Field Illustration 10
Field Illustration 11
A billion denier King Amalric I of Outremer 1173
Chapter 29 Camden Harbour
Oh freakin’ hell, it was only ten minutes for chrissake. How in that short a time did he manage to get lost? Freakin’ idiot, where did he think he was – Kew Gardens? Lampie pushed rapidly through the open bush. Damn it, did she have to tie him up? Didn’t he get how dangerous it could be out here? Poisonous snakes, scorpions, wandering crocodiles! Oh no, this was a disaster. She’d promised Wally and the girls that she’d’ watch out for the dozy Pom. Shit it was going to be so awkward if she had to call them up for help because he’d broken an ankle in a crevice or something. That would be just too embarrassing!
They’d hit Augustus Island first. She’d surveyed that area with Sid several months ago as part of the Calliance wreck follow up expedition. Opposite Brecknock Island was a small, all year round stream that could supply a modest quantity of fresh water. According to the ship’s journal, the crew of that Calliance had watered there in 1865, before the vessel had finally foundered, after its long series of groundings along the coast. Having given that patch a thorough search, they’d only located nineteenth century remains, like hearth bricks, rusted iron ship bolts and the one of the wrecker’s sites where they had tried to salvage the Calliance a few years later. It had been littered with mounds of broken nineteenth century porcelain and glass bottles, nothing even remotely crusadery anywhere. That whole crusader issue was still bloody difficult to accept, even with all of Pete’s evidence. It just flew straight in the face of all her lessons and reading at school and university, and she’d read some pretty freaky stuff. However, oh damn those howevers. However it did all seem to link in, even including Sid’s increasingly weird behavior. Though right now any thought that mentioned Sid risked being strung up and lynched. That was her ketch back there stranded in the estuary thanks to the deft sabotage of Wallace’s bloody assistants and her old friend and business partner Sid helped arrange it all. Freakin’ hell, how could she have been so blind! So much for years of friendship and working together! Oh freakin’ bloody hell, if she continued down this line, she’d be too tempted to grab the RIB and motor back for a ‘quiet chat’ with her old business associate!
No, couldn’t do that. She had to make sure Pete didn’t become a Kimberleys snack, so they could find the fabled treasure. You know when she said it aloud, it sounded really silly – crusaders, pirates, treasure. Oh yes it was the last word that got her interest and no doubt that of that polished arsehole, Wallace. Sid must have been pretty quick off the mark with that loaded word. The dress circle of her subconscious, had time to speculate on Sid’s thirty pieces of silver, but she didn’t stroll down that path. It tended to trigger an all consuming rage and what she hoped was an exaggerated suspicion of males. In the present circumstance this had her viewing Peter with a great degree of speculation, like she was damn certain that the Pom was still holding back. The presentation on the barge had been very professional and the English academic had laid out his proof like an expert, even to swaying Wally and the girls. Another however surfaced from the morass of fear and doubt. However she suspected that Wilks hugged secrets closer than his Union Jack boxers, and if she found out she was right, that two faced Pom would regret it! But that was for later – she had to find the idiot first!
After that brief inspection, they’d motored due east to Augustus Point and then down the western side of Camden Peninsular to it’s terminus in some heavily mangrove-thicketed inlets. Why? Well, Pete reckoned both colonials and crusaders could be looking for the same kinds of terrain.
The examination of the old Association camp had in the end, been a let down – skeletons of buildings battered down into piles of rough squared rocks by the assault of the elements – the failed attempt at colonisation, given that extra edge of ill starred dreams. When they walked past rusted relics of abandoned plows and harrows, Pete had tweaked an eyebrow at that sight, and done that questioning frown of his. Yeah, she got the message. Where in this rocky landscape were they planning to sow the wheat? This visible record of the collision of fantasy and the reality of the Australian bush was one of the reasons she went into the field of surveying and archeology in the first place. Well, one of the reasons – her family history was another.
Peter said he couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would try for a pastoral settlement around here. She’d been curious about that as well, and after last year’s survey had done some research. Apparently the Camden Harbour Pastoral Association was formed in Melbourne in the eighteen sixties, to exploit a favourable government survey of this region by the explorer George Grey. This venture was then promoted by the Governor of Western Australia, John William Hampton, a gentleman of boundless vision and limited resources, who saw a chance for that mirage of Australian politicians over the years, the settlement of the north. According to Grey’s account of his eighteen thirty eight expedition;
Mr. Stokes described Camden Sound as being one of the finest harbours he had seen; and, such being the case, it must undoubtedly be the most important position on this part of the coast. It lies close to the Glenelg and Prince Regent's River, two large navigable streams; and I have already declared my opinion that I have never seen a richer tract of country than the extensive alluvial and basaltic districts in the neighbourhood of the Glenelg, and under the rare circumstance of lying between two navigable rivers which are separated from each other by so short an interval.
The rough terrain, precipitous cliffs, the seasonal ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ and the fact that all his sheep and most of his horses died on the expedition were mentioned, but treated as minor inconveniences, as were the natives. As to navigable rivers, well Grey was right in that respect. The question was, navigable to where and why would you want to go there in the first place? During the ‘wet’ they where raging torrents while in the dry they led to more scrub and broken country that was deeply unforgiving to colonial aspirations.
The noble claim of this venture was the intention of building the town of Elliott, and securing sufficient lands for the first landing of sixty two people and two and a half thousand sheep. How that report mistook rocks and scrubby bush for sheep pasture was anyone’s guess, though to her surprise Pete suggested it was possibly part of the Victorian malaise that seemed to afflict many British explorers who almost to a man, steadfastly reported what they wanted to find, rather than the disappointing reality. Perhaps that was a more generous view. One of her lecturers had the opinion that settlement swindles in ninetieth century Australia were as common as real estate scams now.
The new settlers were transported in the Calliance, the Stag and the Helvetia. The first vessel had a disturbing tendency to run aground and did so several times on the way there, until finally sinking after they tried to beach her for urgent repairs just as a storm hit. Guess they really needed those repairs. The resulting failure led to the ship’s cutter being provisioned, crewed and sent off to seek rescue from the Dutch colonial port of Koepang in Timor. Continuing the poor run of luck of the Calliance, that vessel was also wrecked several times, including being rolled over in a storm, before the battered and exhausted survivors reached Timor.
After they had struggled back through the mangroves, she’d steered the RIB north, skimming along the western shore of Camden Peninsular and then pulled the craft into the old government camp site. At the north end there was a natural landing of flat topped black stone, as well as a couple of the old piers constructed from rumble and stone slabs. For now they were still clear of the encroaching bush and mangroves, though the battering of cyclones had the ends crumbled and tumbling into the harbour. Past the shoreline the terrain was broken and stony. If you weren’t careful, the sharp edges would tear at your boots. She remembered that from the last time. Bluey had destroyed two pairs of heavy leather army boots in three days.
Back on the barge, between Wally and her, they’d prepared a sh
ort list of the most viable sites. Peter had given them three primary requirements – permanent fresh water, safe deep water anchorage for ten or more vessels of one hundred foot length, and finally and, as far as he was concerned most importantly, a fortifiable feature. Going over the charts had given then two primary locations and a couple of secondary ones. Then it was a matter of loading up with a few supplies, a two way radio and their packs. Keeping the exercise light, she’d lent on Pete to leave the second pack containing some of the Deception Bay finds with Wally. That had been the cause of their first argument. With perseverance, and the voice of sweet reason, aided by the suggestion that he could swim to Camden Harbour, Pete had reluctantly agreed. Though on her minor triumph he got all stuffy, acting out the sulkiness of a teenager. Pete insisted on a quiet word with Wally without her before he complied. Talk about a lack of trust! Despite that, she still felt he was overloaded. Pete had for some bizarre reason packed two laptops. Why? When she’d pushed he’d said all his notes were on one while the other was back up. For Chrissake back up? They had to motor around several islands, a couple of difficult channels and check out over a hundred miles of shoreline and he wanted a backup computer? They had to carry enough fuel to get to the rendezvous with Wally at Careening Bay, the northernmost possible site in three days. That was going to be difficult enough and still Pete had this bloody strange idea that they had as much room as the ketch. Since on that last matter he wasn’t budging she’d agreed, but only if he carried them.
Once ashore, the old government site was a bit of a washout, lots of tumbled ruins, all that remained of the years of struggle and effort to establish a northern community. The relics were a little sad, rock bordered gardens covered in spindly grass, the tumbled stone columns of chimneys and a scattering of rusted galvanized sheeting. To her eye it looked in worse condition than it did last year. The last few cyclones must have given the place quite a battering. Peter reckoned he wanted a closer detailed inspection so they’d unloaded the RIB, dragging it up the landing and into the bush. His pedantic insistence of proper camouflage almost caused the second argument of the day. She didn’t think this was supposed to be some commando style raid. But by the end, it had been buried it in more branches than you needed to build a humpy. Pete appeared obsessed with hiding their presence. You’d think Wallace had engaged a koori tracker and bloodhounds to find them! Trying for a bit of space before she succumbed to the ‘walloping a Pom’ urge, she sent Pete over the ridge to fill the water bottles at a stream some fifty metres past the ridge line, while she finished off stowing the jerry cans in the shade. Hopefully it’d give time for the dispute to blow over. To Lampie’s disgust it did that and then more. Peter Wilks, archeologist and general dozy Pom, had decided to specialise in being a pain in the bum. He’d disappeared!
Twenty freakin minutes it took to find him, with every bloody step almost panic-stricken, and what did she find? He was staring at a tumble of rocks!
Peter bloody Wilks was to the north, standing by a low wall of rocks, enclosing the narrow mouth of a gully, to the north west of the government camp site ruins. The Englishman seemed to be lost in deep thought and hadn’t noticed her presence. Lampie was about to shout out, berating him for his damned stupidity, but his next action froze her in puzzlement. He dropped to his knees and pulled out that small handy tool roll of his, extracted a long spatula and began clearing away the soil at the base of the ragged stone wall. She’d seen him at work at Deception Bay and though she wouldn’t admit it openly, she found it fascinating watching him. A more biased part of her subconscious, made speculative comments regarding the way the stretched back of his shirt moved in response to the play of those Brad Pitt like shoulders. That annoying voice was promptly told to shut it, as she stood under the shade of a boab tree watching. The spatula quickly flicked away the first layer of dirt, revealing the next course of the stone wall. Lampie had to admit despite his numerous faults concerning Aussie wildlife, Pete was a dab hand at digging. No more then fifteen minutes effort had him down four courses. Then he bent low, scraping away at something at the bottom of his narrow trench.
Her curiosity piqued, Lampie forgot her anger at his lack of natural caution and walked closer to get a better view. “What y’ doin’ Pete?”
The Pommie flinched slightly at the sound of her voice and peered over his shoulder. Hmm, in that weird befeathered that hat of his he’d almost look like a local. Just add a few shades of browning to his skin and teach him to speak properly and whoa what a transformation! “Oh hello Lampie. I’m just checking out this wall here. Before we left, Wally gave me a quick run down on the history of the colonial settlement in this peninsular.”
She blinked. Well yes and that told her what? A reason for wandering off, a reason for forgetting the principles she’d drilled into him, a reason for escaping her supervision? Anger for the past few days began to return. They were here at Camden Harbour because a pack of treasure ripping goons had wrecked her beautiful ship and driven them off a great site that held so many hopes. Could she blame this dozy Pom for any of that? Freckin’ right she could!
Peter appeared to ignore her smoldering rage and turned back to his fascinating collection of rocks. “This course here,” the Pommie tapped the lowest level with his improvised trowel, “is different. The stone has been squared with more skill than these ones above.”
Lampie shook her head and blinked furiously. Was this Pom lacking any survival instincts? Here she was, an armed woman on the edge, standing over him just twitching to let loose! Revenge screamed for an outlet!
“And then there’s the small cross carved here.”
Her frustration ebbed, as that last comment caught her full attention. Carved cross? Lampie dropped to her knees, and shoved in next to the Englishman, all thoughts of righteous vengeance snuffed out by that simple and evocative phrase. She peered closer, scanning the exposed layer. What the freck was he talking about? Then Peter unscrewed his canteen and splashed a little water on the face of a block. The dirt and grime washed away, revealing the traces of an equal armed cross terminating in small cross bars like capital T’s. “What is it? How did you know?”
Her companion took up his steel spatula and flicked out the last of the mud. Tracing the lines, Lampie was amazed. This was the most incredible piece of archeological guesswork she’d ever seen! “Wow, so the castle’s here?”
The Englishman looked at her in frowning surprise and shook his head. “An outpost or small tower maybe, but not the castle.”
“Why not? You just found a crusader marker.” The tightly bottled anger made a bid for escape. Restraint and the need for a coherent answer shackled it, mostly. Enough leaked out to have Peter edge back warily.
“This block only proves that they had a very small runoff cistern here. If you have a look around this ridge, there are only a few usable channels. This one is the closest to the point if you wanted a watch post.”
“So that still doesn’t tell me why this isn’t Father Joachim’s site?”
The English archaeologist sat back on his haunches like a real Aussie and pushed up his feather adorned hat. “A couple of reasons. First of all, this site doesn’t fit the descriptions of grandeur in the gesta. While the harbour is large enough, this little cistern wouldn’t be adequate for three hundred crusaders.” Peter gave his right hand a lazy wave around, including all the surroundings. “Mostly, this spot may have been all right for colonial settlers but it lacks any imposing features that scream ‘defensible castle’. No crusader worth his salt would construct any building anywhere that couldn’t withstand siege or assault. Even in the few months they would have been here, there would have to be lines of rubble for walls.”
Lampie narrowed her eyes. This still didn’t make any sense – he finds a clue and now says it’s all wrong? Suspicion was once more kindled. “Okay, you found this rock, so you prove to me it isn’t the right place!”
Her companion slumped, wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave a hal
f shrug, more a flick of one shoulder. “Well to find this, I cheated really.”
Oh for the love of sweet freckin’ reason, he was going all English academic again. Displaying the sort of restraint her mother approved of, she only spat out one word. “How?”
“Tell me. Didn’t you and Sid go over this place for the museum?”
They’d gone over this back on Wally’s barge, when the discussion had raged over where to go next. Rather than giving in to a building tirade, one more word squeezed out between her clenched teeth. “Yeess!”
The Englishman nodded, then shielding his eyes, spoke in that sing song fashion used by carnival clairvoyants. “I can see it all now. Sid was being thoughtful. He said ‘Lampie just do the shoreline survey. I’ll handle the difficult terrain up here’.”
She endeavored not to blush. What was he – a psychic?
“How the freakin’ hell did you know?”
“Simple. I found the shots of this area and of the cistern in his secret cache, as well as a photo of the cross. Also this soil had been recently disturbed.” He looked so smug, that she didn’t want to tell him just how close his guess was. Bloody Sid, fifty miles away and he still managed to stuff everything up.
“Okay brainiac, I accept that, but you still haven’t explained the lack of castle.”
“Oh that’s easy. After finding the cross, Sid would have been all over Camden Harbour. After this, I can see why he kept on thinking Deception Bay was a Spanish site. The Outremer cross looks a lot like the one the Spaniards used.”
She didn’t strangle or throttle him. Lampie hated to admit it but once more Peter Wilks made a certain compelling sense. Once he’d found the carved cross, Sid would have been down on his hands and knees, crawling around, looking under every rock. Yeah, that could explain why this place had the appearance of being seriously done over. There had been a lot more disturbance around here than last time and that couldn’t be put down to touring yachters or bored pearl workers from Kuri Bay. Yeah now she came to think about it, a few weeks after they’d finished the survey of this part of the coast, Sid had vanished for close to a month. He’d told Elaine that business drew him to Perth. Yeah right. At a guess, Sid was up here with one of his nefarious mates, digging holes all over the place. No wonder those Land Council guys were so dark on him. They’d mentioned something about pillaged sites on Augustus Island – now it made sense.
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 38
