by Barbara Wood
"Help me," she cried, as the wind threatened to topple the wagon.
Eddie slipped the board under Larry's leg.
"Take hold of his ankle," Joanna said. "Pull hard and steady. Don't yank it! Slowly!"
Eddie leaned his weight away from the unconscious Larry, his eyes fixed on the bone protruding through torn flesh.
"Steady," Joanna said, as she carefully guided the ends of the broken bones together.
There was a sickening grating sound, the bone slipped beneath the skin, and Joanna quickly lashed Larry's foot to the end of the board.
"Go on, Eddie," she shouted. "Go and help the others."
Joanna wanted to look back, she wanted to see what was happening at the river, but she knew she didn't dare. As she worked over Larry, she prayed with all her might. She felt the pulse at his neck, then she lifted his eyelids. He was shockingly white.
Joanna returned to his leg wound, cleaning it again, and sewing it up with silk thread. Then she applied potassium permanganate, and wrapped the leg in a bandage that soon became sodden. Making a pillow of one of the blankets, she placed it under his head, then looked toward the river, but couldn't see Hugh. She took a second blanket and rigged a makeshift tent, to keep the rain off Larry's face, then checked his pulse again.
She looked back at the river. The men were still on the bank, holding lines that led into the water. Still no sign of Hugh.
She looked down at Stringy Larry. His eyes were open, glassy and staring.
She felt his pulse. He was dead.
Dawn broke over a scene of devastation.
For miles in every direction the face of the land had changed. Murray River gums—massive old trees that had stood in these pastures since before the white man came—lay on their sides, roots torn up from the earth and pointing to the sky. Sheds and fences and water tanks lay scattered about like a child's toys. Great pools of water buried grazing grasses, mockingly reflecting a blue sky and warm sun.
And there were sheep carcasses as far as the eye could see.
Joanna stood by the wagon, shivering inside a borrowed coat, frantic, exhausted. She hadn't slept—no one had.
Philip McNeal was there, plodding through the mud, helping with the hauling of carcasses into a newly dug trench. Dead sheep lay everywhere, many of them with lambs at their sides, still connected to their mothers by umbilical cords. Huge scavenger birds circled overhead, casting shadows on the ground, while the men went silently about their grim burials.
Everyone suddenly stirred to life as a rider on horseback appeared. He was riding from the direction of downstream, and as he came near, they saw that he had a body slung across the front of his saddle. Joanna rushed forward with the others, and when the body was laid on the ground and she felt for signs of life, one of the men took her by the shoulders and said gently, "It ain't no use, missus. He's dead."
She stared down at what was left of Tommie Watson's young face. His head had been bashed against the rocks.
"Was there any sign of Hugh?" she asked the rider, already knowing the answer, before he shook his head, no. Hugh had come loose from the line that held him, and he had been carried downstream. Eight men on horseback were searching the river.
Philip came up to Joanna and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go back to the homestead?" he said. "You need to have something to eat. Lie down."
She shook her head. Hugh was still out there.
All of a sudden they heard, "Hoy! Look there!"
Joanna turned and saw a figure limping along the river bank.
"Hugh!" she cried, and ran to him.
He looked awful. His clothes were torn and mud-caked, his face haggard and drawn. He had aged ten years.
"Joanna," he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her. "Are you all right?"
"What happened, my darling?" she said, holding onto him, tears running down her face. "My God, we thought you were dead."
"The last thing I remember was climbing out of the river. I tried heading back this way, but I must have gone too far. How's Larry?"
"He's dead, Hugh. And they found Tommie Watkins—"
Hugh was silent for a moment, then he said, "Larry."
The others crowded around, regarding Hugh with stark faces, some of them reaching out to touch him to be sure their eyes weren't deceiving them. "Thank God you're all right, Hugh," one of the older station hands said. His voice sounded as if he were on the verge of crying.
"I'm all right, Joe," Hugh said. "See that the others are taken care of. Has anyone sent for Ping-Li and the cook wagon?"
"Hugh," Joanna said. "Let's go back to the homestead. You need to be taken care of."
"Wait," he said, looking around at the scene of destruction.
Joanna tightened her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. She felt him draw a deep breath and let it out with a shudder.
"Looks like we lost most of the lambs," he said.
"It'll be all right, Hugh," she said. "We still have Zeus and his ewes. They survived the storm."
"Yes," Hugh said in a flat voice. "But we won't have a clip this year, or any lanolin. And I lent money to Jacko. Joanna, I'm sorry. I'm afraid the house will have to wait."
"I know," she said, wondering when her inheritance money was going to come from India. "All that matters is that you're all right. I can live wherever you live. We don't need a big house, not yet. We have each other, that is what is important. And we have Adam and Sarah. And we'll have the baby."
He held her close and kissed her almost desperately, holding her tightly against him as if hungry for the life her body promised in the midst of so much death.
SIXTEEN
M
Y DEAR JOANNA," FRANK WROTE, "I HAVE JUST RECEIVED A communication from my friend at the Sydney Bulletin, He has gone through their archives, and I regret to report that he has found no mention of a ship bearing the name of a mythical beast in the years that you are interested in. I found mention of a ship called the Unicorn. Unfortunately, inquiry disclosed that it was a convict ship between 1780 and 1810, and it did not carry paying passengers. But I maintain hope, and I will keep up the search.
"On another subject—I do wish you would talk your stubborn husband into accepting a loan from me. I cannot help but feel somehow responsible for your catastrophic loss. I gave those five thousand acres to my sister's new husband, and although I cannot believe Colin is responsible for the terrible thing that happened, I cannot divorce myself totally from the possibility. Please, Joanna, try and see if you can persuade Hugh to accept a loan."
Frank sat back in his chair, wishing he could escape the bad feeling he had about the whole thing. It was all too coincidental—as soon as Colin had obtained possession of the five thousand acres, disaster had befallen Merinda. There were whispered rumors around the district that MacGregor blamed Westbrook for his wife's death, and that he was seeking revenge. Was it possible? It seemed too crazy, but Frank wondered. Unfortunately, there was no way he could ask Colin about it. He and Pauline had left for their honeymoon right after the wedding reception and were, at this moment, on a ship bound for Scotland, and Colin's ancestral home on the island of Skye.
Frank thought about the wedding, and how happy Pauline had seemed, even if it had turned out to be a much smaller affair than the one she had planned with Westbrook. Because this was Colin's second marriage, the ceremony had been modest, with just a few close friends in attendance. It struck Frank as ironic, however, that Pauline was now stepmother to nine-year-old Judd, whereas she had once claimed to have broken her engagement to Hugh because she didn't want to inherit another woman's child!
But Frank didn't try to fathom it; he decided that he had given up trying to understand women. Whenever he thought he knew a woman, she seemed to turn him upside down. As Ivy Dearborn had done, at first refusing his attentions and then accepting them, only to vanish. He was glad he had finally gotten over her. Frank didn't like the feeling of being distracted, or tied e
motionally to a woman.
"So when are you going to get married, Frank?" Maude Reed had asked him at Pauline's wedding reception. And Frank knew that it wasn't only Mrs. Reed who was interested in his plans. Now that Lismore had lost its mistress, every mother in the district had her eye on it for her daughter. No sooner had the minister pronounced Pauline and Colin married, than Frank had become the center of feminine attention, from young Verity Campbell to the elderly, matchmaking Constance McCloud. "You can't intend to stay a bachelor forever, Frank," Louisa Hamilton had teased. "It isn't good for a man to be alone." It was just like Louisa, Frank thought, to consider herself to be too much of a lady to utter the word "celibate." But that was clearly what she had been implying.
But Frank wasn't celibate, not by any means. No man with money living in Melbourne needed to deny himself whatever sexual indulgences he wanted, whenever he wanted. Frank had lady friends all over town who were more than accommodating—ladies who gladly took his money and his gifts without making demands on him, and certainly without matrimony on their minds. And that was just the way he wanted it. Being only thirty-six, Frank reckoned that he had plenty of time left to enjoy life before committing himself to one woman, and to getting down to the business of producing an heir.
"Frank?" said a voice from the open doorway.
He looked up to see Eric Graham, the Times reporter who prowled the harbor for news. He was a tall, bowler-hatted young man who, Frank knew, was eager to make a name for himself in the newspaper business. Eric was one of Frank's most valued reporters; it was he who had scooped the story on the capture of Dan Sullivan, the notorious outlaw, getting it into the Times while the fellows over at the Age and Argus were still asleep. "Come in, Eric," he said. "I hope you've got something lively for tomorrow's edition," It was Frank's policy to review all copy before it went to the editorial desks.
"I'm afraid there's not much going on down at the waterfront today, Frank," Graham said, removing his hat and revealing carefully oiled, slicked-down hair. "Let me see," he said as he flipped through his notes. "An American clipper came in, rather impressive—"
"Clippers are old news by now."
"I suppose so. Here's one: a killer whale was sighted offshore."
"How far offshore?"
"I couldn't find that out."
"Was it sighted from the beach?"
"No."
Frank shook his head.
"Well then," Graham said, riffling his notes, "the SS Orion is due to arrive tomorrow, the fifth ship to arrive at Melbourne after going through the Suez Canal."
"The first ship was news, Eric, the fifth isn't," Frank said, as a copy boy came into his office and handed him a stack of page proofs. While Graham continued with his report, Frank sorted through the papers.
"All right then," Eric said, "here's an amusing piece: A group of satisfied pub patrons were seeing a barmaid off. She's sailing to England and apparently they took up a collection ..."
But Frank wasn't listening. The first story in the pile of papers was about the man the police had been bringing in from Cooper's Creek, the survivor of the ill-fated 1871 expedition. Apparently he had committed suicide before they could get him to Melbourne. "Damn," Frank murmured. He had planned on running a special edition on just that story alone—the survivor's personal account of the expedition from the minute it had departed Melbourne, through the mass killing, right up to the moment the police found him living with the Aborigines. Now, it was just another news item.
Eric reached the end of his report, and was frustrated to see that he wasn't going to be getting a byline in tomorrow's edition. If only the American clipper ship had panned out, like the one that arrived last month, bringing a team of explorers who intended to go in search of the South Pole. The only thing this morning's clipper had brought, as far as Graham could determine, was a new edible treat from America called Cracker Jack. He personally liked the story about the pub patrons seeing their favorite barmaid off. It might not be news, but there was an interesting angle to the story: The woman was some kind of artist. She had stood there at the ship making sketches and handing them out as good-by mementos. Eric had managed to get one—he had asked her if she could do the premier of Victoria. The resulting caricature was a remarkable likeness of the man, and a comical one, too.
"Well, Frank?" Graham said.
Frank was thinking about the survivor of the 1871 expedition, and that the story might not be lost after all. It could be written up as an "as-told-to," getting one of the policemen to claim that, just before the poor man took his life, he had told all. In fact, Frank thought, it would probably make an even better story than the real one, since a certain amount of creativity would be involved.
"Frank?" Eric said. "Can you use any of this?"
"I need something political for tomorrow's edition, Eric. People are beginning to think that everyone in Parliament has died."
"Sorry, there's nothing political on my beat."
"All right. Run the whale story. But say that it was coming dangerously close to a fishing boat or something. And change it to a gray whale."
"But grays don't swim in southern waters."
"I don't care. They're bigger."
After Graham left, Frank went through the rest of the proofs, doing some quick editing, pulling a few, and adding comments on others. Then he went through a small pile of personal communications—letters from readers, interoffice memos, invitations to various functions. He came upon a note that had been sent up from the research desk: "Examined most recent government maps and land surveys of Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia and Western Australia. Sorry to report no places named Bowman's Creek or Durrebar."
Frank frowned. It was strange. Hugh had said that Miss Tallhill was certain of her analysis of the writing on the deed, but clearly she had made a mistake, and Frank now had the unpleasant task of reporting it to Joanna. Frank had hoped that, when Joanna went to Karra Karra, he could send a reporter along with her to describe her journey for Times readers.
Frank consulted his watch and saw that it was nearly time for lunch. He was in the mood for a beer and a meat pie, and the company of his fellow newsmen down at the Coach and Four. As he was reaching for his coat, Eric Graham materialized in the doorway again.
"It just occurred to me, Frank," he said eagerly. "I know we don't run illustrations in the Times, but you said you needed something political. What do you think of this?" He held out the sketch he had picked up at the harbor.
Frank looked at it. "My God," he said. "It's the premier himself! This is marvelous! Why, if you didn't know the man, you could tell everything about him by just looking at this picture. Where did you get it?"
"I told you. There was some kind of a party going on down at the dock, pub patrons seeing a barmaid off. I hung around, thinking it might make a good human-interest story. A barmaid who does sketches of the customers."
Frank stared at him. "What? Where?"
"Down at the harbor. She was going back to England—"
"Good God, man. Why didn't you tell me!" Frank seized his coat and rushed to the door. "What boat was she leaving on?"
"I believe it was the Princess Julianna. But I think it's already sailed—" Frank jumped down from the cab before it stopped, handed a bank note to the driver, who protested that he didn't have the change for such a large bill, and disappeared into the crowd.
He searched the wharf, going from pier to pier, reading the names of ships at anchor, pushing through the busy throng. Finally he waylaid a customs official. "Where is the Princess Julianna?"
"The Princess Julianna? She's just sailed, sir," the man said, and he pointed toward the sea, where Frank saw white sails receding toward the horizon.
"I'll hire a boat then, and go out to her." When Frank started off in the direction of a small pier, where a faded sign advertised boats for rent, the official caught his arm and said, "There aren't any boats left. Someone said a whale had been seen out there, and every
one's gone to look at it."
Frank swore under his breath and surveyed the chaos on the dock. Two large ships had just arrived, and there was the usual band playing "God Save the Queen," the usual crowd greeting the disembarking passengers, the usual opportunists on the prowl, looking for pockets to pick, victims to fleece.
And, in a deserted corner of the pier, away from the mob, a well-dressed red-haired woman was sitting on a large trunk, gazing out at sea, the feathers of her bonnet fluttering in the wind.
He walked up to her, and when his shadow fell across her, she looked up.
"Hello, Ivy," Frank said.
She smiled and shook her head. "I must be out of my mind," she said. "After all my careful planning, and saving up for the ticket, and letting my friends throw a party for me and saying good-by, I couldn't walk up that gangway."
"Why?"
"A reporter from your newspaper asked me to give him a drawing. I knew you would see it.
"My God," Frank said, sitting down next to her. "I thought you had died of typhoid. Why did you leave? Where did you go?"
"During the epidemic, I heard that your sister had organized the women in the district to put together food and supplies for stricken families. I went to your house; I went to Lismore and offered help. But they didn't want me. As hard up as they were for volunteers, they didn't think I was good enough to help. And that was when I saw the reality of our situation. Church services and Sunday picnics could never completely cover up the fact of what I really am—a barmaid."
"I ran notices in the Times, searching for you."
"I know. I saw them."
"Then why didn't you get in touch with me? Why have you been hiding from me?"
"Because my feelings for you are so confused! And because I have to be careful."
"About what?"
She turned and looked at him. He was sitting close to her; Ivy could see the details of his face, the soft brown eyes, the early shadow of beard on his jaw, and she realized that this was the first time they had ever seen each other outside in daylight. Now that he was here again, in person and not just in her thoughts, and now that they sat in open sunlight, so close together that they almost touched, Ivy explored her feelings for him once more. And she realized that they weren't confused at all. "Frank," she said, "when an unmarried woman fights to maintain her respectability, she must cut herself off from intimate relationships with men. A man on his own, like you, is free to have such relationships. But a woman cannot. And you can ask any man—I am respectable."