The Coves

by Whish-Wilson, David;

  His daydreaming was interrupted by an elbow to the ribs. He looked up into the face of a gentleman whose eyes were roused by passion, and some of the men beside Sam murmured their agreement at Walker’s chastisement of his countrymen.

  ‘Pillagers, respecters of no laws, parasites from the extremities of the earth. A pox on this here settlement, whose future mustn’t be waylaid by a band that daily fills the street with corpses, where decent men lately fear to promenade, and resist sending for their loved ones out of fear of what’ll befall them if matters aren’t rectified…’

  And on he shouted, until the barman winked at Sam and rolled his eyes. Leaned toward Sam and muttered, ‘Words wasted on this mongrel assembly who’re mostly present because they thought to see a hanging—’ The publican’s words were cut short by a bearded man with a cane, who held up his empty mug.

  There was no way Sam could get to his destination, the government buildings across the square. And so he waited. Walker held up a sheet of paper and pointed to the picture of Mannix and asked who among the crowd would extricate the outlaw known as Mannix from the heart of Sydney-town if the sheriff remained unwilling. The same outlaw who had lately, it was said, taken to an even more nefarious trade than plunder and murder. Namely depriving ordinary men of their freedom—men of all nationalities lured to his saloons, who drank spirits laced with opium and who awoke far out at sea, shanghaied in other words, and locked into unwilling service to a new and unscrupulous shipmaster, and all for a tidy commission. Walker’s answer nothing but a few murmurs. To further his point, he read out the crimes committed in the previous month. Some thirty-three murders. Innumerable armed assaults and burglaries. Crimes against property and person.

  ‘My own wife, accosted in the street by two ruffians who stole her purse and threatened violence if she resisted. My own wife, who in our previous benighted home lost her three children and husband to murder at the hands of black savages, who sought on this shore the opportunity for a new society of free men and women, absent the convict stain. Who has convalesced in our home only to be newly reminded of the violence that stalks every territory where a strong hand is lacking, and by strong hand I mean the hand of swift judgement, the justice of tar and feather and noose. For my wife’s heart is newly broken, and I am resolved—’

  The beating in Sam’s heart drowned out the ugly voice. He felt light-headed, and liable to fall. It was the mention of Walker’s wife. Lost her three children and husband at the hands of Australian blacks. The number of times Sam had been goaded to tell the story of his father—it meant that the murderousness wasn’t common. He pushed his way to the front of the balcony and looked for signs of Walker’s wife, but there were no women in that furious company. Only Walker, pacing the dray-cart and growling at the hundreds of heads beneath him.

  ‘Immediate action is required and, to whit, my peers have sent a letter to Monterey, demanding that the company of soldiers stationed at the Presidio outside town, who only venture here to enjoy the fleshpots of Sydney-town, be garrisoned right where I stand before you. And that they parade in this square. And that they train a civilian militia in the ways and means of warfare. And that they patrol with said militia until every rogue is taken from the streets. And if this isn’t sufficient, I have suggested that we burn Sydney-town to the ground. Look around you. Everywhere you see improvements, and evidence of a town on the rise, that will one day become a great and noble city. But Sydney-town is the identical hovel-strewn locale it was a year ago. It will not be missed, I can assure you.’

  Walker stood aside and introduced the next speaker, who Sam recognised as Mayor Bannon, dressed in his regular black suit and bowtie. There were sniggers in the crowd, due to Bannon’s notoriety regarding graft, now proselytising on behalf of the vigilantes. But Sam knew it to be a terrible omen. Bannon had thus far protected the Australians, but that protection was now publicly rescinded. Bannon held up a noose-rope as he spoke and waved it to the crowd, which roared as one.

  ‘You know me as the mayor and as a straight talker and pious man, and so I tell you that enough is enough, and that I’ll be petitioning the Governor to abide by the letter of the law and refuse the admission into this territory of those with criminal records, as required by the law. And that until such time as this territory becomes part of the Union, and my promises here can be confirmed by my election under the Nativist ticket, I hereby promise that at that time, under the powers vested in me, to ensure that no new leases be granted to Australians or any other foreigner wanting to buy property in this city, and that the current ownership of mining leases will be cancelled and handed without compensation over to Americans only. For make no mistake—this is an American territory, and it will be peopled by Americans, and foreigners of dubious provenance are not welcome here. I know there are many from foreign shores among you, and you are welcome to become Americans, but those who protest my decision will suffer the full force of the law. So I have here in my hand a lynching rope for any American who wants it, at any time of day and night. For until the Governor sees sense, and applies military law to our streets, we must needs look to our own resources if justice is to be served.’

  There were cheers and applause from the Americans in the crowd, notable for their red shirts and wide-brimmed hats, and nervous comment and stunned silence from the majority. Mayor Bannon leapt from the dray-cart, and was mobbed by those Americans who’d pushed to the front of the crowd in order to petition for opportunity. Sam recognised some of the Australians from the cove at the edges of the crowd, slouch hats tilted low and making themselves small. His thought was to return to Keane, and tell him of Bannon’s threats to burn out the Australians and take their land, and turn over their mining leases to Americans, but that would be done by others. It was grave news, and spelled out Clement’s fears that the Nativists would, by an appeal to greed and resentment, triumph over those who arrived before them. Sam whistled to the dog, which lay at his feet, and swung down into the alley, thinking to return the way he came, and thereby make his way across the square to the clerk’s offices. But the streaming out of the square on all sides blocked the passage, and the mood among those who weren’t American was turning ugly, so he stood in the alley and waited.

  The day was heating up, or else the warmth derived from the rank humanity in the square, and so Sam opened his jacket and flapped it around his ribs. In so doing, he noticed a boy his own age, deeper in the alley, looking hard at him. The boy was dressed in rags, like Sam when he arrived on these shores. His feet were bare and muddy; his eyes were hungry. Sam thought him a Mexican, with his brown skin and floppy black hair. He was small and wiry and there was poise in his stillness, looking over Sam’s shoulder to scan the crowd. He was moving closer, too, the only change in him, like a trick. He had a broad flat nose and eyes like black stones. Sam knew that look. The Indian boy was nearly on him, and still no change in his face. Nothing in his hands.

  Sam raised his own hand in greeting, tried to smile. But there was too much hunger in the boy’s eyes. Sam tried to shuffle back toward the crowd but the rutted alley caught his feet. Then the Indian boy was underneath him, although the grimness had gone. Replaced by a humour. Sam drew his knife but the boy stepped back and grinned. Darted in and poked Sam in the belly. Sam held up the knife and waved it at the boy’s face. The boy darted in and scratched Sam’s face with his fingers. Was enjoying himself now. Saw that Sam couldn’t speak, that he was freezing up. Walked right inside the knife’s arc and pushed Sam in the chest. Caught him in the rebound off the saloon wall and repeated the action. Sam’s voice trapped in his throat. All he had to do was shank the knife. But his hand wouldn’t listen to his head. Seemed distant and not his own. The boy said something in his language and sneered, took a hank of Sam’s long red hair and stroked it. Leaned in and took Sam’s privates in his hand, to check, and stepped back in disgust. Saw the bulge in Sam’s waistcoat pocket and dipped his fingers there and pulled out the sack of gold dust. Weighed it and smiled.
Gripped Sam’s wrist and prised loose the knife from his fingers. Sam’s breathing coming in hard gulps. The boy saw this and was shocked, took a few seconds for the smile to reappear. He stepped back and looked Sam up and down, pressed against the wall, held vertical by his lean. The boy looked kindly at Sam then, and the punch he threw at Sam’s face was an act of charity, and Sam knew it and the boy knew it, and Sam knelt and spat blood and watched the boy return down the alley and disappear around the corner.

  Sam looked back to the square, blood streaming from his nose, bright red on the green weeds. The saloon-keeper, the American, was stationed at the entrance to the alley, alerted by the thumping on his wall. He must have seen the theft, but he said nothing, and returned to the porch and his waiting customers.

  Sam found Keane in a war-party with Mannix, Clement, Barr and some of the others, in the armoury. He listened from his position at the top of the stairs as the men strategised on the matter of Walker’s threats and Bannon’s betrayal. Rather than losing everything they’d worked for at the stroke of a pen, Mannix counselled the assassination of both, but Keane spoke against it. The Military Governor, an infantry general, was coming to inspect the cavalry major and his troops at the Presidio, and because of Walker’s importuning, the merchant’s name was known to the Governor as a community elder. Murdering Bannon would surely make him a martyr to the Nativists, and see their popularity confirmed.

  The other likely consequence of such an assassination would be the major leading his company of troops against Sydneytown. Could they see off a hundred cavalrymen?

  Mannix’s response was to call Keane a coward, and at this there was thumps on the table, and the scraping of chairs and a tumult of shouts and insults. Sam thought to retreat, but his dizziness saw him waver, reach for the wall and trip onto the floorboards at the top step. Right away Barr was at the door, knife drawn. He looked down on Sam and there was only suspicion in his eyes. He reached for Sam’s arm and drew him up, walked him into the armoury. There were more people than Sam had thought. The whole company of Sydney-town who were leaders. The American Democrats, Casey and Charlie Duane, and the fighter Yankee Sullivan too. Some of the women brothel-keepers and groghouse foremen and card-game supervisors. Some of the stevedores who organised stealing at the port. The bombmakers and arms procurers. The old forgers. Men dressed as miners and sailors. Sam knew them as people he sought to pass on messages. They looked to him as one, his bloodied face and torn shirt. Empty knife-sheath.

  Sam watched the kindliness in Keane’s eyes abandoned as he understood the nature of Sam’s position, relative to the atmosphere in the room and the sensitivity of their negotiations. His benevolent interest in Sam forestalled by the interest of the others. The smell in the room of damp wool and sweat and anger. Barr didn’t leave his side, or let go of his sleeve.

  ‘Caught ’im listenin on the stairs.’

  They all knew Sam as Keane’s boy, but their eyes became the eyes of strangers.

  ‘I came to tell you about Bannon. Him speakin under the Nativist banner.’

  Keane looked around at the others, to see if they believed, or cared. He angled his head. ‘Get, boy.’

  But Mannix put up a hand, his blood still hot. ‘How’d you come to a beatin, son? Was you set upon? Was it Walker’s men, or Americans?’

  Keane staring at Mannix. Sam looked instead at Clement, whose face was encouraging. ‘I was robbed of the gold, and my knife, nearby the town square.’

  ‘How many of ’em, and what was their purpose? Ye’ll remember their faces.’

  Sam didn’t answer, because he didn’t know what to say, hoping to be dismissed. But his silence was unwise. There was muttering, and Barr took his face and angled it, looked to his wounds. Said what most of them were thinking.

  ‘I know you trust this boy, Keane. But this nose ain’t even broken. Not a broken tooth neither. Not a bruise on him otherwise. Boy could punch himself in the face and take the gold for his own. Wouldn’t be the first to try.’

  Sam tried to shrug himself free, but Barr held tight, turned him to the judgement of the others. Keane raised a hand to silence them, but when he spoke his voice wasn’t kindly.

  ‘Was there witnesses? I’d advise you to speak.’

  Sam nodded, didn’t trust himself, but spoke. ‘The American at the saloon, he saw.’

  ‘And what did he see?’

  Sam blushed, for shame. ‘It was an Indun boy. He took it, and the American saw.’

  ‘How was he armed? How many in his company? And you fought back, so you were struck down?’

  It was Sam’s silence that condemned him. And the questions that Keane had asked, an opportunity to lie not taken. And the unlucky coincidence of the angered company, now jury.

  Keane looked back to Mannix, to resume his discourse. Clement shook his head. Barr took Sam’s sleeve and pulled him to the door. Their faces were closed to him, and the hinges groaned as the door slammed shut and the shouting resumed.

  16

  Sam decided to await his punishment. He helped the Ancient in the groghouse wash dishes, prepare the evening candles, sweep the floor around the feet of the drinkers, then sweep it again. Certain of his relegation in the matter of his employment, Sam prepared himself to make arguments against being cast out of their company. He could work in the stables, with the farrier. He could work with the butcher, making tallow. He could clean or learn the trades of the woodworkers. He could help at the port.

  The ceiling began to groan with the weight of feet above them, and the stairs began to creak and rattle. The men and women of Sydney-town entered the groghouse and wended their way around the drinkers and returned to the street.

  Neither Keane, nor any of the other leaders emerged. Only Clement, who looked for Sam, calling him to their place by the fire. Sam stood beside the older man and waited for him to speak. To take out his pipe and paraphernalia and resume his ritual of smoking and schooling. But Clement didn’t settle, or take off his coat, or indicate for Sam to take a bench. He stood sideways to Sam, and spoke quietly.

  ‘Samuel, we don’t care about the gold, or the knife. That’s not what the native boy took from you. You ken?’

  Sam nodded, thinking instead on his punishment. He could feel it now, the cold and the hunger, returning. He saw clearly how the warmth of Clement’s friendship had sustained him these past months, more than the vittles and the blankets in his cot.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Son, a man is just a boy who’s learnt to perform the role of man. Keane has given you a role, and you must learn to play it. What do you say? Can you learn to play the role? And in learning to play the role, come to be the player? What say you?’

  The voice was hard, but the eyes were warmed.

  ‘I can play the role.’

  ‘You cannot return to your former employment of conveying dust. Not until you prove yourself. Perhaps the forging of titles or notables, which is a skill you could learn…’

  Sam nodded, and Clement’s face softened. ‘Sit, boy, and tell me what savagery precipitated such a bearing in you. I knew when we were introduced that you’d witnessed much for a boy your age, but I did you the honour of not prying, and potentially releasing the terrors. But I observe now that you live with them daily, even if you don’t ken that yourself. So tell me, son, this above all else. On that first night on this shore, before the butchery ensued in this hall, I asked you a question about what you believed. A look passed across your face that made me fearful. Tell me, what vision did you see, in that moment of dread?’

  Clement sat, and Sam took the stool beside him, and leaned close, and he spoke for near twenty minutes before he recounted the dream of the black snake, Clement smoking and nodding thoughtfully but keeping silent.

  ‘The jaws of the black snake dislocated and the beast sheathed itself fully upon the Magistrate, who continued to sleep, while I watched from my cot, the glowing coal of the snake-eye fixed upon me, and I could not move, or cry out, or escape…’


  Sam looked to Clement, and there was a concerned expression on the old man’s face. Finally, his body slumped, and tears started into his eyes. ‘Boy, you had your vision before the bloodshed ensued in this hall. Which I don’t think a coincidence. My opinion is that witnessing the severed head of the black warrior, and your dream of the snake, which I’d reckon as likely not a dream, are closely related. I don’t ken the ways of the blackfellow, but I know something of the interpretation of dreams and what they might augur. That snake is trying to tell you something. What, I cannot say. It is for you to figure. Does that make sense to you boy?’

  Sam nodded. The paralysis and terror he felt at witnessing the gorging snake, and in those moments when fear of the violent hand claimed him, were one and the same.

  Clement tapped the pipe-ash onto the boards, stared at his boots awhile. He was a long time silent, and it was a silence louder than the rough cursing of the drunks and the first strains of the Irish fiddler, who began to play a shanty with one leg on a stool. Sam thought back upon the words Clement had spoken, in particular his augury of the dream, and he looked once more upon the black snake, meditated upon it, his eyes never straying from the ruby coals of those clever eyes, and for the first time his guts didn’t tighten, and his throat constrict. For behind the black snake was the forest, with the dew heavy and the red gum’s jewelled wounds and the sunlight on the silvered leaves, and the vision was one and the same.

  17

  Any talk of alternative employments was forgotten in the dramatics following Bannon’s speech, and the Coves set Sam to delivering messages as he always had. Despite the fact that California hadn’t been declared a state of the Union, the preparations for an election were underway and these consisted mostly of the Nativists posting messages on shopfronts about the moral hazards of the Sydney-towners and the Chinese and the French, and every person not American.