Bridie's Fire

by Kirsty Murray

  On a burning hot Saturday afternoon, she found herself a spot in the shade of a gum tree and sat thinking of everything that had led her to this place. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice a small dog approaching until its wet nose was nuzzling her hand. It was Marmalade. She looked beyond him, expecting to see Jacobus, but there was no one else in sight. She tried to push the small dog away, but when he climbed into her lap and settled there she couldn’t resist the comfort of his warm little body. She rubbed his soft, velvety ears between her fingers.

  Marmalade’s yelp woke her. A ragged man was running up the winding, dusty road and Marmalade was lying in the long shadows, completely still. A thin trickle of blood oozed out of his mouth and into the dust. Bridie joined the crowd of diggers gathered around his body.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘A night fossicker, I reckon,’ said one of the miners. ‘You was lying there and a gent was watching you. I saw ’im reach down and go for that wallet you got round your neck.’

  Bridie’s hand flew to the leather pouch and she cursed herself for letting it slip outside her clothes. She tucked it down inside the folds of her shirt.

  ‘But he didn’t take it,’ she said.

  ‘He would have if the pup hadn’t set on him. Probably thought you couldn’t give him much grief, so you was a likely target. Your little chum here, he went for him, drew blood, I reckon. The fossicker got your pup by the throat and booted him into the road. Poor little blighter.’

  ‘Stealing from a small lad. Someone oughta catch that bugger and string him up.’

  ‘Aye,’ said another.

  The men took off in a group, following the trail of the runaway thief. Only one stayed behind with Bridie and Marmalade. He knelt down and felt for a pulse in the dog’s throat.

  ‘I reckon it would be a kindness to put the creature out of his misery, boy.’

  ‘No,’ gasped Bridie. She scooped the tiny dog into her arms and set out along the road clutching him against her chest. She had no idea where Jacobus’ camp was, but she was determined to find him. All through the long evening, she carried the limp body of Marmalade through the diggings, asking everyone if they’d seen the magician in the battered top hat. Finally, when night was settling, someone pointed her in the direction of his tent. It was a single tattered sheet of canvas slung over the low branch of a slender gum and pegged to the ground.

  ‘Mr Jacobus?’ she said nervously, standing outside the opening. There was no reply.

  Holding Marmalade with one hand, she raised the flap of the tent with the other. Inside, in the muted light beneath the canvas, Jacobus lay flat on his back. The tent reeked of alcohol. The old magician’s limbs lay at an odd angle to his body, and his mouth was open; a trickle of saliva was visible on his chin. Crouching down, Bridie gently laid Marmalade on the ground beside his master.

  ‘Mr Jacobus,’ she said, shaking him slightly to waken him. But the old man simply shuddered and drew his limbs in closer to his body. Up close, Bridie could see his brow was beaded with perspiration. Fever had a grip on the man, she knew it.

  Bridie felt a flush of panic as she crawled backwards out of the tent. All around were the sounds of a Saturday night – men making music and laughing, guns being fired off into the night sky – but inside that tent, a man and his dog lay dying.

  It took her only a moment to decide. She eased her calico swag from her back and put it just inside the flap of Jacobus’ tent.

  It was a long night. Bridie lit a tallow candle she found among Jacobus’ possessions and sat by him, sponging his brow and moistening his lips with water she’d fetched from the forest. Big Bill had warned her not to drink the water on the diggings any more, so fouled was it by human waste and poisons from the mining process. Bridie used Gilbert’s blanket to make a pillow for the old man’s head and folded up her own to make a bed for Marmalade. She dripped water into the pup’s mouth from a rag, but there was not much else she could do for him. It was his master that drew her energies and attention.

  At dawn, Jacobus seemed no better. If anything, he seemed to be racked with even worse pain. Bridie felt hollow inside, thinking about her mother alone, burning with fever in the roadside ditch near Dingle.

  By ten o’clock in the morning, the tent had grown stifling hot. She raised the flaps at the front to let some fresh air in and the fetid stench of the dying man out into the morning.

  All day, she kept vigil. She cleaned and tidied inside the tent, and set a small pile of green gum leaves to smoke near the entrance, to discourage the flies. She stripped the old man’s fouled clothes from him and washed them in the creek, beating them against stones to drive away the putrid smells. The hardest part of the day was just after midday when the heat was so intense and Jacobus’ fever raging so wildly that she wondered if he’d live through another hour.

  ‘Amy,’ he cried, his voice thin in the shimmering heat. He struggled to raise himself on one elbow.

  ‘Lie still, old man, and rest yourself,’ said Bridie. ‘It’s Bridie O’Connor taking care of you here.’

  ‘O’Connor,’ he muttered. ‘From my own sweet home. Don’t let me die here, child. Don’t let my bones be buried in this cursed land.’ He slumped back, his mouth twisted in pain, as he struggled to speak.

  ‘My soul, pray for my soul, darling child, pray for its return to Ireland, like a gull, like mist. Away from this burning hell. Blessed St Columcille, take me home,’ he wept and then lapsed into incoherent fever again.

  Bridie took her leather pouch from around her neck and tipped out all the coins she had left. There were nineteen shillings. She’d heard there was doctor, a big bluff Englishman that some of the miners sought out to cure their sufferings. She left the tent, raising a flap so Jacobus’ soul could escape if he should die while she was gone, and set off in search of the English doctor.

  She found Doctor Halibut sitting at a table outside Mrs Anmonie’s sly grog tent with another, younger man. The doctor had a round, fat, red face and thick fingers like sausages which were curled around a tin cup full of whiskey. Each time he raised the cup to his lips, his hands trembled.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, holding her cap in hand as she approached him. ‘Sir, my grandfather’s took the fever.’

  He looked hard at Bridie, taking in her ragged clothes and dirty face, and then he looked away. ‘Ah, the fever, well, there’s not much to do but pray for him then, child.’

  ‘But maybe, sir, if you came and saw him, you could help him.’

  ‘I can’t give charity to every sick old blighter whose greed drives him to over-extend himself on these wretched fields.’

  ‘I can pay,’ said Bridie insistently. ‘I wasn’t asking for charity.’

  The doctor watched as Bridie tipped the contents of her pouch into the palm of her hand and thrust it towards him. For a moment, he leaned forward to glance at the money and then, laughing, he turned back to his drink.

  ‘A pound, child. I’ll not trouble myself for less than a pound.’

  ‘It’s nearly a pound, sir. It’s all I have.’

  The younger man sitting beside the doctor looked at Bridie and smiled sympathetically. He was clean-shaven, and his yellow hair was combed neatly away from his face. He wore a pale blue cravat with a silver pin in it and his smooth white hands showed he’d not spent that day, nor any day, sinking a shaft or panning for gold. Just under his waistcoat, tucked neatly into his belt, was a beautiful silver pistol. Everyone on the goldfields carried a gun, but Bridie had never seen such an elegant one.

  ‘C’mon, old Halibut, show a bit of Christian charity,’ said the elegant gentleman. ‘You can at least take a look at the child’s grandfather.’

  ‘Keep out of it, Bones,’ said Dr Halibut, banging his mug down on the table. ‘Christian charity indeed. You don’t know this place as I do. I’d be an even poorer man than I am if I tried to cure every patient hereabouts. It’ll just be another case of dysentery. They’re dying li
ke flies all across the field. What’s a man to do? They live on tea and damper and think their strength will hold out until they strike it lucky. The young and the old should keep clear of the goldfields, they are only for the bluff and hardy.’

  The dapper Mr Bones shrugged and took a long draught of ale from his cup, but he watched Bridie with a curious, sympathetic gaze.

  ‘Go and say a prayer for your grandfather, boy. He’s more hope of help from Heaven than from me!’ said the drunken doctor, laughing.

  ‘It won’t be Heaven that the old man is heading for,’ said Bridie, angrily. ‘But wherever he goes, I hope he lays a curse on you and all like you who’d let a soul burn in Hell before you’d raise a finger to help them. He’s a magician and a wizard, is my grandfather, and I’ll make sure he casts a hex on you before he goes.’

  The doctor waved her away with one of his blotchy hands, but the other gentleman looked at her with renewed interest.

  ‘A wizard you say, child?’ he asked. ‘And what might his name be?’

  ‘The great wizard Jacobus,’ said Bridie, her voice brimming with venom as she turned away.

  31

  Eddie Bones

  Bridie was halfway back to the tent when she realised the man that Doctor Halibut had called ‘Bones’ was following her. His cane swung lightly beside him, sending up small flurries of dust as he walked.

  ‘Boy, I think I know your grandfather,’ he called out as he approached. ‘Old Alf Jacobus used to go by that name.’

  ‘That’s his proper name, sir,’ said Bridie. ‘But he won’t know you. He doesn’t know his own mind, the fever’s got such a grip on him.’

  They went on to Jacobus’ tent. Mr Bones shook his head when he saw the frail old man lying on filthy blankets. He turned to Bridie and held out two coins.

  ‘Here’s two guineas. But don’t give it to Halibut, he’s a quack and a charlatan. Get the Chinese physician to tend the old man. A celestial may be of more use in a case like this. The money should cover whatever supplies you need as well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, astonished by the stranger’s generosity. ‘Should I fetch you when he comes to consciousness? Are you a friend of his?’

  The stranger laughed and coughed into his hand, as if embarrassed.

  ‘No, I’m not his friend, but I’d like to know how he fares. My wife and I are camped up on the rise, where the road turns towards Melbourne. Ask for Mr Edward Bones, Esquire.’

  Bridie ran all the way to the Chinamen’s camp. The Chinese doctor listened to her quietly and then gestured to his servant to gather up his bag of medicines and instruments while he put up a parasol to shade his head from the sun.

  That night Bridie brewed the herbs and powder the Chinese doctor had given her, carefully following his instructions. She had to hold Jacobus’ head up with one hand and gently spoon the dark tea into his mouth with the other. All through the night she tended the old man, and the tent was pungent with the scent of Chinese medicines. Near dawn, Bridie lapsed into a fitful sleep, curled up between the man and his dog.

  The next morning, she woke knowing something had changed while she slept. At first she thought maybe the old man had died, he was so still, but when she sat up she realised he had rolled onto his side and was sound asleep, his breath even and his lined face at peace. Even Marmalade seemed to have improved a little. Bridie held the pup gently and offered him water and a tiny morsel of food. All that day, at regular intervals, she spooned the Chinese doctor’s potion into Jacobus and water into the loyal Marmalade. The old man didn’t speak at all, until late in the afternoon when he opened his eyes and looked at her with a flash of recognition.

  ‘You may not be a boy, Billy Dare, but you’re an angel of mercy,’ he said in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I just did my Christian duty,’ she said, scowling to mask her relief.

  ‘You’re a fine girl. You owed me nothing but your scorn. I’m indebted to you.’

  ‘A gentleman who said he knew you, a Mr Bones, he gave me money to pay the Chinese doctor. It’s him you have to thank.’

  ‘Eddie Bones? He’s here?’ asked Jacobus, his eyes wide with surprise. And then he laughed and his laugh turned into a jagged cough that left him weak and depleted. ‘Ah, this life is full of mystery, ain’t it?’ He lay back and closed his eyes again.

  Bridie watched him, her heart full of mixed emotions. Now that his face had regained some of its natural cunning, she liked him much less. Suddenly she was astounded at what she had done. She slipped out of the tent and squatted down in front of the campfire, poking at the embers with a stick.

  That night, Bridie slept by the fire. She needed to put a distance between herself and Jacobus. The next morning, when she had made sure everything was in order in the tent and Jacobus and Marmalade were sleeping, she set off for the Ballarat Road, in search of Eddie Bones. She had just reached the bend in the wide road and was looking about for someone to give her directions when she heard screams of fury. She saw Eddie Bones backing out of a long white tent, with one arm raised to shield his face. A teacup flew past his head, smashing on the ground in front of the tent. This was followed by battered tins, bowls, and lastly a hatbox. Eddie Bones stood a short distance from the tent, sighing.

  When he turned and saw Bridie standing with her mouth open, staring, he quickly smoothed his hair and approached her. The screaming had stopped but the sides of the tent billowed angrily, as though someone was whirling around inside it.

  ‘My dear boy,’ said Mister Bones. ‘You bring good news of your grandfather, I hope.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Bridie, glancing at him uncertainly and continuing to stare at the strange swelling of the tent canvas.

  Eddie Bones laughed. ‘Don’t pay attention to that, my boy. Just Mrs Bones in a temper. We’ve only been here a week and the goldfields are a less convivial place than she had anticipated. She’s not pleased with our new arrangements. She’ll settle down shortly. Tell me your news.’

  ‘He’s much improved, thank you, sir,’ said Bridie. ‘And I wanted to tell you the truth. Mr Jacobus isn’t my grandfather. I just took to caring for him when he was at his worst. But now that he’s recovering, I don’t think I’ll be staying on and . . .’ She trailed off, her attention completely taken by the sight of the tent flap opening and a woman stepping out into the afternoon sunlight.

  There were a few women on the goldfields, hardy women who worked as tirelessly as their men, but Eddie Bones’ wife was nothing like any of them. The woman emerging from the tent was dressed in dark green silk. Her skin was smooth and white except for the faintest flush of pink in her cheeks, and her long, thick black hair was loose around her shoulders. She was like a princess from a fairy story.

  Bridie felt herself blushing. Mrs Bones gazed intently at Bridie and smiled, a rich, kind and knowing smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Amaranta El’Orado, also known as Mrs Edward Bones.’

  ‘Also known as El Ave Chant D’Oro,’ said Eddie proudly. ‘Or the songbird with a voice of gold. My wife has sung for kings and princes all around the world. The most celebrated performer of the London stage.’

  Amaranta touched her husband lightly on the cheek and laughed, and then she held out a small hand to Bridie. Bridie looked at her smooth white skin and graceful fingers and felt ashamed to touch it with her grubby, work-worn hand. She looked shyly at the ground and suddenly blurted out, ‘Bridie O’Connor, ma’am. I’m not a boy at all.’

  Eddie Bones looked startled, but Amaranta laughed again. Eddie stroked his chin with one hand and looked at Bridie with renewed interest. ‘So you’re Mr Jacobus’ granddaughter?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I told you before, we’re not kin. I’m near fourteen years old, sir, and have earned my living these past two years as a maid in a gentleman’s home in Melbourne. I can cook and wash and keep camp as well as any grown woman, and I was thinking, if Mrs Bones needs someone to help with the camp, well, I could make myself
useful.’

  Amaranta looked at her husband and her eyes were bright and laughing.

  ‘Well Eddie, it looks as if your prayers may be answered.’

  32

  Songbird of the South

  Bridie took the lengths of calico that had bound her swag and Gilbert’s and sewed them together to make a tent. It looked tiny beside the one that Eddie Bones and Amaranta shared. The Boneses’ tent was longer than almost any that Bridie had seen.

  ‘Bought from a gentleman whose luck had failed him. Surprising what you can buy for a trifle from a retreating prospector,’ said Eddie Bones, laughing. ‘You wait and see! In no time at all, for the price of a song, I’ll have the best outfit a man could dream of.’

  Bridie watched Eddie Bones sceptically. She still couldn’t understand how he never seemed to have a speck of dust on his exquisite suit. She couldn’t imagine him working a claim, and yet he spoke as if he would strike it lucky any moment.

  That evening, when Bridie entered the Boneses’ tent to discuss her new position with Amaranta El’Orado, she was surprised to discover the volume of things they had brought with them to the goldfields. In the middle of the tent was a big brass bed with a shiny, red satin coverlet. A makeshift bark table was cluttered with bottles and brushes, combs and a large carved wooden jewellery box. Beside it was a long mirror with a crack running the length of the glass and scarves draped across its frame. All around the edges of the tent were trunks and a huge assortment of miners’ equipment.

  Amaranta was rummaging through one of the big trunks, pulling out gowns and garments of all colours and flinging them onto the bed.

  ‘Ah, you’ve come at last,’ she said. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking Bridie up and down with an amused expression.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s time you changed out of your costume?’ she asked. ‘I can hardly have you as my lady’s maid, dressed like that!’

  Reluctantly, Bridie undressed, folding up her old shirt and jacket and making a neat pile of them on the dirt floor of the tent. Amaranta laughed when she saw the thick binding. She reached out and took a corner of the muslin, slowly unwinding it from around Bridie’s chest, and when all the cloth was unravelled, Bridie stood before Amaranta in nothing but her ragged pants. Instinctively, she folded her arms across her breasts.