Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Patrick leaned back to his shelves, pulled out a thin leverback folder, glanced at the index of sixty or so names, turned to a fresh page and wrote Ned in.

  “No, you’re the only one in Moresby, Ned. If we get a problem down here with a boiler of any sort we’ll call you in. It’s one of the conditions of residence that everyone agrees to. Any other skills?”

  “I’m a reasonable mechanic on a petrol engine – I worked on a car in England and there was a petrol generator on my ship.”

  Another note was made, this time on a page that already had one name on it.

  “That’s excellent, Ned, Murray will be very pleased. He’s not in Moresby just now but he’ll check you out when he comes back. Were you ever a soldier?”

  Ned shook his head.

  “Right, Murray likes ex-soldiers to put their name down for the Militia he wants to enrol when he gets the money. As it is, you will wish to see the Major next.”

  Davy led him off in the right direction, briefly explaining that the Major was the commander of the police force in Moresby and along that part of the nearby coast where there was no RM.

  “It’s not ten o’clock yet, so he’ll be sober still. Best time to see him, in fact - any earlier and he’s still fragile, waiting for breakfast to kick in and wake him up.”

  The Major was tall, heavily built, red-cheeked, grey-haired although probably not much more than forty, seemed fit, alert, wide awake. Ned would not have put him down as a boozehound until he spoke, offering breath that was thick with spirits.

  “New man here, I see?”

  “Ned Hawkins, Major.”

  “I’m Major Arkwright, Mr Hawkins, senior in the police here, hence the blue uniform. Not what I’m used to, of course, but it will do!”

  Ned noted the accent, very plummy… maybe even too much so. He caught Davy’s eye, saw half a grin.

  “Thing is, Mr Hawkins, we like new men up to give a helping hand, you might say. We’ve not actually got any policemen, as such, up from Australia or the Old Country, so we all join the Reserve and do our bit when it’s necessary.”

  What did that mean, when it came down to it?

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  “Good man! I knew you’d be pleased to help, you’ve got the right sort of look about you. You've got an experienced look about you too, not like some of the boys who come up, so I’ll just write you in as a full Inspector in the Reserve. I see you are in company with Mr Griffiths, so you will be based out at Laloki with him. Congratulations! If you will just take Inspector Hawkins to the QM, Mr Griffiths, we can see to his equipment. Are you still sure you are too busy to join, Mr Griffiths?”

  “I am afraid so, sir, more so than ever now that the rubber is just coming into production. We need an income, you know, Major. In any case, sir, I have my name down for the Militia – there will be a need for an experienced sergeant there.”

  The QM was a mixed-race Samoan, as were many of the junior officials, well-educated but with no prospect of promotion, it being impossible that he should ever be put into a position where he could give orders to whiteskins. He did his job well, knowing that he would be dismissed without compensation or a ticket home if he ever failed.

  “A new Reserve Inspector, sir? We have most of the uniform in stock – black boots, gaiters, blue long trousers, long-sleeve shirt, epaulets, cap and badge, rubberised rain cape.”

  He noted the items on a printed form, sent a boy to collect them from the store cupboards.

  “I can only issue one pair of boots, sir – your feet at size six are smaller than most and I shall have to order another pair up from South, and that will take not less than two months, perhaps two years, depending on luck. As well, we have no stockings of any size in store, due to rats getting into the cupboard, I regret to say. Again, they will take some time to arrive, sir.”

  Ned nodded, it fitted in with his experience in Cairns – anything that had to be ordered there took several weeks, at minimum, to turn up. Further north was even more distant from the suppliers.

  “I am also Force Armourer, sir, and will issue your personal arms. Against signature, of course, sir. I am obliged to warn you, sir, that loss of your personal weapons constitutes a serious crime in the Territory and you must take particular care of them. Please note in the book, sir, that issue has been made and that you are aware of your obligations.”

  Ned signed, very seriously. He had never handled any sort of firearm in his life.

  The QM unlocked a metal cupboard – all of the others were wooden – and pulled out a cardboard carton, much the size of a shoe-box. He opened it to show a very large revolver.

  “Point four five five calibre officer’s sidearm, sir, standard Army Issue, and fifty rounds.”

  He produced a leather holster and a heavy belt, both in need of cleaning.

  “Mould, sir, it is impossible to keep leather shiny in store; your boy will deal with it.”

  The revolver had a barrel four inches long and a butt that was almost too large for Ned to grip. It weighed half a stone.

  “No use at more than ten feet, bach, you could never aim it. A pace distant, though, and it will knock down any stroppy bugger with an axe or spear and evil intentions, like. Very useful, in its proper place.”

  A cleaning kit was produced from a second cupboard and laid to the side.

  “As well, sir, if you will just bear with me for one minute.”

  The QM produced a set of keys and opened a door at the side of his office, disclosed a metal-sheeted cubby-hole containing a rack of rifles on one side, a stack of ammunition boxes on the other.

  “One three-oh-three calibre Lee-Enfield, thirty inch barrel Emily, Inspector Hawkins, two magazines and four hundred rounds, sir. If you are called out on duty with a group of armed constables you will be expected to issue ten rounds apiece. Normally to a ten man patrol, sir, so you will have a surplus in case of a battle. Your Chief Inspector will have a QM with him, of course, your function being only to make a first reaction, sir.”

  Davy had said he had been a soldier. Ned turned to him appealingly.

  “I’ll show you the works, boyo, no worries!”

  The QM volunteered to have the weapons delivered to the quarters by a pair of policemen, it would be easier than having to carry them about all morning.

  “What next, Davy?”

  “Tea, in the dry canteen.”

  “I thought tea was wet?”

  “No alcohol, the wet canteen does not open until close of business at four o’clock.”

  “Sober in the working day, not too bad an idea, I’d have thought.”

  “So how do you stop the thirsty buggers bringing in a hip flask, boyo?”

  Ned was coming to realise that the booze was either an enemy or a personal friend up North – there was little middle ground.

  They drank their tea, necessary because of the heat and humidity never to go more than two hours without some fluid intake, but uniquely flavoured.

  “The water, Ned, heavy with chlorine to kill the diseases, makes part of the taste, tinned milk does the rest. It’s wet, and it probably ain’t harmful, and you’ve got to drink something.”

  “Right, what next?”

  “Senior Secretary, acting for Murray as he’s not in Moresby for a few more days. He’ll want to get a look at you and give you the lowdown on Administration policy. Sounds like a load of bullshit, but you need to know how to go on, what you can and can’t do up here. It’s easier if you know the rules.”

  Listening carefully to Mr Simpson - evidently important, he had given no Christian name - there seemed in fact to be very few rules but a lot of good habits to get into, not too difficult to remember however. It occurred to Ned, though he said nothing, that he would have liked to have been treated as well as Simpson said the Kanakas should be when he had been in Southampton, he wouldn’t have minded a little respect and a full belly without having to thieve for it. Protection for his sisters wouldn’t have been a bad thing e
ither.

  “Essentially, Mr Hawkins, you should bear in mind that although we are more fortunate in our civilisation than the people here, they are nonetheless equally human beings and, in the fullness of time, will match us in every way. Not perhaps in our lifetimes, of course, but it is our duty to bring them forward as rapidly as is possible and the Governor will expect your support in this aim.”

  “Seems fair to me, sir. A pity the same thing ain’t being done for the ordinary people in England, if you ask me.”

  A slight coldness suggested this had not been a popular comment, but Simpson did have the plummy Pommy accent.

  LONG WAY PLACE

  Chapter Four

  Four hours of the next morning were spent in the Papuan Rubber Company warehouse, most of it in supervising the boys opening the crates, tea chests and cartons newly offloaded from the ship. The labourers were willing to work, enthusiastic even, but all seemed to believe that the best way to open any packing case was to hit it with a sledgehammer or, preferably, an axe. Before an hour was past Ned was using a pinch bar himself and permitting the hands to unwrap everything carefully – they were allowed to take sacking and woodchips and oilpaper for themselves.

  “Clothes, firing and waterproofing for the roof, Ned – valuable stuff, poor buggers!”

  Ned nodded and put the slats of the packing cases carefully to the side – no doubt they would find a use for them.

  “They take well to work for blokes just in from the village, Davy.”

  “No choice, Ned. Most of ‘em will be on the run. Their faces didn’t fit any more for some reason, so it was get out or be chopped. They can’t go to any other village, not belonging to the clan that lives there. Half the places they would be in the cooking pot, for the rest, there they’d become a skull up on the roof of the spirit house.”

  “Copper boiler tube, well and good, Davy, but we’re going to need more than two hundred bloody feet of it! Tin and white metal and bronze in the ingot – good enough, but I need more than I can carry in one hand! Boiler plate, mild steel, good quality and substance, should be enough of that, at least; cheap, I suppose, so they can afford plenty. Welding and cutting gear, and an acetylene gas generator, and an air compressor. Do better with the new oxygen bottles but there wouldn’t be any way of refilling them, so that makes sense. No machine tools.”

  “There’s a workshop up at Laloki, Ned. Old Murdoch, the last engineer used it to build the steam plant so it must have most of what you need.”

  This was not good news.

  “He built it, himself? He didn’t just put it together?”

  “No way, mate, all of it, from scratch, just started with plate and bar and tube, two years ago, finished it a month before he died.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “Who knows, bach? He knew more about steam than me, but I don’t know bugger-all, so that don’t say too much, do it?”

  “Did he ever fire-up, do you know?”

  “He was going to, but then he started not to feel very well…”

  “Oh, shit!”

  Davy tried not to laugh, he thought it might not be tactful.

  “Is there any coal up at Laloki?”

  “No.”

  “And no railway, nor any chance of one, so it’s wood-burning… that means a stronger forced-draught and a bigger smoke-stack, so it said in the textbook, but I’ve never seen one, except for drawings of those American railway locos.”

  Ned did not think it necessary to explain where he had seen those drawings. Davy might not be too impressed by ‘Cactus Jack, Train-Robber’.

  “We’ll need a lot of cordwood, dry hardwood, so the book said was best. Do you know if there’s an empty go-down to store it to season?”

  Davy shook his head, could not guarantee there was a stock.

  Ned wondered how much time he had to be ready.

  “When does the rubber start to come in, Davy?”

  “Good question, that one, Ned. Not in the Dry Season, that’s for sure, and, in fact, I ain’t at all certain it will come in, like. I don’t know rubber, myself, but what I’m told is that our trees don’t look too good – the bark’s too thick, or something like that, due to the Dry Season making the trees toughen up, or something. I’ve got this sort of feeling, like, that maybe Fitzgerald’s gone South in a hurry because that’s the message he’s got to take to the Board.”

  “You mean, closing down, giving up, no jobs?”

  Davy grinned, shook his head.

  “They can’t, bach! McGregor, who was the man before Murray, was a crafty old bugger. He made the Papuan Rubber Company take twenty year leases on their land, annual rental to be paid to the Administration to distribute to the local land-owners, all guaranteed by the directors in person. If the Company goes bust they’ve still got pay out of their own pockets, so they’ll do all they can to turn the land to other uses. The word is that they’ll plant teak on some of it, set up a pig farm maybe and plant coconuts on all of the coastal estates, anything to pay their costs, unless they sell out dirt cheap to BPs or somebody who wants to get a foot in the door. They’ll need at least one engineer down on the coast to set up and run a wharf and warehouses for ‘em, boyo.”

  It seemed to Ned that if Davy was right then he would be needed to break the steam engine down and transport it to the coast rather than get it running up at Laloki, wherever that was. No worries, it might be the easier task - coal could come in by sea. He turned back to the mound of stores in front of him.

  “Hand tools mostly, Davy – look at the labels. Shovels, prongs, pickaxes, felling axes, bush knives, copra knives. What else? Hoop iron?”

  “Thin and flexible, Ned, cut into lengths of about a yard long, a wooden handle riveted on and sharpened on one side, it makes the best sort of cutter for the kunai grass. These are tools for coconut plantations, Ned. If you look you’ll find rolls of heavy wire mesh for making copra driers, I’ll bet any money.”

  “Yeah, labelled at the back, behind the blacksmithing tools and forges, four of them.”

  “Most plantations have their own smithy – tools to mend, carts to repair, that sort of thing, and the local villagers will always have a use for simple iron and steel parts and tools, it’s a good way of keeping them on your side.”

  “So… the rubber ain’t going to work and the plantations are all going to be turned over to other crops, like you said. Looks like I’m going to become a planter, Davy.”

  Davy shook his hand formally, welcomed him to the trade, told him it was not hard to learn, something that seemed obvious to Ned – if Davy could do it then so could he.

  Friday morning was typical Dry weather, a light easterly wind, cloud-free sky, low humidity, though stickier even at dawn than in an English summer. A boy brought three horses round to the verandah, two saddled for riding, the third for their packs.

  “Rifle in the bucket on the left of your saddle, Ned. Pistol in its holster, that leather strap across the butt, just behind the hammer, to keep it in place. Load both, Ned, never take a gun outside unloaded. You almost certainly won’t need it, but if you do you won’t have time to load it. Break the pistol, thumb to the catch, that’s it, six rounds in, close it and make very sure the hammer is down, tuck it away. If you pull it then you fire double action, thumb back the hammer, then squeeze the trigger. I’ll show you over the weekend, we’ve got a closed off little bit of a field where we can shoot in safety.”

  Ned asked where the safety catch was to be found, was told rather austerely that such things did not exist on revolvers as a general rule.

  “Your brain keeps you safe, Ned, not some piece of metal!”

  “For the rifle, ten rounds, point three-oh-three inch calibre, military specification, in the magazine, five and five. We load loose up here because the chargers can get corroded too easily in the Wet.” Davy took the rifle, thumbed the rounds quickly into the magazine, showed an easy familiarity with the weapon that confirmed his military past. Ned had wondered whet
her his story of service in the Boer War had been true, decided now that he probably had not been bullshitting.

  “Rifle has got a safety catch, Ned, here. Thumb it down, flick the rear sight up, leave it open because you’re almost certain to be working at close range, take a breath and exhale gently as you shoot. Count as you go – you don’t want to be surprised by finding your rifle empty.”

  Ned nodded; to a man of his hands it was not very difficult.

  “Always, never failing, boyo, you will unload when you get indoors and put the guns down. Count ‘em in and count ‘em out and keep your rounds in a different cupboard to the pieces. There will be a pair of metal lockers in your room and one key for each; that key stays in your pocket, never leaves your close possession. Most of the local boys would love to get their hands on a gun, and they watch and listen to their cousins in the police who will tell them all about the rifles. Let them get hold of a couple of rifles and they would go to war, against us as likely as the clan down the road! Each week you will open the cupboards and field strip and oil your pieces – don’t let them rust away untouched – you probably won’t need them but once in five years, but when you do need them, well, you need them!”

  “Field strip, Davy?”

  “I’ll show you, Ned, do it with you the first two or three weeks. Clean and oil, basically.”

  They set out east along the coast for a couple of miles as the sun rose, followed the track where it turned inland as the coast trended more to the south.

  “This is Two Mile Hill, Ned.”

  “Two miles from Moresby?”

  “Two miles from BPs store, Ned, the centre of town.”

  “Easily named, no problem remembering it.”

  “It was Queenslanders who came up first, Ned, ain’t likely it would be difficult.”

  “Hey, I like Queenslanders, Davy.”

  “I like me dog, Ned, but I still speak to it in simple English.”

  The hill was steep, the track graded only occasionally by a labour gang with shovels, and the horses walked very slowly to the top, pausing frequently. It was never wise to push the animals in the Tropics, particularly at the beginning of a twenty mile ride.