‘I’ll take this one.’ She clasped the big canvas bag to her.
He knew he shouldn’t let her, ’cause she was a girl, and a passenger, but he was tired, so tired he wish he had a broomstick up his shirt to keep him upright. And he’d seen what she could do! The two of them staggered across the courtyard towards the office.
‘Mailbags!’ Another porter took the bag from Juanita and piled it on his trolley, then balanced Jem’s on top. ‘Anything else for the mail?’
‘Not this time.’
‘Train’s about to leave,’ said the porter. Jem could hear the engine’s steady build-up of steam.
‘I’ll go straight through with these,’ said the porter. ‘While you go and sign for them in the office.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jem gratefully, as Juanita ran back towards the coach. He gave her a last, long glance, suddenly realising there wouldn’t even be a chance to say goodbye to her, for she and Señorita Rodriques would be able to catch the train to Sydney now, then he hurried into the office.
The ticket clerk glanced up at him. ‘Too late to get a ticket now,’ he said. ‘Train’s about to go.’
‘I know. I’m from Cobb & Co. I’ve just delivered the mail so I need to sign for it.’
‘They taking babies as Whips now?’
‘Coach had an accident,’ said Jem briefly. ‘I had to bring her in.’
The man stared at him. ‘You? Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Jem curtly.
‘My word. Well done, boy! Anyone hurt?’
‘My father. Please, could you just bring me the book? I want to get back to him.’
He glanced outside. Juanita was back at the coach, Señorita Rodriques at her side with their carpetbag. A second porter had joined the first, strapping Mr Smith’s heavy trunk onto the trolley, both of them struggling so it didn’t overbalance. And there was Mr Smith still beside the trolley, grasping his carpetbag.
Jem caught his breath. Why hadn’t Mr Smith just got on the train? Surely he wouldn’t risk going back to Darlinghurst Gaol now! He had a chance. One last chance! A chance at life, the stars at night, friendship and freedom. How could he risk all that for gold?
Jem signed quickly, then raced back across the courtyard just as the stationmaster yelled, ‘All aboard!’
‘Come on!’ he yelled to Mr Smith.
‘But my trunk . . .’
‘You need to sign in the office and get a label for it. Ain’t you ever been on a train before?’
‘Only the one coming down to Goulburn.’
Jem grabbed Mr Smith’s hand. ‘In here!’ he ordered.
The ticket clerk was still at the counter. ‘Need a label,’ Jem panted.
‘He going to take you as luggage?’ joked the clerk.
‘The porters are bringing his trunk.’
The man nodded, and took a label from under the counter. ‘Name?’
‘Mr J Smith.’
‘Address?’
Mr Smith hesitated. ‘Bluebell Cottage, Green Street, Glebe.’
‘Contents?’
‘Books.’
‘Booking that carpetbag as luggage?’
Mr Smith shook his head. ‘It goes with me.’
‘All right, we’ll just weigh the trunk.’
‘No time,’ snapped Mr Smith.
The ticket clerk stared at him. ‘Then how will we know what to charge you, sir?’
‘I’ll pay for it after it’s on the train,’ said Jem quickly. ‘Maximum price. Mr Smith won’t catch the train in time if we have to weigh it.’
‘Suit yourself. Here you are, sir,’ the ticker seller handed Mr Smith the label just as the porters puffed in with the trunk.
‘Take it straight through!’ called the clerk.
Jem thrust the label at the porters, then urged Mr Smith out onto the crowded platform. Half of Goulburn, it seemed, had come to wave the train farewell.
‘Stop looking for your trunk!’ Jem yelled. ‘The porters will get it onto the train if they can. You need to find your seat.’
Mr Smith hesitated at the door, then opened his carpetbag and fumbled under a shirt and the oil-cloth that held his wet underwear. Jem blinked. Most of the bag seemed to be stuffed with bank notes.
‘Here.’ Mr Smith shoved some of the notes at Jem. ‘That’ll pay the freight.’
‘And more,’ said Jem, hastily shoving the notes down his trousers before anyone could see how much he had.
Mr Smith peered frantically through the crowd. ‘What are those dashed porters doing now?’
‘They have to take your trunk down to the luggage compartment at the end of the train. Have you got your ticket?’
‘In my pocket.’ Mr Smith looked anxiously down the other end of the platform, where the porters were slowly weaving their way through the crowd, only their blue caps showing. ‘Why aren’t they going faster?’ he demanded.
‘All aboard,’ cried the stationmaster again.
‘They might be worried it’ll tip and hurt someone. Sir, don’t worry. Now it’s got a label it will go on the next train if they miss this one.’
‘But I have to be on the boat for Hong Kong!’
‘Then it will be delivered to Green Street and be sent after you —’
‘There is no Green Street! I don’t have an address in Sydney. Not one I can give.’ Mr Smith craned his neck to look over the crowd again. ‘Lad, listen carefully. The best thing to do if you have lots of . . . books . . . is to make sure no one knows you’ve got ’em.’
Jem nodded. He doubted he’d ever have so much gold — or books — that he’d have to be discreet with them. ‘This is your carriage, sir.’
It was as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Only use a few . . . books . . . at a time. The books that are still, er, just pages, take them a few at a time to Sydney where they’ll be made up.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The mint,’ he said softly. ‘They’ll buy your books and give you sovereigns in return.’
‘All aboard!’ yelled the stationmaster for the third and last time. He blew his whistle. The train whistle blew in response. The wheels began to slowly turn.
Mr Smith peered over the crowd again.
‘Did the porters get it on?’ cried Jem.
‘Don’t know,’ said Mr Smith tightly, beginning to run to keep pace with the train carriage. ‘Don’t be conspicuous, lad. Don’t let people suspect you might have money . . .’
‘Sir, get on the train. Please!’ Jem had a sudden image of Mr Smith in a damp, dark cell, gazing at the tiny scrape of sky that never showed the moon or enough stars.
Mr Smith ran faster. Jem ran after him, ducking and weaving through the crowd just as his friend leaped into the carriage. The train began to gather speed.
‘If the porters still have my trunk then half the books are yours!’ yelled Mr Smith. ‘Just don’t let them put the trunk on the next train.’
‘But what about you, sir?’ panted Jem. The train was moving too fast to keep up with now.
‘I’ll write to you!’ shouted Mr Smith, his words almost lost in engine noise and smoke as the train pulled away from the station. He leaned out, holding on to the doorway, and waved.
Jem waved back then turned to look down the platform.
Most of the crowd had gone, making their way through the office or the courtyard. Only an old man was left, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, and a young woman who had farewelled her children, perhaps, or her husband, as well as a dog who was scratching itself with deep enjoyment . . . and the two porters.
The trunk was still attached to their trolley. And Mr Smith had left with Paw’s pocket watch, as well.
But Mr Smith had his second chance now, or tenth. And he would always have the stars.
CHAPTER 13
MR PICKLE’S SECRET
Jem walked slowly back down the platform to the booking office.
It hurt that he hadn’t said goodbye to Juanita or to Señorita Rodriques. He hadn’t even had time to see them get on the train, to wave t
o them, to see Juanita’s grin once more.
The three of them had been through so much together. But it had been more important to get Mr Smith on the train. Sometime, maybe, Señorita Rodriques might dance in Goulburn or Braidwood again, and he could meet Juanita, and talk about the night a baby was born and a bushranger escaped.
He’d be able to tell Juanita all about it then, for Mr Smith would be free. But maybe she and Señorita Rodriques would manage to buy their farm soon. He might not even know their address, never know where he could see them again. His heart ached a bit at that.
So did his hands, his back, even his toes. Ache was not the word for it. A scream, a shriek. And his journey was not done yet.
He must keep going. He had a coach to deliver, and Lady Anne’s harness, and an explanation, too. He had to get Paw to their lodgings, and find a surgeon. Jem managed a faint grin. He also had to deal with a trunk full of . . . books.
It took long minutes to convince the ticket clerk that as the freight hadn’t been paid on the trunk it shouldn’t be loaded onto the next train, but given into Jem’s custody instead, as Mr Smith would be sailing before the trunk could be delivered to him. The porters even agreed to deliver the trunk to the Donovans’ lodgings for five shillings.
Jem made his way back slowly through the now-thronged courtyard, forcing his aching back straight. The long desperate night had been worth it, and not just for the ‘books’. Mr Smith had freedom, and a carpetbag of bank notes which should see him safe in Hong Kong and then America till his ‘books’ could be sent to him.
Mrs Pickle had her baby; Señorita Rodriques and Juanita would get to the theatre in Sydney; Miss Lee would meet her husband. He had brought them all to Goulburn safely, and the coach and team too, apart from Lady Anne. His heart clenched just a little at the thought of Lady Anne, who had deserved a quiet old age in a paddock, not a gunshot in the dark.
It had been worth it.
But what now? The cracks in his life seemed to be spreading. It would be weeks or even months before Paw could work again. What would the company say when they heard about Lady Anne, and that a boy had driven the Cobb & Co coach to Goulburn? Maybe they’d never let Paw work for them again, or Jem either. But he had a trunk full of ‘books’ to see them through.
Or did he?
Suddenly he realised he’d never even seen the contents of the trunk. Was the gold just the fantasy of a man who’d been starved and whipped too long? How could Mr Smith have stolen enough gold to fill a trunk that size?
The more he thought of it, the more impossible it seemed. Bushrangers might steal a bag of gold. But enough gold to make a trunk weigh as heavy as that? Jem shook his head. He’d been so caught up in the drama of the night that he’d never questioned if Mr Smith’s tale was truth or fantasy.
He believed Mr Smith had been a prisoner, and one given parole, too. But prison like that might send a man mad. A man locked up so long might imagine his small stealings were a treasure. Maybe he’d packed the trunk with rocks, pretending to himself that a small shine in them was gold.
And if the trunk did just contain rocks, what now? All Jem’s life had been with Cobb & Co, Paw leaving, Paw returning, the last five years of travelling with him. Who was he if Paw could no longer drive the coach . . .?
He stopped and gazed at the scene in front of him.
Juanita stood by the lead horses, patting their noses and feeding them gingernuts. She was still here!
Behind her a handsome Chinese gentleman in a frock coat and tall top hat posed against the coach for a photographer, huddled under his black sheet. A young woman stood next to the Chinese gentleman, gazing at the camera on its tripod too.
She was beautiful, dressed in an Oriental dress of rose silk, richly embroidered along collar and cuffs and hem. Her long hair was held with jewelled combs in a loose knot at her neck. Mrs Pickle sat in the coach, framed by the window, smiling down at the baby in her arms, clearly part of the photograph too.
Click!
The Chinese couple glanced a little nervously at each other, then both bowed to the photographer as he emerged from beneath the black hood.
Jem stared. Mr Pickle!
Mr Pickle stepped forward to shake the Chinese man’s hand as Mrs Pickle climbed carefully from the coach — leaving the baby behind her on the seat then turning to pick him up once she was safely on the ground — to embrace the newly resplendent Miss Lee with her free arm.
‘I will post you the photograph as soon as my trunk is unpacked and I can set up a developing room, sir,’ promised Mr Pickle.
‘And if he don’t treat you right, lovie, you’ve always got a home with us,’ said Mrs Pickle, with a suspicious glance at Miss Lee’s fiancé.
The man bowed, his face expressionless, then looked again at Miss Lee. Suddenly he smiled. Her smile met his: the smile of a woman whose long journey was almost over.
Jem watched as her fiancé ushered her to a well-built private carriage. Its driver was Chinese too, and the horses were excellent, thought Jem — two matched bays that looked like steady goers, unfussed by the busyness around them.
He looked back at Mr Pickle. So that’s what his precious carpetbag had held. A camera! He’d never even seen a camera except in the newspaper. But before he could ask if he could look at it someone shrieked behind him.
‘Horace Pickle! Don’t you point that thing at my Violet! Cameras steal people’s souls from their bodies, that’s what they do.’
Mr Pickle clutched his camera, sheet, tripod and all. ‘No truly, Mother Grimsby, I assure you the process is entirely safe.’
Jem stared. Grimsby! This woman must be old Ma Grimsby’s sister-in-law.
‘Don’t you Mother Grimsby me! Dragging my poor daughter off, taking your heathen photygriffs. Who knows what that terrible machine has done to her!’
‘Mum, I’m fine,’ said Mrs Pickle. ‘Come and meet your grandson, Patrick.’
Mrs Grimsby gave quite a different kind of shriek. ‘A grandson!’ She ran forward in a rustle of petticoats. ‘Oh, look at his darling face. Just like his poor grandfather.’
Jem wondered if Mrs Pickle’s father had been redfaced and bald too.
‘He was born on the journey here, Mother Grimsby,’ said Mr Pickle. ‘We need to get Violet home to wash, and rest.’
Mrs Grimsby stared at him. ‘On the way here! Well I never!’
‘And Horace was the one who delivered him, too. Weren’t you, Horace?’ declared Mrs Pickle firmly.
‘Er, yes,’ said Mr Pickle.
‘Well. A man who can do that . . . and such a handsome grandson . . . I have misjudged you, Horace Pickle,’ said Mrs Grimsby magnanimously. ‘I have called you strange and a bounder and a cad who carried off my Violet. I have wronged you and I do not care who hears it.’
So that’s who Ma Grimsby’s strange passenger had been — and how Ma Grimsby came to know about it. Not a bushranger, nor a Chinese woman pretending to be a man or two ‘sisters’ claiming to be Spanish, nor even Mrs Pickle, carefully not showing how close she was to giving birth — but just a man with a camera.
Jem eyed the device wistfully as Mrs Pickle, Patrick and her mother moved towards a sulky just down the road. Mr Pickle folded the camera and its tripod carefully into the carpetbag, then turned to Jem and grinned. ‘Get “Mr Smith” and his precious trunk on the train all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Jem, carefully not mentioning that the trunk had not gone with him, in case just possibly it did hold something of value. ‘I’m sorry we had to leave your trunk behind, sir. I hope another coach can pick it up.’
‘All that’s important is here in Goulburn,’ said Mr Pickle, beaming with delight. ‘What a night, eh? And you did very well. Very well indeed, young man.’ Mr Pickle hesitated. ‘I am a little short of funds just now or I would show you my gratitude, but next week I begin a new position with Her Majesty’s Police Force.’
‘You’re going to be a policeman, sir?’ Jem could not imagine little Mr P
ickle as a policeman.
‘No. A police photographer. I will always be a photographer,’ said Mr Pickle grandly. ‘Recording the faces and details of the world for future generations and for loved ones far away. But I will also now record the faces of miscreants so that a record can be kept of their features.’ He grinned again. ‘Luckily our journey was at night and I could take no photographs. I don’t think Mr Gardiner would have liked that.’
‘Mr who, sir?
‘Why Frank Gardiner, our Mr Smith. I have a good memory for faces. His likeness was in the newspaper when he was captured and again at his release. I imagine he’ll be gone from our fair land as soon as he reaches Sydney.’
Even Jem had heard of Frank Gardiner. He had ridden with Ben Hall, and the Clarke brothers — the bushrangers ‘Mr Smith’ had spoken of last night, he realised. Frank Gardiner had been part of the biggest bail-up in the history of Australia.
A bail-up that had captured more than enough gold to fill a chest, as well as bank notes and jewellery.
Jem held his breath. And now Frank Gardiner’s chest was about to be wheeled out by the porters. He glanced quickly at the train station, but there was no sign of the men or their trolley. Jem desperately hoped they’d wait till the crowd thinned, till the Pickle family had gone, so that no one would ever connect him with a bushranger’s treasure chest. But anything he did now would just draw attention to it.
‘Why didn’t you say anything if you recognised him, sir?’
‘Well, he’d been released,’ said Mr Pickle. ‘He’d served his time, after all. I supposed he wouldn’t dare put a foot wrong in case he was put back in prison.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I wouldn’t want to cross a bushranger, even without his pistols.’
‘Horace!’ called Mrs Pickle.
Mr Pickle reached into his carpetbag and handed Jem a card with Horace Pickle Esq Fine Photography for all Occasions on it. ‘Mother Grimsby’s address is on the back, or she’ll know where we are when we have a house of our own. If you and your poor father need any help till he can work again, you just come to Horace Pickle.’
Night Ride into Danger Page 10