Blackbird Story: A Gripping Tale of Intrigue and Adventure in the South Seas and Torres Strait

By John Singe

It started with a letter from Queensland and abruptly Duncan Ross, a placid clerk, is plucked from his humdrum life on the Sydney wharves and dispatched on a secret mission to the South Seas where he encounters brutal blackbirders, fierce cannibals and, unexpectedly, a resurgent Ku Klux Klan fixed on recreating the cotton plantations of the Old South in the far reaches of the Pacific. From the crystalline lagoons of the Coral Sea to the pearling grounds of the Torres Strait Duncan charts an erratic course betwixt duty and self-preservation. Kidnapped, castaway and desperate he finally pitches up on the raw coast of unknown New Guinea where he is plunged headlong into the midst of unspeakable savagery and danger. This is a rollicking saga of adventure and intrigue set against the colonial rivalry of the great powers in the South Pacific.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796009194

John Singe

John Singe taught Senior English and History in high schools in North Queensland and Papua New Guinea during four decades. He settled for many years in the Torres Strait Islands and his particular interests are historical research, writing, travelling and diving in the Pacific Islands. He has authored five previous books on Torres Strait history and fiction and has written a number of scripts for Australian television. He lives in Cairns, Queensland.

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Copyright © 2020 by John Singe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Front Cover Image: Canoe at Cape York/Melville S. Harden State Library of New South Wales Q84/126 DONc03392003

Back Cover Image: The Blackbirders/Norman H. Hardy and E. Way Elkington The Savage South Seas Black London 1907.

Title Page Image: Old Cannibal Chief/ Norman H. Hardy and E. Way Elkington The Savage South Seas Black London 1907.

Rev. date: 08/20/2020

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Part One

Man Bilong Schooner

Part Two

Blackbirds

Part Three

The Reckoning

Historical Note

To Barbara

PROLOGUE

‘T hink about it,’ he said.

Well, I would. After all, he was the Premier of Queensland and I could hardly ignore him. But did he seriously expect me to return to the Torres Strait? Back to those wretched islands where I had survived shipwreck, headhunters, pirates, man-eating crocodiles, vindictive sorcerers and several quite unorthodox marriages, not to mention Frank Jardine. No. Not in a month of Sundays. I mean, he couldn’t make me. Could he?

John Douglas smiled at me across the big desk, his urbane features framed by the red cedar panelling on the office wall behind him. He was bearded, in the Queensland fashion, and dressed in a well-cut suit. A gold watch chain glistened across his front. I heard he had been a dashing young squatter in his early days, a flashy dresser and renowned horseman. He and his brother had come out from Scotland with a bagful of cash and now owned sprawling sheep stations on the Darling Downs and around Port Curtis. I sensed he wasn’t a merciless brute like Frank Jardine, but he was shrewd and liked to have his own way. He would be a hard man to refuse.

Damn it! I thought. How will I get out of this one? I was in a hell of a pickle and, as usual, it wasn’t my fault. My uncle Andrew was responsible.

You might recall how I had returned to Sydney with my wayward wife, Jemima, following my exhausting sojourn in the Torres Strait Islands between 1859 and 1870. We had received a warm welcome from my mother, uncle Andrew and his wife, aunt Victoria. My uncle promptly put me to work in the family business, import/export, on the busy wharves around Circular Quay in Sydney Harbour. Business was booming. What with the goldfields, wheat, wool, hides and tallow from New South Wales and goods pouring in from the Pacific Islands, whale oil, sandalwood, pearl shell, turtle shell and Fiji cotton, we scarcely had room to store the stuff before shipping it off to Britain. Then we had manufactured products coming in for sale in the colonies. There weren’t enough hours in the day. We worked six days a week from dawn till dusk and often by lantern light deep into the night. My uncle formed an association with other shipping agents to exploit opportunities in Queensland and New Guinea, none of which concerned me as I beavered away with ink and pen in the cavernous warehouses lining the wharves.

Then one day my uncle called me to his office.

‘Duncan,’ says he, ‘I have a job for you. It will involve some travel.’

‘Really?’ says I. ‘Where?’

‘Queensland.’

There was a long, thoughtful silence.

‘I don’t think so,’ says I.

‘Why not?’

I gave him a thunderous look. ‘Uncle, you know how I feel about Queensland. It goes on forever, a hell of a big place. Then, finally, you reach New Guinea where you don’t want to be. I saw friends decapitated in front of me, remember? And did I tell you about the cannibals? And the crocodiles? It was a bloody nightmare, and you want me to go back?’

‘But,’ says he, ‘you are going to Brisbane at Moreton Bay. It’s just over the Queensland border, a thousand miles from New Guinea. And look.’ He flourished an envelope. ‘I have a letter from John Douglas, Premier of Queensland, and he has asked for you specifically. This is business. Can you imagine the opportunities?’

‘Uncle, you don’t know Queensland. It has a way of consuming you. I won’t do it.’

He shook his head ruefully. ‘Duncan, John Douglas is an old friend. We attended the same church in Scotland and …’ He paused and gave a reluctant sigh before continuing. ‘I am in his debt. Some years back, Douglas was an elected member of the Legislative Assembly here in Sydney and he arranged a loan so we could purchase the big warehouse. It pains me to reveal that we have not repaid the money. We will but, as it stands, he owns the building. I’m afraid we can’t say no.’

I didn’t like the sound of this one bit. I’d had my fill of powerful men and their schemes, and Douglas had asked for me specifically. That couldn’t be good.

‘But we are not going,’ says I sarcastically. ‘It’s me who will be thrust into the frontier.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. You’re going to Brisbane, nowhere near the frontier, and you will go. I insist.’

As I said, it was my uncle Andrew’s fault.

PART ONE

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Man Bilong Schooner

Chapters 1 - 5

CHAPTER 1

‘I require your answer tomorrow without fail,’ says Douglas, shaking my hand. ‘There is no time to waste.’

I left his office in a funk and my surroundings didn’t console me. Parliament House, where I had met Douglas, was unfinished. Labourers bustled about laden with ladders and tools, and, in an alcove off to one side, plasterers were at work. Timber furnishings glowed the rich tones of native cedar and mahogany for there had been no time for woodwork to dull and darken with age. Fresh cut stone blocks were stacked by the front entrance. Queensland’s Parliament House was a work in progress, as was the colony of Queensland itself.

Sixteen years since its creation Queensland was struggling and beset by financial problems. There was rumoured to be just seven and a half pence left in the Treasury. The colony’s small population of white settlers was thinly spread across a wilderness the size of Europe, and they were embroiled in a pitiless frontier war with native tribes. Then there was the fierce climate with harsh dry seasons, followed by wet season downpours that flooded the countryside. Settlers battled either drought, which shrivelled vegetation and reduced their properties to dust, or inundations, which swept away their stock and left people stranded for months in the trackless bush. Such conditions produced a rare breed of brutalized survivor, callous ruffians capable of any barbarity born of desperation.

I will give you some notion of their business practice. A cattle property with native ‘blacks’ in residence might be worth one hundred pounds, but blacks scared stock from water holes, speared cattle and horses and were generally considered a confounded nuisance. Now if the blacks were removed, the same property might be worth as much as four hundred pounds, and there were frontier speculators who absolutely turned a profit by buying up properties where ‘the blacks were bad’. They then sent armed ghouls on horseback to exterminate the blacks, men, women and children. After a year or two, they sold the property, now clear of natives, as a going concern thus tripling their investment. It was said that five hundred blacks a year were murdered in this fashion and their bodies mostly burned to remove all traces of their existence. Squatters and bankers got rich on the corpses of slaughtered Aborigines, for they were all tied up in the dirty business. You probably think I’m exaggerating. Well, I’m not. That was Queensland for you. In this infant colony, charlatans and madmen were on the loose. ‘Empire builders’ you might call them today.

I trudged next door to the Bellevue Hotel, a plain two-storey building with a small veranda on the front corner overlooking the street and a white picket fence on its right where a gate gave access to the yard. The establishment was popular with politicians and government officials, and my own lodgings were on the second floor.

However, as I reached the gate, I hesitated with my hand on the latch. There were a few people about, day labourers with their bags walking the road, washer girls in aprons hanging out sheets to dry in the hotel yard, a workman hammering palings onto the hotel’s side fence and a couple of old buffers on the veranda with their newspapers. I needed space and some tranquillity to ponder Douglas’s proposal, so I turned away from the hotel and down the road towards the river.

It was a pleasant walk, though Brisbane town presented an odd spectacle at the time. There were acres of open land enclosed by fences with imposing government buildings dotted here and there and the occasional hotel and boarding house baking in the sun. Down near the river, cottages and boat sheds clustered about the riverbank at Petrie Bight, where the masts of sailing ships poked above the trees lining the shore.

To my right, tucked into a river bend, lay the Botanic Gardens, where clumps of trees and flower beds graced Government House, the residence of the Queensland governor. This two-storey stone edifice would not have been out of place in Piccadilly, and I was struck by the incongruity. The old expression ‘big building, small town’ came to mind. I suppose it spoke to the ambition of its architects, men like Douglas, with their eyes on the future.

I found a pleasant spot on the riverbank in the shade of the trees, the water lapping at my feet and the breeze rustling leaves overhead. A dozen or so ships were moored in a smooth basin beneath cliffs on the opposite bank. To my left lay a wooden jetty.

I surveyed the moored vessels with a practised eye, mostly dishevelled tramps which had been worked hard on the reefs and bars along the Queensland coast or shabby island traders with brown figures lounging about the decks. They weren’t much to look at, not compared with the elegant clippers and towering merchantmen I was used to in Sydney. However, mid-river, a sleek three-mast schooner caught my attention. You could tell, even from a distance, that she was trim and shipshape, if a trifle weather-beaten.

As I watched, a whaleboat shot out from the schooner’s side, pushing against the incoming tide, heading towards my location on the bank. I observed idly that they meant to angle across the current and sweep along the bank past me to the jetty.

I was lost in my own thoughts, and the boat was quite close, say thirty yards off, before I actually took notice, and the sight startled me out of my reverie. The boat’s crew, hearty brown savages, heaved at the oars. Many were bare to the waist, muscles rippling and brawny shoulders glistening perspiration. At the stern, a huge Polynesian, dressed in salt-stained sulu and loose blouse, gripped the tiller with a fist the size of a ham. He had wrapped a crimson bandana above his brow, as seamen will, to keep the sweat and spray from his eyes. Seated by his side, a sun-browned European in white shirt and trousers peered ahead without showing me the slightest interest. He looked lean and tough as teak, with a dark beard, and his pilot cap pulled down hard to his ears in the old sailor’s style.

It was like a hit in the face for, you see, this was my past coming back to haunt me. And abruptly, I could feel Queensland all about me, the raw, hard, stink of the frontier. All right Brisbane wasn’t the frontier, but I knew one thing led to another, and soon it would be shipwrecks and cannibals and every man for himself. You might think me melodramatic, as my uncle Andrew liked to say, but he had not been there. And as I stood there by the Brisbane River, the memories came flooding back. Even years later, they tortured my sleep and had me writhing and roaring in bed in the dead of night. I didn’t receive much sympathy from my spouse, Jemima, but I knew she wrestled with her own demons having survived a massacre by Coral Sea headhunters, only to be abducted and held as paramour by their diabolical leader. Often, I was woken as she whimpered and struggled feebly in her sleep, and I knew she was reliving these past terrors. So when Douglas asked me to return to the Coral Sea, you might imagine my reaction.

The boat tied up to the jetty, laughter and banter in the island tongue ringing across the water to where I posed, frozen in horrified contemplation. I could just see myself in that boat surrounded by savages, up to my neck in lies and deception and no hope of escape. However, the real horror came with the realization that I could not refuse Douglas. He was Premier of Queensland. If I wrong-sided him, there was no telling where it might lead. I had had dealings with Frank Jardine, remember, and Douglas might not be Jardine, but he was rich and powerful and a politician, enough said.

Also, there was my uncle Andrew to consider. He had all but begged me to take this assignment. It wasn’t just business. Douglas had financed our company’s expansion and still had his hooks into it. And if I slighted my uncle in this, he might well cast me out of the family business and into the street.

As I ambled back uphill towards my hotel, I went through the thing in my mind, over and over again, but couldn’t, for the life of me, see a way out. I was stuck, pinned like an insect to a board. Blast them both! Despair turned to fury. I might have to accept Douglas’s proposal, but I wouldn’t go easy. Anger was a weapon which I had learned to control and put to my service. I wasn’t the callow youth of earlier times to be misled and abused, so if I must suffer on the frontier (and suffer I would, I had no doubt of that), then I could at least make Douglas squirm.

I went to my room early but tossed about most of the night and rose tired and irritable in the morning.

Douglas greeted me with a handshake and ushered me into his office.

‘And how was the accommodation at the Bellevue?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘I have stayed at better back in my Sydney days, but with my new office here, the Bellevue is close, and the food is excellent if you like mutton chops!’ says he with a practiced laugh. ‘Ah, Sydney’, he beamed, ‘how lucky you are to live in that bustling metropolis whilst we are exiled to this wilderness.’

I smiled despite myself. He was an agreeable old fellow but sharp as a tack. His genial reception was just him buttering me up prior to throwing me into the soup, but two could play at that game.

‘Ah, well,’ says I, ‘it doesn’t seem too bad to me. I must confess I never expected to see so many fine stone buildings in Brisbane. I’m certain they are on a par with any I’ve seen in Sydney. However do you afford it?’

Douglas frowned and shot me a curious look. Queensland’s near bankruptcy must keep him awake at night, but I wasn’t finished with him yet.

‘And that splendid new bridge spanning the river, what do you call it? The name escapes me.’

‘The Victoria Bridge,’ says he warily.

‘Yes, of course!’ I cried. ‘A magnificent structure. Why, it must be a half-mile long.’

‘Not quite,’ he replied.

‘Must be close,’ says I, leaning forward as if hanging on his every word.

‘It’s 343 yards precisely,’ says he stonily.

‘Really,’ I responded, feigning surprise, ‘and does it actually have a section in the middle that swings back to permit the traffic of tall ships?’

‘Yes, it does,’ he snapped. ‘And now can we get to the matter at hand?’

And that is how it’s done, youngsters, how to demolish a charming interlocutor and have him come to the point. Mind you, I don’t think it would have worked with Frank Jardine. He had a brain like a granite quarry.

So having disposed of the preliminaries, Douglas presented his case anew.

‘Duncan, I need you to return to the Coral Sea. No one else will do. You will be acting for my government and the Colonial Office, but I require absolute confidentiality.’

‘What would I do there?’

He appraised me with his head aslant. He was a handsome old devil with his trimmed beard and fancy suit, and you sensed that he was a decent fellow.

‘Have you ever heard of the Reverends Archibald Murray and Samuel McFarlane?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘They are our special interest, missionaries in those Torres Strait Islands that you remember so well.’

‘Not with any affection,’ I observed.

Douglas ignored the remark. ‘Let me tell you about Archibald Murray. The London Missionary Society sent him to the Samoan Islands. Unfortunately,’ Douglas sniffed, ‘he is a Pentecostal.’ From his tone, you might have thought Murray operated a brothel. ‘He led a revival at Tutuila, which brought him much renown. And what I tell you now comes from LMS documents, which I have perused. The untutored native people took in the most extreme features of Pentecostal expression. Women were possessed by the Holy Spirit, or Satan or whatever genie their fevered minds conjured up. They convulsed and tore at their hair, in church, mind you. Men dragged them outside, but the affected women possessed amazing strength, throwing men about like skittles. And the men were likewise affected, weeping, roaring lamentations and fainting left and right. The interior of the church resembled a hospital. Murray was frequently the only adult still on his feet with fifty natives comatose or thrashing about on the floor. It was bedlam, and Murray encouraged their contortions, believing such absurd manifestations signalled their coming to Christ.’ Douglas looked deadly serious. ‘The revival lasted two years by which time the district was in turmoil for the possessions and fainting spread outside the church and occurred daily in the street and about the villages. Utter chaos, but of course, Murray chose to see the hand of God in it and was lionized by his fellow Pentecostals in the LMS. The man is a dangerous lunatic.’ He paused and cocked an eyebrow in my direction. ‘He has gone to Darnley Island, seeking converts among the natives there.’

Without thinking, I commented, ‘I know Darnley. Have friends there as a matter of fact.’

I had risen to the bait like a trout to a fly, and Douglas gave a smug grin. He could see I was just the chap for the job. I could have kicked myself.

‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked testily.

‘Patience,’ says he. ‘Samuel McFarlane came from a humble Scot family. His father was an engineer, a practical man good with his hands, and young Samuel studied hard and was accepted into Bedford College by the London Missionary Society. So far so good. Sadly, though born into the Congregational church which, you might think, is extreme enough, he was influenced by radicals to join the Bunyan Meeting.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Why, you might as well consort with a tribe of Red Indians!’

I had been raised Presbyterian and had heard of the Bunyans. They were zealots inhabiting the outer edge of Scottish theology.

‘Are they as bad as I have heard?’

‘Duncan,’ Douglas thundered, ‘even the Baptists think they are extreme.’ I had heard that Douglas was a straight-down-the-line conservative of the Church of England.

‘But surely,’ says I, ‘that shouldn’t matter. I mean …’

‘It matters,’ he responded sternly. ‘I don’t think you understand our vulnerability here. The survival of this colony is at stake. You must comprehend the big picture.’

Douglas lurched out of the chair and strode over to a map of the Pacific Ocean hung on the wall. There was the Australian continent, and spreading north and east were the Pacific Islands, New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, New Zealand, New Caledonia, the Loyalties, New Hebrides, Fiji, Tonga, Samoa and so on.

He slapped the map. ‘This vast ocean, its islands, its peoples and its riches are being contested right now by the great powers, Britain, France, Germany and the United States. It is a race. At present, Britain holds New Zealand and Fiji. Germany coverts New Guinea, though the French and Dutch are sniffing around as well. And the French have consolidated in New Caledonia and the Loyalty Islands. The New Hebrides is in dispute. And these are just the near islands. You can imagine the complications farther north and east. This is the Great Game transposed to the Pacific.’

I was impressed by the enormity of the picture he painted. Oh, I read the newspapers and heard this and that about the islands, for we dealt directly with island traders. But tell truth, my world was the warehouse at Sydney wharf. I couldn’t give a fig for these faraway places and their political intrigues.

I told Douglas as much. He nodded his great head as if he had half-expected this response.

‘Consider this. You and your uncle are in the import/export business. You rely on British ships sailing to the Pacific, Asia, India and the Old Country. What do you think might happen if Germany and France were to possess New Guinea and the other islands in an arc southwards to New Caledonia? They would control the vital shipping route through Torres Strait and our access to Singapore, Hong Kong and China, let alone threatening our communications with the Central and Western Pacific and North America. They could, if they chose, stifle trade and expansion and threaten our very existence. Indeed, the security and success of Queensland and New South Wales depends on Britain securing these islands. As I indicated, New Caledonia has already fallen to the French. We must ensure that New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, the New Hebrides and Torres Strait are held by Britain.’

‘Thank you for the riveting geography lesson,’ I interjected. ‘When can I return to Sydney?’

‘You’ll not be going to Sydney anytime soon,’ Douglas exploded. ‘Now pay attention. This is important. McFarlane is the more dangerous of the two. He is a practical man, good with his hands like his father. He conceives an idea and follows it through. He is resolute, charismatic and industrious. He gets things done.’

‘But surely,’ I puzzled, ‘that’s a good thing?’

‘Not necessarily. The LMS sent him to Lifu, in the Loyalty Islands, and McFarlane did a sterling job. He erected churches, learned the language, printed tracts in the native tongue and gained the trust of the chiefs. Thousands of Lifu people placed their faith in McFarlane and the London Missionary Society, all done without the fearful theatrics induced by Archibald Murray in Samoa.’

McFarlane seemed an absolute paragon, the epitome of the Christian soldier carrying the gospel to the heathen in distant lands. Yet he was obviously in disfavour. I am sure my face reflected my confusion. Douglas peered at me.

‘Am I missing something?’ I asked.

‘The Loyalty Islands are claimed by the French and allocated to the Roman Catholic Church. The French could not allow an organized tribe of anglophile, native Protestants within their bounds. And McFarlane has an arrogance and vanity which soon came into play. He encouraged the Protestant chiefs to set up a police guard to enforce mission rules. This got out of hand, and Catholic villagers complained. The French authorities responded by sending soldiers to occupy Lifu. LMS schools were closed and teachers imprisoned. McFarlane wrote to newspapers seeking support. The Sydney Morning Herald led the campaign on his behalf. The French accused him of sedition and claimed that McFarlane and his wife had desecrated a Catholic church. The French government demanded McFarlane leave. He claimed protection from the British government. The dispute became a major diplomatic incident, requiring the attention of both governments and the intervention of the Colonial Office in London.’

‘My god,’ says I. ‘What happened?’

‘A deal was hammered out by diplomats. The LMS schools were permitted to reopen, but McFarlane was ordered to New South Wales. He received a hero’s welcome, for he had defied the French and the Catholic Church, all in the name of Protestant Christianity.’ Douglas paused for effect then snorted, ‘My eye. The whole conflict was caused by the stubborn pretensions of one man, Samuel McFarlane. The debacle is a tribute to his unfettered ambition. He is that mad genius who can craft empires, in a practical sense, with no notion of, or interest in, the consequences. He is blind to the shambles he created in the Loyalty Islands and shows no remorse but rather wallows in the limelight afforded by his notoriety. He is the fanatic, always convinced he is right, a shipwreck waiting to happen, and he has transferred his operations to Torres Strait and New Guinea. Can you see now, Duncan?’

‘Ah,’ says I.

‘Exactly,’ Douglas nodded. ‘We are acting to secure our northern boundary. As we speak, Queensland is drafting, and will soon enact, legislation to extend our border north to the coast of New Guinea, bringing all the islands of the Torres Strait under British protection, thus securing the Torres Strait shipping route, which is vital to our interests. Britain fully supports this move, and police magistrate Chester, you remember him, will be moving the administration from Somerset to Thursday Island to better manage the islands. The Germans and French won’t like it, but they can go whistle.’

‘And what of me?’ I asked.

‘You are to go to the islands posing as a merchant trader, which you are. You know the islands and can speak the languages, and you have native friends there. You will assess McFarlane and the LMS. We must know what they are doing, their intentions and the scope of their operations. The last thing we need is Murray’s hysterical native revival causing chaos or a diplomatic confrontation between McFarlane and the Germans, or the Dutch in West New Guinea or anybody for that matter.’

‘So you want me to be your spy?’

‘I prefer the term agent,’ says Douglas, ‘and yes, this mission is confidential. No one must know our true intentions but the Colonial Office, you and I. The London Missionary Society might take umbrage if they knew we were snooping on their operations. Discretion, Duncan.’

I could have told him that if it was discretion he wanted, he’d picked the wrong person, but that was his lookout.

‘What of my uncle Andrew?’

‘He thinks you are sounding out commercial trade opportunities in the Coral Sea, which you will. That is what the ship’s master will be told, and you will present a report on trade to make it all appear bona fide.’

‘And what does a spy get paid these days?’ I asked.

‘I would expect that a Queensland agent of trade would be paid twenty pounds a month, plus reasonable expenses.’

It was a generous remuneration, and Douglas knew it. Not that I was tempted. I considered the proposal for about two seconds.

‘No,’ I said.

‘But,’ spluttered Douglas, ‘for Queen and country. What? You can’t say no. Think carefully. This is for your uncle Andrew. He is my old friend, but business is business. You couldn’t think to disadvantage him. Also, and my heart is in this, Duncan, surely, those native people on the Torres Strait Islands will be British subjects very soon. And we will not treat them as we did the blacks in Queensland. It is a disgrace! The Aborigines here have been exterminated in defiance of British law, and I am resolved that Torres Strait Islanders should fare better. They are human beings. They are our own flesh and blood and are entitled to the privileges we enjoy. The natives of the islands of Torres Strait are capable of exercising all the rights of British citizens and ought to be regarded as such.’

‘Do you know Frank Jardine?’I asked.

‘Of course,’ said Douglas. ‘He no longer works for the administration, nor will he if I have any say in it. Duncan,’ he implored, ‘I am trying to change things. Change is coming to the Torres Strait. Working together, we can save hundreds of lives.’

I thought how I had saved Passiwopad from Jardine at Red Point and how I had saved Tipoti from the firing squad on Wednesday Island. I looked at Douglas’s stern, passionate face. Did I trust him? Well, I did.

‘Very well,’ says I reluctantly. ‘Show me the way.’

So you see how wise I had been to badger Douglas. He probably found it tedious, but my antics had teased out the real motivation behind my deployment. And you will note, Douglas might have simply blackmailed me using my uncle’s indebtedness to him as a lever, but he chose not to. Rather, he had appealed to my decency, our common humanity, and I respected him for it. I still didn’t want to go, but I would, and his concern for the welfare of the native people in the islands gave the mission a veneer of nobility.

As Douglas saw me out, he hesitated at the door, looking troubled. ‘I have had reports claiming that McFarlane introduced measles to the Torres Strait Islands and New Guinea. There has been serious loss of life and some people have their knives out for him.’

‘Measles!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would McFarlane do that?’

‘His enemies would say that it was his design to weaken the hold of the chiefs and heathen traditions over the natives so the Christian mission might fill the vacuum. It’s been done before, don’t you worry, but I require clarification on this precise issue. I do not believe McFarlane is capable of such perfidy but, if he were such a man, I would have him removed and sent packing. I rely on your advice in this matter. Do not fail me.’

CHAPTER 2

D ouglas gave me three days to prepare and arranged to cover my expenses, so I toured the shops, purchasing clothes, boots, hats, belts and bags, canvas covers, rope, candles, sacks of flour and rice, a chest of tea, a box of ship’s biscuits and several cartons of tinned meat. I made sure I had a couple of good quality knives and an axe for myself and a bundle of cheap long-bladed knives and hatchets for trade with natives.

I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and ate little during those days. It wasn’t that I was being launched into the unknown. I knew what lay ahead. At night, I lay awake reliving past events, grappling with a massive crocodile as it tore a child in half, the scream of horses as they were ripped apart by sharks, a bloody chisel pricking my neck as Polynee pirates set to cut my throat, the thud of muskets and Fergus pitching forward into the boat bottom with a three-foot-long arrow in his arse, running for my life with headhunters in pursuit, the terror which possesses your whole being, the stench of fear. And if, by dint of exhaustion, I did manage to fall asleep, you might imagine the nightmares.

It will not surprise you then that I purchased firearms, a Short Snider breech-loading rifle firing a .577 lead ball that would stop a bullock at fifty paces and two six-shot Colt Army revolvers firing .45 metallic cartridges.

‘Two revolvers!’ exclaimed Douglas when I reported back to him. ‘Surely that is an unnecessary expense.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ I shot back. ‘Headhunters come in packs. Anyway, what if I lose one?’

I had done so last time on Murray Island. I dropped the revolver during a tryst with an island damsel, which left me defenceless when the headhunters arrived. The loss had also caused a hell of a row between Frank Jardine and myself and almost got me hanged. Gad, the life I have led. Is it any wonder I have grey hairs?

Douglas gave me a strange look, a mixture of concern and apprehension. We were seated in his office, on either side of the desk, going over my purchases, which, remember, he was paying for. It was a long list. He grunted sceptically before continuing, his voice dripping sarcasm. ‘I must congratulate you, Duncan. You have been extremely thorough, but really, One hundred Boxer cartridges for Snider rifle, 50 brass cartridges for each revolver? You are tasked with assessing trade opportunities, not fighting a blasted war. Surely one quarter that amount will suffice.’

‘Don’t want to run out,’ says I.

‘I’ll give you half and think yourself lucky. The trade goods I can understand, but these other extravagances? Queensland, sir, is almost bankrupt,’ he blustered. ‘We cannot afford such indulgences.’

This mind, whilst the building outside teemed with plasterers, masons, cabinet makers and the like putting finishing touches to the new Parliament House. Rank hypocrisy, of course, but Douglas was a politician. Have you noticed how they will take from the deserving to finance their own pet schemes?

‘Fine,’ says I. ‘What’s next?’

‘I have contracted a vessel, the Good Hope, to convey you to the Torres Strait,’ says Douglas. ‘Be at the Customs House Petrie Bight tomorrow at 10am to meet Captain Albert Hovell. I believe you know him. I am an old family friend but have no acquaintance with this man specifically. I hear he has extensive experience in the islands and Torres Strait in particular.’

‘You could say that,’ I observed. ‘The last time I saw Captain Hovell, he was falling off his chair dead drunk.’ (This wasn’t entirely true. I had seen him fall off his chair dead drunk, but the last time I had seen him was during my wedding at Somerset, Cape York, and he had been half-diddled on that occasion too.)

‘You do know that his father is the celebrated explorer who charted the Murray River,’ says Douglas.

‘And do you know that Albert was sentenced to hang for murdering Kanakas?’ I countered.

‘Ah, but, Duncan, he was acquitted on appeal. Clean slate and all that.’

‘You can’t have a drunk operating a vessel in the Coral Sea,’ says I.

‘The master of the vessel is an American, very professional. You will be in good hands. Captain Hovell is the government agent on board.’

‘Government agent?’

‘Yes. You don’t think we arranged a special voyage just for you. You will be a passenger on a working vessel. It will sail from Brisbane to the New Hebrides, take on cargo then convey you to the Torres Strait, where you will fulfil my instructions and return here to me. It should take no more than four or five months.’

This puzzled me. Something wasn’t right. Douglas studied me keenly, waiting for the penny to drop. Then the realization hit me … Of all the underhand, lunatic schemes.

‘No,’ I protested. ‘I’m damned if I’ll sail on a blackbirder. What are you thinking? All that guff about protecting the natives and you up to your ears in the slave trade?’

Douglas wasn’t fazed. ‘The recruits will be contract labourers signed on voluntarily under strict regulations supervised by the government agent, Captain Hovell.’

I shook my head. This was monstrous. Blackbirding might be legal, but it had a reputation which stank to high heaven. The papers were full of it. I mean to say, Hovell had just escaped the noose by the skin of his teeth and, here he was, going back for more. I ask you.

‘There may have