Mr Smith gazed around at the paddocks either side of them. ‘Fair bit of clearing around here. They growing wheat now, boy?’
‘Yes,’ said Jem, who’d seen the paddocks when they were bare dirt, then short and green, waving with grain, and finally with cattle munching the browned stems. ‘Did you live here, sir?’
Mr Smith looked at him sharply. ‘No. Why do you think that?’
‘Just because you’re curious. Lots of people moved away from the district after the big floods washed away the Araluen diggings,’ Jem added. ‘Ma Grimsby says there were more than forty thousand people in Araluen and Major’s Creek and Irish Corner in the 50s. This district was the richest goldfield in Australia.’
‘But not any more,’ said Mr Smith softly.
‘No, sir. Still a bit of panning goes on, I think, but it’s mostly mines and dredging now.’
‘Hard work and not much to show for it.’
‘I reckon,’ said Jem vaguely. They’d reached the giant boulder beyond Braidwood now. He looked at Paw hopefully.
Paw grinned and handed Jem the reins. ‘Remember to keep an eye on Dasher,’ he warned. ‘Bit of a warrigal. Don’t let him have his head.’
‘You’re not letting a boy drive five-in-hand!’ exclaimed Mr Smith. ‘Why, the most I’ve ever driven was two.’
‘Boy’s as strong as anyone twice his age,’ said Paw shortly. ‘He knows every bend and tree on this road, same as me.’
‘So you can talk,’ said Mr Smith. He looked warily at the reins in Jem’s right hand, the whip in his left. ‘You teaching your lad to be a Cobb & Co Whip?’
Paw didn’t reply. Jem focused on the horses. Every team was different, and every horse too. You heard some stories of warrigals — wild horses — passed off as broken ones, especially up Queensland way, where every horse tried to go in a different direction. But Paw had been doing this route since Maw died. None of the coaching houses would dare fob off a team of hard mouthers or bone crunchers or horses that were gone in the wind on Paw. The grooms knew the teams Paw wanted and made sure they were ready for him.
This was a good team. Sometimes horses were worn out after only a year in harness, but these animals had been well fed and groomed, their coats shiny, their haunches strong. They needed their strength, too. This first haul to Manar was a long one and, by the way the coach was swaying, Jem could tell its load was even heavier than he’d thought.
‘That your big trunk at the back, sir?’
Mr Smith gave him a sharp look. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Because the other trunk has Pickle written on it and the señorita has flowers painted on hers.’ Besides, it looks new, Jem thought, just like Mr Smith’s clothes.
‘It’s mine,’ Mr Smith admitted.
‘What’s in it? It’s extra heavy,’ he explained as Mr Smith cast another quick glance at him.
‘Books.’
‘Books?’ echoed Jem incredulously.
Mr Smith grinned, showing those long even white teeth. ‘Don’t you like books, lad?’
The road narrowed here between the trees, their roots splintering across the track, the branches arching above them. Jem concentrated on the team for a few minutes, as the coach bumped and swayed. Down inside Mrs Pickle gave another small scream.
At last Jem said, ‘Maw used to read me books when I was small, and then I read to her in her last months. I liked ’em. But why have you got a whole trunk full of them, sir?’
‘I’m a bookseller,’ said Mr Smith easily. ‘An old gentleman died and I heard he had a good library for sale.’
That would explain Mr Smith’s white hands, Jem thought, and his lack of tan too. Maybe booksellers made so much money they could afford new clothes every year, as well as false teeth and fifteen guineas for a ride up top.
The coach headed downhill towards the Shoalhaven River now. The muddy track was slippery from the earlier drizzle. Paw pushed his foot lightly on the brake to stop the coach accelerating faster than the horses could pull it.
Jem glanced to the west. The sun was still a handspan above the horizon. The night mail coach always did this leg of the journey in daylight. It wasn’t safe to ford a river in darkness, no matter how well you knew the way. The ford was usually easy, but the Shoalhaven River could rise quickly if there’d been rain upstream.
The track rose slightly, then dipped again, and there was the river, a shining brown snake winding between its rocks and sandy banks, the ford marked out on either shore by two fat posts. Jem could see the piers of the new bridge being built a little way upriver.
The bridge would cut at least half an hour off the journey when it was finished, and they’d get across dry into the bargain. The coach would be able to travel to Goulburn even in the worst floods, too. Jem pulled gently on the reins, but the horses knew the drill. They halted neatly, next to the ford, panting only lightly, their breath white in the cold air.
‘Grand bit of driving, lad,’ said Mr Smith, as he slid off the perch. He sounded genuinely admiring. But the team knew the route, and Jem had been driving it since Paw first gave him the reins on this stretch four years ago. The only hard part had been compensating for the heavy load of books on the back as they took the bends and rounded the corners. So he just nodded, as Paw yelled, ‘Everybody out!’
CHAPTER 3
THE CROSSING
A soft breeze had risen since they’d left Braidwood, an easterly, smelling of mist and salt, sniffing about the trees and touching Jem’s face with clammy cold as he stripped down to his long woollen underwear with the other men.
Jem had expected Mrs Pickle to complain about men taking off their clothes in her company, but she just averted her eyes. Senorita Rodriques and Juanita seemed intent on a book they were reading.
Jem glanced at the men curiously. You never knew what you’d see when the male passengers stripped at river crossings. Sometimes in summer men wore no underwear at all. Other times the undergarments had been sewn on and left for years, grey or yellowed cloth with dark brown stains, and the stink was so strong the horses stamped and the smell almost melted the paint on the coach.
But everyone looked and even smelled respectable tonight in almost identical white one-piece woollen combinations, buttoned up the front and reaching to their wrists and ankles. Mr Smith looked even thinner in his, and Mr Pickle had a tiny paunch his coat had disguised.
The men each shoved their outer clothes and boots into their carpetbags, while Paw wrapped his and Jem’s in the oil-cloth bag that held the essentials they might want on the journey, then hauled down the wooden washtub and the mailbags from the top of the coach and placed them on the bank, while Jem gathered the straw out of the coach and placed it around the mailbags in the tub. Delivering wet mail was worse than not delivering it at all.
Mr Smith and Mr Pickle stood next to Paw, gazing at the river. It was a little higher than it had been on their trip over — there must have been more rain upstream — but not enough to wash away the guiding boulders, nor the wide road of stones that had been built up under the water to allow the coach to cross easily.
Probably. You never knew what would happen in a river crossing, and it would take hours to check the rocks were all in place. Jem glanced back at the bridgework. More people died crossing rivers than perished on steep mountain slopes, where carriage, passengers and horses might slide in the mud to their deaths. Paw had refused any of the steep routes once Jem began to travel with him, and the Shoalhaven River wasn’t really treacherous, like some were. What you saw was what you got. Even if the base of the ford had moved, a bit of shoving should see the coach across.
‘You all done this before?’ asked Paw.
Mr Smith and Mr Pickle nodded.
‘Right. Mr Smith, you and Mr Pickle push at the back of the coach. I’ll take the horses’ heads. Jem, you take the reins but be ready to take over from me if any of the horses get skittish.’
Mr Pickle looked around. ‘Where’s the Chinaman?’
Jem realised he hadn’t seen the man undress.
Mr Pickle peered into the carriage. ‘Hey you, chop-chop. Out you hop. You pull your weight with the rest of us.’
The young man climbed quickly out of the coach, then looked at Mr Pickle uncomprehendingly.
‘Leave him,’ said Paw shortly. ‘If he ain’t done this before he best wait on the river bank. Ladies, it’s time to get out. Better take your carpetbags with you — the seats should stay dry, but we can’t be sure.’
Paw held his hand out to Señorita Rodriques. She flashed him a smile and stepped down holding her carpetbag, showing purple buttoned boots — Jem had never seen purple shoes before. Juanita jumped down, book in hand, not bothering with the step and not smiling either. Jem wondered if she ever smiled. Mr Pickle held both hands up to help Mrs Pickle down.
‘You feeling all right, lovie?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Right and dandy,’ said Mrs Pickle bravely, as though the coach were heading across the jungle instead of just to Goulburn. She blinked, unable to avoid the sight of three men and Jem in their underwear.
‘Hey up,’ called Paw, at the head of the horses. Jem quickly climbed up onto the box and took the reins again, but didn’t fasten the safety strap. The strap might stop you falling off but it could also hold you down if the coach tipped over, drowning you before you could get it released. He flicked the reins lightly.
The horses knew the procedure as well as Paw and Jem. They stepped slowly and unwillingly to the river’s edge then, hoof by hoof, walked into the cold water. Once there the problem was to stop them pulling too fast in their desire to get out again, making the coach unstable.
‘Whoa, boys,’ said Paw, patting Dancer. ‘Steady as you go.’
Jem pulled back lightly on the reins, controlling the two nearest horses, the polers. The three leaders might look as if they were in charge of the team, but it was the two nearer horses who controlled the speed as they pulled against the pole, as well as doing most of the steering. Paw was keeping the animals steady, but Jem’s was the more vital job, one he’d been proud to be in charge of for the last six months.
The coach rode smoothly down into the water — more smoothly than on the road, with the horses stepping so slowly. Deeper, deeper . . . the water was halfway up the top of the smaller front wheels now. Jem hoped they’d go no deeper. If the water reached the top of the wheels the horses would all be swimming, not walking. Paw would need to swim with them, and the water would come up above the floor of the coach.
‘How deep is it going to get?’ called Mr Pickle from the back of the coach, sounding suddenly uncertain. ‘My carpetbag won’t get wet, will it?’
‘Did you leave it in the coach?’ asked Paw.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Pickle.
‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ said Paw briefly.
‘Why not?’ cried Mr Pickle.
‘Rivers can be wet,’ said Paw, and the current hit them as they moved beyond the protection of the rocky promontory upstream. The coach rocked a little, especially its heavier rear, weighed down by Mr Smith’s trunk.
‘Hold it steady!’ yelled Jem to the men behind him. But Mr Smith and Mr Pickle had already moved to either side of the coach to stop it wobbling.
The water grew no deeper, but the current’s force splashed it up and onto the coach floor. The horses strained. Suddenly the coach lurched again and stopped, suddenly slightly lopsided. The freshening river must have washed some of the ford’s rocks away. Jem looked down anxiously, hoping they weren’t bogged, but all he could see was whirling sand, white in the pale brown water.
‘Push!’ yelled Paw. Mr Smith and Mr Pickle pushed. Jem jiggled the reins, then flicked the whip above his head, but the horses were as eager as the men to move the coach.
Nothing happened.
‘I need to check my bag!’ yelled Mr Pickle as Paw waded back to the coach. Mr Pickle peered anxiously into the cabin. Evidently his carpetbag was still safe and dry on the seat, as he returned to stand with Mr Smith.
Paw gave the coach a shove with his shoulder. ‘Right rear wheel caught,’ he said shortly. ‘All that weight on the back. We’ll need to take the trunks off then try to lift her out.’
‘No one’s touching my trunk,’ said Mr Smith grimly.
‘Don’t have a choice. If we can’t get her moving we’ll have to unhitch the horses and I’ll have to ride back for another team to help pull her out.’
‘That would take hours, man! I’ve got to get tomorrow’s Goulburn train,’ objected Mr Smith, as Mr Pickle heaved uselessly at the coach.
‘Don’t waste your strength,’ Paw said to Mr Pickle. ‘It’ll take all our strength and more to shift her.’
‘It is essential I get Mrs Pickle to Goulburn as soon as possible,’ puffed Mr Pickle.
‘Not as badly as I need to get that train,’ said Mr Smith stonily.
‘And I have to get the mail to that train too, or the company gets fined, and I get fined by the company,’ said Paw. ‘So we take your trunks off.’
‘The books will get wet,’ objected Mr Smith quickly. ‘Can’t sell wet books.’
‘Then we’ll hold the trunk above our heads. Come on, man, we can’t keep the horses standing in cold water.’
‘One more try to lift the wheel,’ said Mr Smith a little desperately.
Paw nodded. ‘One more try then. You take the middle, Pickle. Smith and I’ll be on each side. On the count of three then. One. Two. Three!’
Jem flicked the reins with one hand and cracked the whip in the air with the other. For a long moment nothing happened, and then the two front wheels gripped. The coach lurched forward so suddenly Mr Pickle fell into the churning water.
‘Horace!’ screamed Mrs Pickle from the bank.
Jem gazed round, but all he could see was whirling sand.
‘Horace!’ shrieked Mrs Pickle again. Señorita Rodriques put her arm around her, but Mrs Pickle shrugged her off. ‘Save him!’ she cried as she ran clumsily down to the edge of the river just as Mr Pickle’s head emerged downstream, his mouth spitting out sand and water, and then the rest of him followed.
He began to wade towards his wife. Jem turned his attention back to the horses. He glanced at the sun, sliding to the horizon now as if glad to leave this drab cold world of winter. They needed to get the coach across the river before dark, and the women and mail too.
The coach moved smoothly through the water now. Within minutes the horses were stamping and shaking on the sandy shore. Jem slipped off his wet underwear behind the coach, his fingers almost numb with cold, and his toes too. He put on his dry underwear, then his outer clothes, stockings and boots, jogging a little to keep warm, then ran to help Paw wipe the horses down with a fistful of straw. As soon as they were dry Jem led them up the track to a level place where he could walk them so they didn’t catch a chill, while Paw and Mr Smith waded back across the river, arm in arm to steady each other against the current.
The two of them brought the mailbags back, floating them in the big wooden washtub with Juanita and her book perched on top. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Jem could see Mr Pickle holding Mrs Pickle’s hand on the far bank. He must be freezing standing there, his wet underwear clinging to his skin. At least Paw and Mr Smith were moving, though both shivered as they helped Juanita onto the bank then tossed the mailbags and hay out and plunged into the icy river again.
To Jem’s surprise Juanita grabbed the mailbags and hauled them up the slope to him. ‘That was fun,’ she said.
Jem stared at her. ‘Most women are scared.’
‘Probably because they can’t swim. Once the tub I was in floated away. That was on a coach trip way up north. The other lady in the tub screamed and made such a fuss the tub fell over.’ Juanita’s voice didn’t sound Spanish at all.
‘Were you able to wade over to the bank? Or did the driver rescue you?’
‘I swam over to the bank. The water was way over our heads by then. The current was so fast
I knew I couldn’t pull the other lady with me, so I grabbed the tub and got her to hold onto it before her dress got so sodden it dragged us both down. It took ages to shove her up into it. Then I swam over to the bank, pushing the washtub.’
Jem looked at her dubiously. ‘Really and truly?’
Juanita put her chin up. ‘Yes. Really and truly.’
‘What were the men doing?’
‘Running along the bank to catch up with us. They had to carry Mrs Hawker back to the carriage. And me,’ Juanita admitted. ‘I was pretty bushed by then. Sis was about to strip off her dress to dive in to save me, so it was a good thing I got to the bank before she did.’
Was Juanita telling the truth? Hardly anyone Jem knew could swim, though Maw had taught him how when he was a baby. Paw could swim, too, though not so well. Jem looked down at the river again. Paw and Mr Smith had reached the deepest part by now.
He and Juanita said nothing till the two men had crossed to the shallows safely, then Juanita asked, ‘Do you always travel with your dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘She died.’ If Juanita could ask questions, so could Jem. ‘Why don’t you sound Spanish?’
‘Because I was born in Australia.’
‘Do you always travel with your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘That must be fascinating,’ said Jem. ‘All the theatres and music —’
‘It’s as interesting as mud,’ said Juanita. ‘I sit behind the stage and mend the costumes and then we go back to our lodgings and it’s always mutton stew and then we get on the train or the coach to go to another theatre.’
‘Why don’t you stay with your mum?’
‘I don’t have one either.’
‘What about other relatives, back in Spain?’
‘I don’t have any relatives back in Spain,’ Juanita said flatly.
Jem glanced back at the other side of the river as Paw helped Señorita Rodriques and her carpetbag into the washtub. The Chinese man squeezed in beside her.
‘Oh good, they’re bringing Sis back now, with Mr Lee,’ said Juanita.
Night Ride into Danger Page 2