by Téa Cooper
The women around the fire glanced up, called their children close. A white-haired older woman stared at them but made no attempt to move.
Dobbin leapt from his horse with an agility that belied his oversized body. He ran his gaze over the group as he swaggered towards them, his filthy smirk laced with disdain.
The women scrambled to their feet with a flurry of alarmed chatter and pushed the children behind them, huddling tightly together, trembling, waiting.
Dobbin slowly circled, his bull whip rapping a tattoo against his booted leg, while he considered them.
Scheisse! This was no trading venture.
One of the women stepped from the group towards Dobbin, shoulders thrown back, her dark eyes blazing.
Before she had time to speak Dobbin raised the whip, brought it down hard, licking her skin, raising a welt. With a cry, a younger woman broke from the huddle and brought the injured woman in.
Dobbin raised his whip again, cutting her with a sharp crack across the cheek.
In Gottes namen! Stefan leapt from his saddle. ‘Stop this! Stop this at once!’
Panic sent the women and children tangling together, tripping as Dobbin’s whip cracks became a frenzied attack.
A young man, his lithe body rippling with wiry strength, appeared from the tree line, a long spear resting casually in one hand. He gave a guttural cry and stepped up.
Dobbin turned, took three steps and spun the whip around his head. He brought it lashing down across the young man’s arm.
For a moment no one moved, then with his face contorting with effort he tossed the tail of the whip aside and launched his spear.
It sailed through the air. And landed quivering in the dirt beside Dobbin.
The retort of a musket sounded.
The ball slammed into the young man’s shoulder. His howl of pain erupted in the clearing.
Gus stood with a self-satisfied grin, a smoking musket in his hands. Stefan launched himself across the fire pit, his hands groping Gus’s scrawny neck. ‘Murdering schwein!’
Gus’s eyes bulged and a pathetic dribble of saliva trickled down his chin. As he spluttered for air, the musket fell from his limp hand.
From the corner of his eye Stefan spotted Bert snatching Dobbin’s musket from his saddle, his shocked expression bouncing between the men.
‘Oi! That’s mine, you miserable little bastard!’ Dobbin stalked towards them, eyes pinned on Stefan.
‘Got this one covered, Capt’n.’ Bert rammed the musket barrel into Gus’s stomach and cocked it.
With a grunt Gus sank to his knees, just as Dobbin gave an outraged roar and charged, the bullwhip raised like a cudgel.
Stefan bent low and tackled the giant, sending them both sprawling to the ground in the struggle. A bolt of white-hot pain lanced through his thigh. The shock of it emptied the air from his lungs, momentarily sapped his strength. He had only a second to register the rock in Dobbin’s hand before it crashed down towards his face.
He threw his head to one side. Heard the crack of rock against bone, the impact scoring his temple. A strange ringing in his ears had his head spinning as he desperately attempted to shift Dobbin’s weight and ward off another blow.
It never came. The rock dropped harmlessly to the ground. A tentative glance showed Bert standing over him like an avenging angel, the musket pointed at Dobbin’s head.
When Stefan came to, Bert was crouched by his side flapping his hands, loosening his shirt. He pushed him away and struggled to his feet, the trees swimming, merging with the patches of blue sky in a kaleidoscope of nausea.
‘They’ve gone.’
He whipped around. And regretted it. The area around the fireplace was deserted, only the New Hollanders’ dwellings sitting in silent witness to Dobbin’s outrageous attack. He shook his head trying to clear the ringing in his ears.
‘You’ve got a lump the size of an emu’s egg on your ’ead.’
He raised his hand and gingerly felt the throbbing mass, slick with blood. Wiping his hand down his trousers he staggered to regain his balance.
‘Scheisse! You’re bleedin’ something rotten.’
Like a persistent fly Bert hovered about him. Stefan pushed his way through the dizziness and batted him away. If it was the last thing he did he’d make certain Gus and Dobbin were brought to justice, made to pay for their outrageous attack.
‘I had visions of you ’anging like a slab of meat in a butcher’s shop, the way that Dobbin was chucking ’is weight around.’
He took another look around the camp. No sign of the laughing children, the gossiping women with their gentle brown eyes. The camp stripped bare. And worst of all no sign of the courageous young man save a blood-soaked patch of dirt and the broken shaft of his spear.
‘I told you they were no bloody good. The women shot through while Dobbin was havin’ a go at you. Then he and Gus gathered up all the stuff they could find, dishes, blankets, them digging sticks and that bark string, and took off.’
‘And what about the young man?’
Bert spun around on his heel. ‘Dunno.’ He gestured to the bloody patch of dirt. ‘Reckon he did a runner.’
‘And you let Gus and Dobbin go.’
Bert’s face fell. ‘I thought you’d copped one, too. But I got the muskets.’
‘Guter Mann.’ Stefan rubbed at his head and bit back a groan. Bert couldn’t have done anything. Not against those two, not alone. It was lucky he’d had the sense to take Dobbin’s musket when his back was turned. The fault was his. He’d willingly followed Gus and Dobbin, too interested in what he might find to wonder about the way in which they’d treat the New Hollanders. What an arrogant fool. He’d chosen to ignore the signs that Bert had so clearly seen.
‘Better get you back to the inn. Bump like that on your head ain’t good.’
It was his judgement, not his head, he regretted. ‘I’ll be all right. I have every intention of bringing this matter to the Governor’s attention as soon as possible. This unprovoked attack is an outrage.’ And if Gus and Dobbin were acting on Mrs Atterton’s instructions she would be answering to the Governor as well. ‘We’ll take a more direct route, skirt the inn and head straight for Sydney.’ He was in no fit state to take on Gus and Dobbin.
‘Think you can find the way?’
Stefan slipped his hand into his pocket and closed it around his compass. ‘That’s what this is for.’ The glass had cracked across the face but when he held it flat the needle spun and, if the sun was any indication, gave an accurate reading. ‘We’ll go up over the ridge and drop down into the valley then cross the river. How long was I out?’
Bert threw him a rueful grin. ‘Long enough to scare the arse out of me.’
‘Right then. We’ll scout around and see if we can find the young man and then head off. I want to get back to Sydney as soon as possible.’
Stefan and Bert searched around the camp but there was no sign of the young man and thankfully nothing to indicate he was badly injured. As if in keeping with the pounding his head, the sky darkened and a low rumbling issued from the burgeoning clouds.
They fought their way over a succession of ridges until the light turned to a sulphurous yellow and large drops of rain began to fall.
‘I’m so hungry I could eat the arse-end of wombat. Does that compass tell you ’ow much further?’
‘Sadly no.’ Stefan wiped a hand over his face and tried to ignore the throbbing in his temple and his blurred vision. Either he’d got them well and truly lost or it was a lot further to the Great North Road than he’d imagined. ‘We might have to call it quits, find somewhere to shelter for the night.’ As if to prove his point a large slash of lightning spooked the horses and sent them skittering sideways.
Bert pulled up sharp as the answering thunder echoed back from the sandstone rock face. ‘There’s a cave up there.’ He pointed into the fading light. ‘Saw it in the lightning.’
‘Think you can see a path?’
�
�Yep.’ Bert eased his horse back off the track and Stefan followed. ‘There it is.’ He pointed to a small depression in the rock face, hardly a cave but enough to give them some protection from the rain.
The lad lay fast asleep, snoring gently tucked under his oilskin coat, as comfortable as in a feather bed. Stefan groaned. He was getting soft, too much sitting around in comfortable surroundings poring over the Baron’s notebooks. On the upside, the throbbing in his head had settled overnight. He rubbed at his thigh getting the blood to circulate; nothing out of the ordinary there.
As the first thin fingers of dawn touched the treetops, he tilted the compass to get a decent reading. He might be useless in a fight but at least he could still use a compass. They needed to return to Sydney as fast as possible—he had no intention of letting Gus and Dobbin get away with this or any other raids, it was unconscionable. Amoral, unethical. The words filled his mind, viler than any swear words. The Governor would hear of it and so would Mrs Atterton and her men. Schwein! A man didn’t treat another human that way. These colonials had no sense of compassion.
‘Wake up.’ He shook the boy’s shoulder none too gently.
Bert’s eyes snapped open and he shot to his feet. ‘What’s wrong?’ He searched the area, alert, on the balls of his feet.
‘Saddle the horses. It’s time we left.’ He turned back to his compass.
Despite the improved weather, the wind had sprung up and made the horses restless and jittery; they turned and twisted giving Bert hell’s own trouble.
‘Here, give me the reins.’ Stefan yanked on his horse’s head and sprang up into the saddle reaching down for the lead rope of the pack horse. ‘Sort yourself out and hurry up.’
‘Or right, or right. Give me a minute.’
‘Do as you’re told and hurry up. We’ve got no time to waste.’
‘I’m hungry.’ Bert’s stomach gave a resounding rumble to prove his point.
‘We’ll worry about food later.’
With a disgruntled sigh, Bert clambered atop his horse and they made their way through the tightly packed trees until they crested the ridge and the frail morning sun warmed their faces.
Below lay an area of cleared land bounded by stands of ancient eucalypts, a natural and obvious grassed route, and in the hollow a curl of smoke drifting upwards.
Fourteen
Hawkesbury River, NSW, 1919
The old man took his pipe from his mouth and peered at Fleur. ‘Where do you want to go love?’
‘Wiseman’s Ferry if that’s possible.’
‘That might be a bit tricky. I’m only going as far as Spencer.’
‘The man at the railway station said you went to Wiseman’s Ferry.’ Her stomach gave a lurch. It had all seemed so simple when Mr Sladdin’s long skinny finger had pointed out the route on the old map.
‘Not anymore.’
‘I was hoping to get a lift to St Albans from Wiseman’s Ferry.’ She should have planned better, asked some more questions. What was happening to her? Ever since the first meeting with Mr Waterstone she’d been jumping in, boots and all.
‘What would you be doing that for?’
‘I’m looking for a place called Mogo Creek, it’s off the Macdonald River.’ She couldn’t mask the slight quiver in her voice.
‘Well, Spencer will do you. You can get a lift from there. Just let us load these mailbags and you can come aboard.’
‘There you go. Have a good trip.’ The railway porter stepped down from the gangplank and picked up the handles of his trolley. ‘Lovely day for it.’
He was right, and a trip up the river was nowhere near as impulsive as her trip to Australia. Thankful for her sensible boots, she stepped onto the narrow plank and in a few quick strides found herself on the deck.
‘Sit yourself down there and stay out of the way. Got a few more bits and pieces to take aboard and then we’ll be off.’
She leant back inhaling the clear smell of the river and felt her lungs expand. Flashing darts of light lit up the placid surface of the water. A couple of men sat on the bank, fishing lines dangling, and to her right a series of boats swayed on their moorings, anchor chains clanking.
‘Looks like you’re me only passenger this morning. Better get to know each other, call me Jimbo, everyone does.’
Fleur took the calloused hand he offered. ‘My name’s Fleur. Pleased to meet you, Jimbo.’
A man with a crate of beer perched on his shoulders walked onto the wharf and brought it aboard then he returned with a barrow load of building supplies and in a matter of moments the ropes were thrown aboard and the little steamer eased its way out into the river.
‘First stop Dangar Island. The old boy died a while back and his son’s sold the property.’
Fleur followed his scarred finger and picked out a large wooden house.
‘And that there, that’s the Pavilion, where the gentlemen retired after dinner to smoke their cigars. Bet there were some hijinks there.’ He eased the boat alongside the wharf and threw out a mailbag then turned for the railway bridge. ‘Rumour has it they’re going to open the island up to the rest of us before long. I can see meself with a nice little shack there, maybe even a cigar or two.’
As they rounded the bend in the river, the banks on either side rose steeply forming great bluffs, sometimes bare, but more often timbered to the water’s edge. Elsewhere, outcrops of brown sandstone caught the rays of the sun, and shone like beaten gold.
Further downriver the rough sandstone mountains threw deep shadows, making Fleur shiver. In the cry of the birds, Hugh’s laugh echoed across the water and in the breeze she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek. In the past she’d never felt him so close but in the daylight under this bright sun on the river she heard him, his gentle drawl, the lilt of his voice patiently reminding her of his promises.
And as quickly as the cliffs appeared they retreated and they passed farms nestling beside quiet waters, quaint little shacks where women and children stood on the banks waving and shouting their greetings before flocking to the wharf to receive their supplies and load cases of oranges and lemons and other choice fruits.
Jimbo greeted everyone by name and promised he’d be back with their invoices. ‘They’re for the markets. Be nice and fresh when they get there tomorrow morning. That way the farmers get a decent quid.’
From the trees fringing the shores came the carolling of magpies and peewees, and the strange sound of what might have been laughter.
Fleur spun around and squinted at the trees. ‘What’s that?’
‘Jackass. Laughing jackass. He keeps you on your toes I can tell you. Call them kookaburras these days. The old name suits them better.’
‘How long have these people lived here? It seems so isolated.’ Nothing could be further removed from the hustle and bustle of London, or Sydney for that matter. ‘What would they do without you?’
‘I’m not the only transport. There’s been steamships in these waters for a long time now. All started with an old pioneering family up St Albans way.’
Fleur pricked up her ears. Maybe Jimbo would know something of Hugh. ‘What was the family’s name?’
‘Jurd, Archie was the mover and shaker. As a young man, he joined the service of the old Hawkesbury Steam Navigation Company, he was appointed captain of the steamer Hawkesbury and worked his way up. He’s got the big steamer these days. You would have picked it up yesterday if you’d come then. Only runs two days a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. I do the run on the other days. Don’t usually have many passengers, makes a nice change having a pretty young lass to keep me company. Spencer’s the next stop. Usually have a cuppa and a word or two. One of the best fishing spots on the river.’
So many fish they jump into the boat. Everything a man could ever want—except for you.
‘We’ll pull in to Spencer in about ten minutes and I’ll go and hunt out the Skipper. What you need is a lift from here up the Macdonald River. Too shallow for my little darling.
’ He gave the wheel a gentle caress. ‘He’ll know what’s what and if that doesn’t work then you’re no worse off. I’ll take you back to Brooklyn. Mind you, Wiseman’s a lovely old place. Built by a bloke called Solomon. Convict he was, but made good with a vengeance. Once he had a bit of money behind him he never looked back. In those days once a convict always a convict. All those toffs came out here from England with more money than sense, reckoning they could be all upper crust and buy their way into a position in society. These days some think convict heritage is a badge of honour, not back then.’
She stood gazing at the rocky headlands, inlets and creeks, chewing her lip, wondering if she’d done the right thing. There wasn’t even a bay along this stretch where she could ask him to drop her off.
‘Don’t look so worried. Leave it with me. Jimbo will see you right. Keep an eye out over to the east and let me know when you see the curve in the river and the sandbank. That’s where the channel into the wharf starts.’
‘I can do left and right but throw all those compass points at me and I’m lost, besides isn’t everything upside down here?’
Jimbo gave a bellow of laughter. ‘Wouldn’t know about that. Born and bred here. Both me great-grandfathers came out here courtesy of His Majesty’s government. They were lucky enough to hook up with that Flinders bloke, circumnavigated Australia he did in a boat about half the size of this one, called it Tom Thumb. That’s why I call this one Thumbelina, bit of a nod to the past.’
‘Oh, look over there to the left. There’s a break in the trees. Is that what we’re looking for?’