Hannigan’s hand dropped to his side. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Is there gold at this … Pretty Sally?’
‘Oh, there’s gold,’ Hannigan said. ‘The alluvial stuff’s gone but there’s a reef running through the hillside.’
‘How do you get it out?’
Hannigan spluttered. ‘What do you know about gold mining?’
‘Some,’ Caleb said. ‘Dig it up and stomp it out of the rocks?’
‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘Sounds like hard work.’
‘It is. And bloody expensive too.’
Caleb scratched his unshaven chin. ‘I have a problem, friend. A problem you might be able to help me with.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I now have the right to mine a piece of land for gold, but I don’t know where this land is and what I know about gold mining you could write on a postage stamp.’
Hannigan straightened. ‘So, what are you proposing, Yankee?’
‘Nothing if you are going to call me by that name.’
‘So what do I call you?’
‘Caleb Hunt. How were you planning to fund this expensive expedition?’
The man sucked in a breath through his moustache. ‘I came to town to register the claim but I needed money to pay for the equipment I ordered from McEwan’s. I thought there would be easy money to be made with two-up—’
‘My father used to say, never gamble with money you’re not prepared to lose.’ Caleb’s father would never have considered gambling at all—the words were good advice from a friend that Caleb had consistently failed to follow in his life.
Caleb took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco and struck a match on the sole of his boot. He drew in the smoke and kept his eyes fixed on the twinkling lights of the boats. ‘I think you and I could strike up a deal, Hannigan. I’ve got the money you need for the equipment, but I need someone who knows what he’s doing to work the claim. I’ll pay you a fair wage and, if we strike gold, then you get ten per cent of the profits. Does that sound fair?’
The Irishman’s beard jutted. ‘But it’s my claim.’
‘Not any more. That’s my offer, take it or leave it.’
Caleb straightened and started to walk away, leaving the big man standing on the sidewalk, the knife still in his hand. He half-expected the knife between his shoulder blades but if he had judged the man rightly, Hannigan was no murderer. Hotheaded perhaps, but not one to knife a man in the back.
‘Wait, Yankee.’
Caleb smiled. Hannigan would continue to call him ‘Yankee’ precisely because he knew it annoyed him, but if that was the price of this man’s cooperation, it was worth it. He turned back to face Hannigan, relieved to see he no longer held the knife.
The Irishman spat on his hand and held it out. ‘A deal, Mr Hunt.’
Caleb returned the gesture before wiping his hand on his trousers.
They arranged to meet in the morning and Caleb went back to his lodgings in the dingy street behind the main thoroughfare. As he washed his hands in the battered tin basin, he hummed the tune of ‘Oh Shenandoah’ with the sense that, for the first time in seven long years, he really had crossed the Missouri for a new life at the bottom of the world.
Two
Maiden’s Creek
10 December 1871
Adelaide Greaves set aside her sketchbook and drew her knees up to her chin, enjoying the rare feeling of freedom that Sunday afternoons brought to her busy life. She and Danny had climbed the hill behind the cemetery to their favourite picnic spot, a large rock sheltered in a stand of tall gums. From here, they had a clear view down the steep-sided valley in which the township of Maiden’s Creek nestled. The town clung to the curve of a once pretty creek, now a clogged and stinking sewer, into which all the waste, both human and industrial, poured. Commercial buildings fronted the main street, exuding an air of prosperity and respectability, while the homes of the town’s residents were scattered higgledy-piggledy across the hillsides above, placed wherever a piece of flat ground could be found or hewn from the rocky soil. Whisps of smoke rose from crooked chimneys constructed from the local stone, bringing with them the smell of eucalyptus and roast meat.
At the far end of the valley, a massive spoil heap of broken rock spewed down the hillside, bright and harsh against the darker granite. Most days of the week, the tall chimney below the Maiden’s Creek Mine belched smoke from the boilers that were used to run the mine’s machinery, particularly the heavy stamping batteries that crushed the raw rock and measured the steady rhythm of the town’s heartbeat. On Sundays, only a watching fire trickled a thin line of white smoke from the chimney and the stamping batteries were silent. The townspeople found the silence deafening.
Above her a flock of bright, multicoloured parrots chattered among themselves as they swooped and dived in the stand of trees. She rarely saw the strange, shy fauna of this land. The endearing little wallabies with their soft, dark eyes and fat wombats kept their distance from the town. However she kept a wary eye out for snakes and spiders before setting the picnic blanket down in the shadow of the rock.
Beside her, Danny scribbled away in an exercise book, a lock of blond hair falling unregarded across his eyes.
‘What are you writing?’ she asked.
Danny looked at her, his blue eyes so like his father’s that a chill settled on her. Would she ever be able to look at Danny and not think of the man who had never come home? The young man whose death had forced her into this life of deceit and hard work for which nothing in her upbringing had prepared her.
‘A story about the time Papa was attacked by pirates and fought them off single-handedly.’
Ah … papa.
A pang of guilt stirred in Adelaide’s chest. At nine years old, Danny had begun to notice the absence of a man in his life and the boy’s long-lost father had taken on heroic proportions. She only had herself to blame. It was she who had filled Danny’s head with stories of his brave seafaring father, whom she had given the fictional name of John Greaves, borrowing her mother’s surname. In Adelaide’s story, he had been lost at sea in the months before Danny had been born, forcing her to make the long-planned trip to Australia alone, except for Netty Redley.
‘Mrs Greaves!’ A young woman’s voice carried up the hill.
Adelaide stood and waved at the two women in light dresses toiling up the slope towards her, one carrying a sun hat by its strings and the other pressing her bonnet to her head. A passing stranger would take them for friends, three young women passing time together on a mild, early summer’s day, but Sissy and Nell were working girls, dancers employed in the establishment referred to in hushed and disapproving tones by the respectable matrons of Maiden’s Creek as ‘that place’, and by most of the men of the district as ‘Lil’s Place’. No one knew Lil’s real name. Lily White was a stage name, a soubriquet that had long since faded with her looks, her years and her figure, but the name stuck. Whatever the matrons of Maiden’s Creek might think, Lil ruled her establishment with an iron fist and her girls were safe, clean and generally happy.
The young women sank onto the blanket on either side of Adelaide. Nell took off her bonnet and fanned herself with it as she turned her face to the sun.
‘You will develop a colour,’ Sissy warned.
‘I don’t care. I love the sun. Nothing would induce me to go back to Yorkshire now,’ Nell replied.
‘Lil may have a few words to say if you turn up looking like a carrot,’ Sissy said.
‘Lil don’t scare me. She’s all hot air,’ Nell said. ‘Whore with a heart of gold, just like you and me, Siss.’
Like most girls reduced to earning their living in such establishments, Sissy and Nell had only the most basic literacy skills. When Sissy had come into the post office and asked Adelaide to write a letter to her sister in Melbourne, Adelaide had offered to help the girl with her reading and writing. The lessons had become their regular Sunday afternoon activity. Li
l observed the Sabbath and the girls took full advantage of their day off. With the advent of the warm weather, the women had taken to meeting at the rock rather than in Adelaide’s cosy parlour.
‘I brought you a present.’ Sissy drew out an orange from a canvas bag.
Adelaide took the fruit and pressed it to her nose. It brought back memories of Christmas in the kitchen of Oldfield House, where the cook would make the orange souffle Sir Daniel had loved so much.
‘Where did you get it?’ Adelaide asked.
‘A present from a friend,’ Sissy said.
Danny stared at the orange with avaricious eyes and Adelaide took out her paring knife to carefully cut the fruit into four segments. Danny sucked the flesh dry then positioned the skin in his mouth so it resembled bright orange teeth. The girls laughed.
‘Eh, you’re a one,’ Nell said, ruffling his hair.
‘Danny, it’s time for you to get home,’ Adelaide said. ‘I will be testing you on those Bible verses the Reverend Johnson set the Sunday School to learn.’
She knew Danny would have liked to have stayed, but he kept his peace and dutifully packed his notebook and pencil into his canvas satchel and tossed the dessicated quarter of the orange into the bush. But she didn’t miss the look he cast her—a look so like her father’s when he disapproved of something.
The three women watched the boy lope down the path in the one-sided gait of a child pretending to ride a horse.
‘He lives in his head, that one,’ Sissy said. ‘I hope one day I’ll have a boy like Danny.’
Nell poked her friend’s arm. ‘Aye, well, you play your cards right with Mr Penrose and you’ll be wed by winter.’
Sissy’s sad eyes belied her smile. ‘Mr Penrose’s uncle wouldn’t ever let him marry the likes of me,’ she said. ‘If wishes were fishes …’
The mine’s engineer, Will Penrose, worked for his uncle Charles Cowper, who was a major shareholder and manager of the Maiden’s Creek Mine and one of the most important men in the town. As long as Will worked for his uncle, any fondness he may feel for one of Lil’s girls had to stay within the four walls of Lil’s establishment.
‘When is Mr Penrose back?’ Adelaide asked.
Sissy laughed. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Greaves. Depends on what machinery the ship is bringing into Port Albert.’
‘To work,’ Adelaide said. ‘Did you bring your slates and the primer?’
Like obedient schoolchildren, Sissy and Nell produced their slates and Adelaide began the lesson. Both were apt and able students and, with a bit of education, they could escape their life in Maiden’s Creek.
The tolling of the bell of St Mary’s, the Catholic church, broke the spell of the afternoon.
Nell jumped to her feet. ‘Is that the time? Come on, Sissy, Lil will fine us if we’re late.’
Carrying their hats, and with barely a farewell or backwards glance, the young women scampered down the hill.
Adelaide watched them until they rounded the bend beside the Bank of Victoria. She packed up her sketchbook and the picnic basket and folded the blanket before picking her own way down the hillside and through the peaceful town to the post office where Netty would be preparing the evening meal in the comfortable residence behind the shop front.
Adelaide’s position as postmistress put her in a unique position. She knew, or was known by, nearly every resident in the town and her walk home was punctuated by warm greetings from townspeople out for an evening stroll or hurrying to Mass.
After three years in Maiden’s Creek, Adelaide had come to love the noise, the disorder and the sense of excitement that overhung the town and, most importantly, the sense of belonging. She would not exchange a single moment with Danny here in this wild place for life in Oldfield House.
Three
Shady Creek Hotel, Gippsland
11 December 1871
Caleb stood on the verandah of the hotel, looking up at the blue-grey bulk of the mountain range before him. Shady Creek was a dot on the map, a staging post built on private property just off the main coach road that wound its way through the foothills and shady gullies of the Great Dividing Range. As its name implied, it had been built in the bend of a creek and massive old trees offered shade and respite from the heat of the day. In winter, no doubt, the hotel promised a warm fire and a hot meal.
Even at this early hour of the day, the sun beat down with a ferocity Caleb had never encountered before and it seemed as if the very air shimmered in anticipation of a hot day. He thought of the soft woods of Virginia, so different from this dry, harsh, crackling landscape, heavy with the scent of eucalyptus.
He took a swig of the warm liquid in his pannikin. Tea. He hated tea.
‘Heading for Maiden’s Creek?’ A dark-haired man of much his own age stepped onto the verandah.
‘I am.’ Caleb ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. ‘Tell me, is it always this damn hot?’
His companion gave a snort of laughter. ‘No. In winter we have snow and the roads become impassable.’ He emptied the contents of his pannikin onto the dusty earth, the dampness evaporating almost immediately. ‘Late January and February’s hotter. This time of year the weather can change daily.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m William Penrose, mine superintendent at the Maiden’s Creek Mine.’
‘Caleb Hunt.’ Caleb accepted Penrose’s hand.
Penrose regarded him for a long moment. ‘People only go to Maiden’s Creek for one reason,’ he said.
‘And that is?’
‘Gold.’
Caleb nodded. ‘You’ve got that right.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look like a miner. Do you have a claim or are you going out prospecting? Because if you’re a prospector, forget it. The country’s too wild, even for the most intrepid.’
Caleb pulled the claim registration from his pocket. ‘I’ve a claim. Tell me, Penrose, where’s Pretty Sally?’
Penrose’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Pretty Sally? About an hour’s ride out of Maiden’s Creek. Some Irish prospectors struck good alluvial stuff in the creek a year back and that caused a rush, no one’s struck the reef yet.’ He held out his hand. ‘Do you mind?’
Caleb passed him the paper and Penrose studied it. ‘Hannigan’s claim? How did you come by it?’
Caleb considered his answer. ‘Hannigan and I came to a business arrangement. Do you know him?’
‘By reputation. He’s not with you?’
‘No. He’s on the boat to Port Albert with the equipment.’
‘You trust him?’
Caleb thought himself a good judge of character, and the answer was no, he didn’t trust Hannigan, and had regretted sending the man alone on the boat. ‘Do I have reason not to?’
Penrose shrugged. ‘You have his mining claim. He has your equipment. This is not a business for honest men.’
‘It will be what it will be,’ Caleb said.
Penrose leaned against one of the verandah posts. ‘What do you know about mining?’
Caleb looked into his cup, grimacing at the unedifying sight of the black leaves swilling around at the bottom. Like Penrose, he upended the dregs onto the hard clay. ‘I spent a year in the Californian fields. Panning mostly.’
Penrose nodded. ‘The alluvial stuff at Maiden’s Creek is long gone. It’s hard-rock mining now.’
‘I don’t shirk a task, Mr Penrose and I’m no fool. I’ll just have to learn.’
‘Fair enough.’ Penrose cocked his head to one side. ‘We have all sorts on the goldfields. Plenty of Yankees like you from the Californian fields.’
‘Just don’t call me a Yankee and we’ll get on just fine, Mr Penrose.’
Penrose laughed. ‘And I’m a Cornishman. Don’t call me English.’
Caleb stretched his stiff back. ‘That coach ride was hell. Haven’t you people heard of trains?’
‘It’ll come. Trouble is, the goldfields out this side are still new. The main goldfields are to the north and west of Me
lbourne—they have train lines. I’ve just come up from Port Albert. I had to make the arrangements for a new stamper I’m bringing in. It’s going to be a five-header.’
Caleb let out an impressed whistle. ‘A five-header? That’s a mighty piece of equipment to get over those mountains.’
‘It’s broken down into pieces and we have blacksmiths on site to assemble it, but even then it’s a massive task. It’s going to take several bullock teams weeks to make the journey up from Port Albert.’
‘Why not bring it in overland from Melbourne?’
Penrose laughed. ‘You’ve travelled that route. The swamps are impassable in dry weather. Ah, here’s our transport.’
The rattle and clatter of hooves, jingle of harness and a loud ‘Whoa’ announced the arrival of a carriage drawn by two large horses. SHADY CREEK TO MAIDEN’S CREEK had been handpainted on the door in red paint. A large drop of paint had slid down from the ‘k’ in the second Creek, elongating the letter to nearly the length of the door.
‘If you thought last night’s coach ride was rough, you’re in for a treat,’ Penrose said. ‘Thank God for the dry weather. We would be doing it on foot or packhorse if it was wet. Good day, Burrell,’ he hailed the driver as the burly, red-bearded man jumped down from his seat.
Burrell pushed his hat to the back of his head and wiped his right hand on his corduroy pants. ‘G’day, Mr Penrose. Ready to go?’
‘We are. What’s the road like?’
‘It wasn’t too bad when I came over yesterday,’ the man said. He turned to Caleb and held out his hand. ‘Amos Burrell. I’ve got the coach route up to Maiden’s Creek.’
Caleb took the sweaty, calloused paw and Burrell shook it with such force, Caleb felt the bones in his hand crunch.
‘Where’s your luggage, mate?’
Caleb pointed at the iron-bound box that had been placed on the verandah of the hotel. He checked the padlock before Burrell lifted it onto the roof of the carriage. Then he excused himself and made a trip to the wash house.
The Postmistress Page 2