs, then departed. The
entire shooters camp with men, both black and white alike, vanished, as the
jungle folded in around them, absorbing them into the sweltering world of near
impenetrable coastal rivers and dank dark stinking quagmires.
Hunting crocodiles could be a hazardous occupation, for
those who dared stalk their wild domain, and flourished for a time when these
creatures…the closest things to dinosaurs yet seen by modern man, were big and
plentiful. In
the untamed, goose haunted swamps, where buffalo and banteng ox abound, leaping
and splashing to the safety of their hidden haunts and wallows, the stealth,
speed, and the sheer power of the salt-water crocodile conquered all, dragging
its bleating victims down, sinking back into the tepid ooze, beneath the
floating scum and rafting wads of thick aquatic weeds.
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