Part 26 (1/2)

'Mister Green boss. He kill goat.' He holds his arms wide to show me just how big the goat is.

'Fresh meat at last!' I say.

Charley licks his lips and nods enthusiastically.

'How about you help me with the goat, Charley? Maybe you and Darby can have some.'

'Yes, missis.' He rubs his stomach. 'Fill belly up.'

'Well, I don't know if we can quite manage that. Pleasant chatting with you, Ah Leung,' I say casually, over my shoulder.

He hasn't moved.

Charley and I walk towards the house together. I pull the sling of my ap.r.o.n tighter around the corn and cabbage.

'Charley, what do you think of Ah Leung?' I tilt my head backwards towards the farm.

'Him sour bloke. I like other one more better.'

'I like Ah Sam better too.' I think of something else I've been meaning to ask our black boys. 'Are you worried about the mainland natives coming over in their canoes?'

This. .h.i.ts a rawer nerve. 'They spear Darby and me.'

'Not just you two, probably. We'll just have to make sure that they don't come too close.'

He doesn't look rea.s.sured. We reach the beach, and he points southwest. 'Wild black that way. Not far.'

It looks like he's pointing to the southern tip of Lizard Island. Or something beyond it.

'Now?'

Charley nods.

'But Bob said there's no blacks on the island.'

He doesn't want to contradict the boss, but his mouth is set.

'What do they want, do you know? Why do they come to the Lizard?'

But he either doesn't understand me, or won't say.

34.

All men in the far north carry a knife.

The trick is knowing how to use it.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 3RD JULY 1880.

An afternoon in Gehenna. Stripped, hacked and portioned. A hot red smell in my nose. Grease under my fingernails.

The blade flashes in Porter's hand as he bends over the dead goat, holding one of its horns. He flenses the skin from the body in economical tearing motions, aided by the wedge of the knife, until there is just a ribbed bag of shadowy organs, rivers of crimson veins just under the surface.

The intestines stream into the dirt when he runs the blade up from pelvis to rib, the muscle in his thin arm flexing like a ball squeezed then released. The black boys know the routine in a way that I don't. They run to grab as much as they can of the slippery mess and then stand back waiting for the rest.

Porter turns the carca.s.s over, makes an incision to expose the kidneys, cuts the ties that hold them like coin purses to a belt, then flicks them towards Charley and Darby. I step back to avoid a splash of blood, and hold my nose.

'Thanks, boss.' Charley's still expectant.

'Shoo now,' Porter says.

The boys move to a spot three feet away and look hungry there, instead.

The Kanakas have slipped silently into the background.

Porter glances up at me, his forehead s.h.i.+ning. His fingers are dripping. There's a strange, almost indifferent l.u.s.t in his eyes.

'You have to give them all some,' he tells me. 'It's good policy to keep the workers happy.'

I motion with my head to the Islander men. They move closer. Porter portions the meat and I hand out the pieces, each with its garnish of flies. Charley leers at the collapsed purple pouches of lungs in the cavity.

'All right, take them, you little guts,' Porter says with a grin, deftly cutting the organs free and tossing them over. 'One day I swear you'll eat so much you'll explode.'

Back in the cookhouse, Ah Sam and I begin our preparations. Even in winter, fresh meat won't last longer than two days. From under the tub, he drags out a small tin safe with a flyproof insert of wire netting. We work as a team. I cut slits into the surface of each portion. He ma.s.sages salt thickly into each cut, then places the pieces on a wooden slatted rack. He sets a dish beneath it so the brine can drain away.

'What now?' I ask, was.h.i.+ng my hands in a few inches of brackish water.

He points to the salt pig. 'Tomorrow more salt.' He straightens up. Presses a fist into the base of his spine. 'Next day, more salt. Three days altogether. Then store in tub.'

He helps me chop up some of the fresh meat that's left for stew. The corn and cabbage I collected from Ah Leung go into the pot. Soon, a savoury steam rises up. Ah Sam asks if I want potato. I tell him the ones in the house have sprouted and are green all the way through when cut. I'll give them back to Ah Leung for planting.

'Just boil some more water for rice,' I say.

He raises an eyebrow, but obeys.

I wonder what's so controversial about rice. It's not long before I find out.

The sun's gone down, b.l.o.o.d.y as the goat. It's dinnertime. Bob greets his plate of food with a scowl and that old argumentative glint in his tight eye. He pokes the rice with his fork.

'I'm not going to eat that muck. I've not sunk so low.'

Porter's watchful, his eyes moving from Bob to me. He forks in a mouthful of stew and chews slowly. Percy looks up with a spark in his gaze, as though sensing the night's entertainment's about to unfold.