Cuttlefish

by Dave Freer

  The eastern side of Flinders Island had been, since the Great Melt, a swampy wild place, fronted with drowned land and sandbars and a series of interlocking salty estuaries and lakes, tucked in between small forested granite mountains. It was from one of these lakes, hidden behind three granite outcrops, that an enormous flock of ducks rose in alarm when they saw a submarine pop up in the predawn light. Tim was on deck-watch, helping to guide the submarine down an ale-brown channel to the secret quay.

  Their tie-up was plainly a well-used one, carefully hidden from the air by nets that were laced with vegetation—some plants were even grown in pots.

  A figure detached itself from the tree it had been leaning against. “G'day. Been expecting yous,” said the man in his green-checked shirt and elderly floppy hat.

  “You have?” asked Tim, nearly dropping the monkey's fist on the rope he'd been about to throw. They'd even kept radio silence, knowing Werner would have betrayed their codes and calling frequencies.

  “Well, it seemed obvious that yous were on yer way. They're looking about for yous. Got troops up on Walker's Lookout and ships hanging about. So yous must be coming.” He grinned. “I've never seen a search anything like it,” said the Straitsman, taking off his hat and scratching his curly black hair. “What sort of cargo yous got that's so important?”

  “We've a few days in hand to try and just sit it out, and hope that they believe we have been and gone,” said Captain Malkis. “I will be allowing the men a little shore leave, in shifts, in the company of several Straitsmen. Normally, we spend a few days here allowing the men to hunt with the locals, and to do a little fishing, while we prepare the boat for that last haul. I've had to ban shooting for fear of attracting too much attention, but the locals will bring us fresh meat and fish. The final sector is usually quite demanding, so it's well to let the crew get plenty of rest and some exercise. So ma'am, while I am not prepared to allow you and your daughter off alone, I would be happy to include you into one of the shore parties. There is a group walking up the third Patriarch this afternoon, if you'd like to join them.” He smiled. “The cook and young Barnabas I believe are both going out with them.”

  Clara's mother looked at the green bushland. “I would like to, but well, we've come so far. Is it worth the risk, Captain?”

  “In many places I'd say no,” said the captain. “But in all honesty, I think there is a minimal risk here. To give you an example from your home in Ireland, the island is about the size of County Waterford, ma'am. It's mostly forest or swampland or mountain. There are a hundred and twenty grenadiers, and fifty Hussars here, looking for us. The Straitsmen know these wilds like the back of their hands, and the soldiers are fresh out from England, apparently. The Hussars' horses are sick and the grenadiers kept getting lost. And informers are usually a problem…but this is a very closed society. The Straitsmen don't like what they consider ‘occupiers,’ and the idea of leaving these islands is frightening to them. They need to trade to survive, but the Imperials are stopping them from fishing or shipping hides. We take cargoes for them and bring them things they need. They've accepted us, and have never betrayed us. Saved my groats a few years ago, and that meant almost every man on the island had to cooperate. I trust them. Besides, you'd be with a party of thirty armed men from the boat, as well as ten Straitsmen. I think you will be safe enough.”

  So they'd gone out, threading their way under the she-oaks and up into the gum forests, climbing up to where they could look out over the eastern coast, high up the hill. The air was clear and still cool. The sea, a mile distant, was azure.

  “The ships out there are as thick as flies on a three-days-dead 'roo,” said the Straitsman, as Clara, her mother, Cookie, Tim, and a few others sat under the gum trees on granite boulders, which the lichen spattered into orange patches. He pointed out across Babel Island, where the hundreds of thousands of birds drifted up like smoke, to the open water beyond. “At night we been counting lights from the lookout up on Strzelecki Mountain. There are 'nother two ships in the sounds. 'Nother off Vansittart Island. If we get a good blow there'll be rich pickings,” he said with relish, “because they don't know our water. One nearly run aground on Potboil Shoal already. They won't go near there again,” he said with some satisfaction. “The tide runs strong over it. Your skipper knows where to set his course, because I showed him. Mind you, he still got stuck on a bank off Lady Barron once and had to wait for the tide. The policeman had to be called away up to Memana in a hurry or he'd have seen her; most everyone else on the island did! But the policeman's a mainlander, only been here thirty years.”

  Clara could hear that he didn't think much of “mainlanders.” Plainly one had to be born and bred here to be a Straitsman.

  “I told yous they're all wreckers and half-pirates,” said Cookie, cheerfully. “You reckon they got any chance of finding us?”

  The Straitsman snorted. “Not while yous are in here. The island's more'n sixty mile long, and most of it is still bush. They tried one of them airships, and the roaring forties took it off toward New Zealand. They tried bombing something here a few years ago, and it took us a month to put the fires out—burned their camp to a crisp. Mind you, when they landed that bunch of redcoats, they been asking questions. Everybody is being very helpful. We told them if they started any fires it'd burn the lot of them, though. And we explained how the fire will move faster than a running man. Filled them with horror stories. Gave them a Port Jackson shark, some salmon that hadn't been bled, and a couple of bluehead parrot fish. They told us how good they was.”

  He and Cookie doubled up laughing.

  “What's so funny?” asked Tim.

  “They're trash fish,” explained the Straitsman. “We use 'em for bait in the crayfish traps. Now if someone gives you a feed of flathead, he's a friend of yours.”

  “And if he offers you a couple of pike and tells you to keep 'em cool for a few days, before you eat them…,” said Cookie, digging an elbow into his Straitsman-mate's ribs.

  “Some people like them like that,” said the Straitsman, grinning.

  “And some people like mutton-birds,” said Cookie.

  “Heh. Well yer might have to get used to them. The net they've set for yous around here is pretty tight,” said the Straitsman.

  “There might be worse places to be trapped,” said Clara, looking out at the coast.

  “Too right!” said the Straitsman. “There's no better place in the world, and plenty worse, like Westralia, eh, Cookie. We could use some new people, beside the policeman.”

  “And in thirty years you'd still be a foreigner,” said Cookie.

  “I'd put up with being a foreigner for this,” said Clara's mother, dreamily. “It's a wonderful place. Well, if I could have Jack with me here, I'd stay forever, I think. But I can't at the moment, and so I need to change the world first. Maybe when we've done that.”

  It had never struck Clara that that was what her mother was hoping to do. It was quite an ambition: changing the world. Changing the whole world to get her dad free—that was something only her mother could decide to do. She smiled to herself, her eyes a little moist.

  She noticed that Tim had got up and was walking onward to the ramp of rock that led to the actual summit, so she casually got up and wandered that way too. It probably didn't fool anyone, but even her mother seemed prepared to not notice for a few minutes. The Straitsmen had checked the whole area over. They were expert trackers and were sure that there were no problems here. Except for the ones that they had brought with them, of course.

  She found Tim a little higher up, sitting looking out at the sea, his face a little troubled. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said, lightly. He looked up startled. He was a very intense thinker. And now that she'd learned to read his complexion, he blushed easily. “I was thinking about you,” he said gruffly.

  She sat down next to him. “Snap.”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about you too. About…well all so
rt of things. Us.” It was her turn to blush. How did you tell someone that you had followed them to be alone with them? You could never be really, truly, sure that they were alone together on the submarine, short of going somewhere together they'd be in all sorts of trouble if they were caught in, like the escape hatch or one of the officers' cabins. And by now, she knew they probably would be caught. She'd briefly held his hand under soapy water in the galley. Stood with her hip touching his while washing dishes. Compared to the stories the girls told back at school in Fermoy—what a lifetime ago that seemed—that wasn't much.

  “Yes. Well, that's the problem, see. Look, I'm just a cabin boy. In about two weeks, maybe, we should have you, and your mother, safe in Westralia. And I'll be on my way in a few days. I may not be back for…years. And I'm just a cabin boy. I might not pass my tickets. If I lose my place on the Cuttlefish, I won't be able to come back to Australia. I…I think I love you. But I may never see you again.”

  Clara wasn't ready for this. She really, really wasn't. He was being all grown up and serious. In the back of her mind she'd known this herself. Life would sweep them apart. And the world was so big and…She swallowed. She'd come up here wanting to be kissed. Not to cry. And he made it worse by taking her hand. She looked at his earnest eyes, not with their normal twinkle of laughter or mischief in them at all, and did not know what to say. He wasn't even whistling.

  She gave a little sigh. “Of course you'll pass your tickets. Lieutenant Ambrose said he'd asked the captain if he'd sponsor you signing up as a candidate officer. I'm jealous. Mother is already trying to plan me going back to school.” She squeezed his hand, leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don't want you to go away. But you must. And I still hurt so much from losing my father forever. I'm…I'm not…I don't know. I don't want to get too involved with a friend I know I have to lose.”

  He nodded, letting go of her hand. “I guess I never should have asked. I'm just an Underperson, a darkie too…”

  “That's not true. It doesn't matter! Not to me. And I get angry when you talk yourself down like that. I…I like you more than anyone else I've ever met. I just…don't want to hurt like my mother does. Now that I know, I see how she looks every time something reminds her of my dad.”

  She laughed awkwardly. “I sound like a fool, don't I, Tim?”

  He shook his head. “Not to me. Not ever.”

  “Even when I was kissing you in Rivas?”

  He grinned, looking more like his normal self. “I'm not sure about the tongue bit.”

  She snorted with laughter and embarrassment. “You think you're not sure? I had to make it up from what I had heard, and what I saw the Cashel girls doing. They used to practice on each other.”

  “I wouldn't mind being used for practice. While we're not on the boat,” he said, tentatively.

  Downslope, someone called. “Time to go, if yer going to get back for yer tea.”

  It was still a good practice, even if it was cut short.

  “No shore leave today. There's word from the Straitsmen that the Royal Navy have put sailors out in lifeboats to come and search the swamps,” said Lieutenant Ambrose, when Tim reported for duty. “We need everyone on board, ready to move or dive.”

  He looked particularly upset about something. Tim, who had got a lot more friendly with the lieutenant than he would have thought possible a few months ago, asked what was wrong, a little later, when he brought some maps to the lieutenant.

  “If I can't trust you, Barnabas, I can't trust anyone,” said the lieutenant. “It's just that one of the Straitsmen—press-ganged to be a pilot for a Royal Navy ship coming into Lady Barron—overheard the captain saying they'd picked up a signal from the east coast. So we must still have a spy and another transmitter…or some kind of signalling device on the boat. It's really upset the skipper. Me too, I suppose.” He smiled. “Have you and your co-conspirator got any more clever ideas about what we should have spotted this time?”

  “Um. I'll ask her,” said Tim.

  The lieutenant chuckled. “And heaven knows what sort of trouble that'll lead us into. Only this time tell me what you're doing, please. I'm not going to stop you. Well, probably not.”

  So Tim soon found a reason to go to the galley, where Clara was pulling faces as she helped Cookie turn several wallaby into dinner. Part of it included skinning the tails.

  “They look like rats!”

  Tim nodded. “Yes, tasty. But much bigger than tunnel rats.”

  Clara's look reminded him again of what different backgrounds they came from. He was about to tell her what Lieutenant Ambrose had said, when it occurred to him that he'd been trusted…and that meant not telling anyone but Clara. He understood then, why Lieutenant Ambrose had been looking so uncomfortable. Cookie…Cookie was a friend. But this situation turned anyone into a possible enemy. “Um, Cookie. Clara's mother wanted to speak to her for a minute or two. Can you spare her?”

  Cookie gave him a knowing smile. “Run along. Don't be long and don't be caught.”

  Tim felt his face glow. He was a terrible hand at lying. Clara, however, had washed her hands and was looking worried.

  “What's wrong with my mother?” she asked quietly, as they got to the companionway.

  “Nothing. She doesn't want to see you. I just made it up because I needed to talk to you privately.”

  “Oh, Tim! You'll get us into such trouble. I—”

  “Lieutenant Ambrose and Skipper think there is another spy on the boat.” Quickly and quietly Tim explained. “And you're not to do anything without telling the lieutenant. And your mother. And me.”

  “I'm not a baby! Don't you trust me?” she snapped, firing up.

  “I'd trust you with my life,” said Tim, earnestly. “Anytime, anywhere. I just know what you can do! And we'd better get back to work.”

  “Um. It's a confusing boy you are, Tim Barnabas,” she said. “I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

  “Always. But I gave my word about that too.”

  She bit her lip. “I'd better think of a story for Cookie.”

  “Yep. But I bet he won't ask.”

  Tim was right. Cookie didn't ask. Clara thought over what Tim had told her, as she chopped and washed. There was something there, lurking on the edge of her memory that she felt was a clue. The Royal Navy were getting a signal.…

  She nearly cut her own fingers off. “Cookie. I need to go and talk to my mother. Right now.”

  He looked a little worried. “And there I thought it was just that Tim-boy wanted to kiss you. Something wrong, missy?”

  “No. I just think I have an answer.”

  “Go then. We've got an hour before first sitting,” he said cheerfully. “If it was any closer I'd have said answers wait, but good food don't. And then you can tell me the answer too. I been looking for it.”

  “Not this one,” said Clara as she ran off.

  Her mother was checking rows of figures on a pad. “Hello, dear. What brings you here?” she asked, obviously determinedly pulling herself away from her work. “I hear we may have to move again.”

  “Yes. But I need your help.”

  “Oh. Well, I am at your disposal,” said her mother, pushing the papers aside. “Better than you rushing off and doing it without me.”

  “Tim made me promise to tell you,” said Clara, scowling a bit. “The sub has to move because the Royal Navy is following a signal.…”

  Her mother closed her eyes briefly with an expression of pain. “I thought…I so hoped once Werner was gone, the spying would be over, but by the way they've followed us, I suppose I was wrong.”

  “Well, maybe not. That's what Tim and Lieutenant Ambrose and the captain thought too, that we must have another traitor.…But Mother, you remember when I just got the crystal radio going? When I got you to listen to that funny noise? And Sparks said it was junk, very high…whatchamacallit…”

  “Frequency,” said her mother. “I am a chemist, but I seem to recall that high frequen
cy has a shorter range. I think you need your crystal radio, and we should talk to the captain.”

  Clara grinned. “Not until I've told Lieutenant Ambrose and Tim.”

  “What? Why? I mean…the captain needs to know as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, but I also need to prove that I don't always get into trouble,” said Clara, impishly. “Let me pick up my crystal radio and go and find them.”

  “I think I am only getting a part of this,” said Clara's mother, shaking her head. “But I will go along with that part.”

  Lieutenant Ambrose had just got up, preparing for the evening watch, and was embarrassed to have opened his door to two ladies when he was half-shaved with shaving foam on his face. “My apologies. I thought…well, I thought it was someone else. Let me just wash my face.”

  The smell of the foam, and the sight of it, brought a flood of memories back to Clara, of her father. “Um. We could go away. It's just that I think I may have some idea of how it is that we're being tracked.”

  “That's more important than shaving. Tell.”

  Clara explained. And before she'd even finished, the lieutenant, not worrying about his half-shaved state, took them up to the bridge. Captain Malkis blinked at him. “What's wrong, Ambrose?”

  “Hopefully something is right, sir. My apologies coming to you like this, but the sooner we do something about it the better. I know you were going to run the compressors this afternoon, and maybe we'd better not.”

  “I like to keep the tanks full, Lieutenant. Explain.”

  “I'd better leave that to Miss Calland and her crystal radio, sir.”

  So Clara had to explain again. And the captain called Sparks over.

  Sparks blinked. “Could be right, Captain. And it ties in with their Marconi chatter. I just…never thought of it. We only use the medium frequencies and long waves.”

  “If they have some kind of signal strength measure, they could triangulate on us, Captain,” said Lieutenant Ambrose.