"The chief dislikes failure," Kannaday said. "He'll back me."
"Because you're the captain?" Hawke pressed.
"Because I'm looking out for his interests," Kannaday replied.
"I see. This decision has nothing to do with your being a full-blood?" Hawke demanded.
"That's irrelevant," Kannaday said.
"Because you say so?" Hawke asked.
"Because it's true!" Kannaday replied. "I have never judged you by your background."
"But when you have your audience with the chief, you will tell him that I was inattentive and uncooperative," Hawke said. "White shorthand. Those are the usual charges against native Australians. You might even get him to believe you. He has never been a friend to Aboriginals or their issue."
"Your background has nothing to do with my decision," Kannaday insisted. "You failed in your responsibility. That is not something we can afford. You will be paid for the work you have done thus far. That's a considerable sum, I should add. With a resignation, you can run security for another operation. This won't affect your career."
Hawke drew the wommera from his sash. The four-inch-long darts were in a closed canvas sack that hung beside it. Kannaday was not concerned. There was not enough room to use them in here. And the stick was neither solid nor thick enough to use as a club.
"I refuse to resign," Hawke said. There was steel in his jawline, in his voice. "Now. How will you enforce your decision?"
"I have weapons, too," Kannaday said. "And I have the men to use them. More men than you have."
"You have sailors," Hawke said. "I have killers."
"Half of them are Aboriginal and half of them are white," Kannaday said. "How do you know they won't turn against each other in a showdown?"
"My people are loyal to me," Hawke said.
"Your people? Your killers still work for the chief, and they will want to get paid," Kannaday assured him. "Now get out. I have to inform the Indonesians that we will not be making the rendezvous in the morning. Then I'm going to turn over security operations to one of my people, Mr. Henrickson. You may have free run of the ship as long as you agree not to work any mischief."
"I will not resign," Hawke said.
"Then you are dismissed," Kannaday said. He glanced at the wommera as he rose. "And if you're thinking of taking me on personally, I've tangled with monkeys like you my whole life. Up and down the islands, in bars and down alleys, on and off board ship."
"Monkeys," Hawke said contemptuously.
"Yes," Kannaday said. "Annoying little creatures. Now leave before I throw you out."
"Like trash," Hawke said.
Kannaday had had enough of this. Everyone felt oppressed these days. He reached for the security chief's shoulders. As he did, Hawke jerked the wommera as though he were cocking a shotgun. The top quarter of the stick flew off. Beneath it was a scalpel-sharp five-inch steel blade. Hawke thrust the slender knife forward. He pressed it into the soft flesh just below Kannaday's larynx. The blade was pointed up. Hawke forced Kannaday to the balls of his feet. Kannaday had not known the wommera had a concealed blade. He felt stupid. That was worse than feeling helpless.
"Don't ever assault me," Hawke said. "I'm not your dog… or monkey."
Kannaday said nothing. At moments like these it was best to listen. That provided information as well as time.
"Maybe you're telling the truth," Hawke went on. "Maybe you hate me for myself, not for my background. Or maybe you were just protecting your ass like you've done before. For your information, I did conduct research before signing on. I looked up your personal history. I know about the lawsuit your former partner Mr. March filed when you stole this ship by changing national registries. He could not get you into court because he could not find you. I know about the counterfeiters you betrayed in Auckland to save yourself from a smuggling charge, and I know about the wife you abandoned in Sydney. The chief needed someone to run this route, and you were the perfect bastard. But I knew it would be wrong to trust you too far."
Hawke leaned into the wommera. The captain felt a pinch at his throat. He backed against the rolltop desk. Hawke followed him. Thick drops of blood fell slowly onto Kannaday's trousers. The captain had anticipated that Hawke might attack him. He kept a.45 in his desk drawer for protection. But he was up against the drawer and could not reach it.
"You asked why I was late just now," Hawke said. "I was speaking with my men. They may be mixed, Mr. Kannaday, but they understand loyalty. They also understand necessity. If they cannot trust their fellows under fire, they will not survive. So here is my proposal. I will allow you to keep your ship and your command. If the chief dismisses you, we will refuse to sail with anyone else. He will not want to lose us both." Hawke moved in closer. He did not press the blade further. "We can all ride out this unfortunate incident. The key to your personal survival, Captain, is not to find a goat. It is to be allied with a hawk. Someone who can watch over you."
"You have a sword at my throat," Kannaday rasped. "You haven't left me any options."
"Did you leave me any?" Hawke demanded. "How does it feel?"
The blood was running thicker now. Kannaday thought about trying to grab the shaft.
Hawke seemed to read the captain's mind.
"Think this through," Hawke warned. "No one needs to know about our exchange," Hawke told the captain. "When you see the chief, you can tell him you were injured in battle. He may even respect you more for it. I will tell my men that you never threatened me. I will say that we simply agreed on what you would tell the chief. You can wear a turtleneck to conceal the wound."
"I see. And we just go on as we were," Kannaday said.
"We do," Hawke replied. "You don't have to like me or our arrangement. But this is what necessity demands. You will live with it."
Hawke backed away. He relaxed the blade slightly. A moment later he removed it entirely. That was intended, no doubt, to be a show of trust. Or perhaps of confidence. The two were often related.
Kannaday removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed it against the shallow wound. He stepped away from the rolltop desk. The captain could reach the.45 now. Hawke had attacked him. Kannaday had the wound to prove it. And the weapon.
The sheath of the wommera was attached by a slender leather thong. Hawke replaced the cap and returned the weapon to his belt. Then he turned away and walked slowly toward the door.
Kannaday could easily reach the gun. Hawke obviously knew that, too. He had to suspect that the captain kept a weapon in his quarters. But to stop Hawke now would mean shooting him from behind. To kill him that way would probably cause even his own sailors to turn on him. They would understand discipline and self-defense but not cowardice.
Hawke paused by the door. He turned back and faced the captain full. "Is there anything further you wanted?"
"No," Kannaday replied.
Hawke lingered a moment longer. Then he reached behind him, twisted the knob, and left the room.
Kannaday's shoulders dropped. He had not realized how tense he was until they did. He checked the handkerchief and saw that it was thickly stained with blood. He pressed it back in place and went to get a first-aid kit. He kept one in the locker at the foot of his bed, along with his private store of scotch. As soon as he patched the cut, he would open the bottle.
Kannaday was shaken. The captain was also angry at himself for underestimating Hawke. The man had poise. And courage. And a purpose: To end this encounter leaving Kannaday feeling something less than a captain. And a man.
Kannaday sat on the bed to clean and bandage the wound. He gazed into the mirror on the inside of the lid. The gash was a quarter inch long and bleeding slower now. But it went deep. Right down to his dignity.