Water pinged into the metal pannikin and Danny held it out to him with a shaking hand. Caleb made an attempt to pull himself into an upright position without crying out but the pain must have shown on his face. The boy frowned.
‘I came to say I’m sorry, Mr Hunt,’ he said.
The water had been sitting too long but the tepid and sour-tasting liquid eased his parched throat. He held out the empty pannikin to Danny.
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for. And you can call me Caleb. I don’t hold with such formality.’
Danny smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr … Caleb.’ His gaze shifted to the bulge of bandaging visible under the sheet that covered Caleb’s leg. ‘Does it hurt?’
Caleb considered the question. It hurt like hell, particularly as his leg had stiffened overnight, but he could sense that the boy needed reassurance not truth. ‘Nothing’s broken. Are you all right?’
The boy rubbed his knee. ‘I got a grazed knee,’ he said.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
Danny’s eyes slid sideways. ‘Mama said I should have a day at home to rest.’
‘Did she? Kind of Mama.’
Danny’s mouth worked and he managed a small smile. ‘She wasn’t very cross.’
‘There was no need for her to be cross at all. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘She says I’m always in a dream. I like to make up stories in my head but when I try to explain to Mama, she says no good comes of dreaming.’
‘What does your father do? Is he a miner?’
‘He died before I was born.’ The child’s face brightened. ‘He was a sailor, an officer aboard a man-o’-war. He took a pirate ship single-handed—’ As if he had said too much, his face closed over. ‘Or at least I think that’s what he did. Mama gets sad when I ask her questions and Netty says I shouldn’t talk about those that are dead and buried.’
Caleb thought about his own father. A good, honourable man who should have died peacefully in his bed, surrounded by a family who loved him, not alone and unregarded on a train platform in Washington.
‘If you never have a father then you don’t miss him,’ Danny said but the expression on his face belied the upbeat tone.
Caleb undid the string around his neck and handed the key to Danny. ‘Can you pass me my Colt, Danny? Your ma said she locked it in my chest.’
Danny’s eyes widened. He took the key and knelt in front of the box. The well-oiled lock clicked and Danny stood up, holding the weapon by the stock.
‘It’s heavy,’ he said.
‘It’s a Colt revolver, 1861 pattern,’ Caleb replied, taking the gun from the boy. He cracked it open and found it had been unloaded. It needed a clean after the dust bath it had been subjected to the day before.
‘Can I see?’
Caleb gave it to Danny, who took the weapon in both hands, then raised it, pointing it at Caleb.
Caleb erupted upright, ignoring the shriek of pain from his leg. ‘Never, ever point it at anyone,’ he said.
Danny’s mouth fell open and he dropped the weapon on the bed as if it were red hot. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ he stuttered.
Caleb fought the pain and held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. There are rules for handling weapons and that is the most important. If you like, I can teach you how to shoot it.’
Danny’s eyes widened. ‘Could you?’ But the moment of hope was overcome by another thought. ‘Mama won’t let me.’
‘Mama doesn’t have to know.’
‘Our secret?’ The boy smiled.
‘Our secret, but it will have to wait until I’m on my feet again. Say, can you do another favour for me?’
Danny nodded.
‘Pass me that satchel.’
Danny picked up the leather satchel that accompanied the iron-bound box on Caleb’s journeys. Caleb unbuckled it and took out the rolled oilcloth that contained the cleaning equipment for the Colt.
Danny came closer, his eyes wide and curious.
‘Danny!’
His mother’s voice made the boy start and before he could escape, Mrs Greaves appeared in the doorway.
‘I said you had a day off school to rest. Now go back to the house and stop bothering Mr Hunt.’
Danny slipped under his mother’s arm with a last cheeky smile at Caleb.
Mrs Greaves folded her arms and considered her patient. ‘You are looking better this morning. Are you hungry?’
‘I’ve not eaten since we stopped at the river yesterday so yes, ma’am, I am a mite hungry.’
‘I’ll see to some food,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, the doctor is here to see you.’
She stood aside to admit the doctor. Caleb had only the dimmest memory of the man from the day before and what he did remember was not favourable. The man had not been able to do his job without the help of a whiskey flask, but in the morning light the cheerful face surrounded by a halo of white hair inspired a certain degree of confidence.
‘Well then, Mr Hunt. Welcome to Maiden’s Creek. Not sure if I introduced myself properly. Alfred Bowen,’ the doctor said, the soft lilt of an Irish accent still pronounced.
‘Doc,’ Caleb acknowledged warily, scanning the man’s florid face for signs of inebriation, but Bowen appeared perfectly sober.
‘What brings you to Maiden’s Creek, Mr Hunt?’ Bowen said as he peeled back the bandage.
‘I have a claim. Pretty Sally—’ He broke off and swore volubly at the doctor’s ungentle touch. ‘My leg is not broken but it will be if you treat it like that.’
‘Good God,’ the doctor said.
They both stared at the bright green mash that had been smeared over the injury. The doctor sniffed it. ‘Parsley,’ he concluded. ‘Miss Redley’s work, unless I am much mistaken.’ He cleaned the gunk away, revealing the swollen and blackened injury. ‘I have something a little more efficacious than parsley. Time for my friends.’
He produced a glass jar from his bag that he held up to the light.
Caleb winced, recognising the dark shapes. ‘Leeches?’
‘Best cure I know for bruising.’
The doctor extracted half-a-dozen of the bloodsuckers and placed them strategically on the hoof-shaped imprint, where they immediately attached.
Caleb shuddered. He hated leeches but he had to agree with Bowen, they were a good cure for such a bad bruise. Certainly better than Netty’s parsley mash.
Bowen pulled up a stool and sat down, watching like a proud father as his little assistants went to work. ‘It’ll be a few weeks before you’re fully fit again. Where did you say your claim was?’
‘Pretty Sally.’
‘You won’t be seeing it for a while yet, Mr Hunt. Pretty Sally is a hell of a hike.’
‘Is all the countryside around here this steep?’
‘Worse,’ Bowen said. ‘Can you bend your knee for me?’
Caleb complied, glad that the man’s shaking fingers were required to do no more than this basic prodding.
‘I was a surgeon at Sebastapol,’ Bowen said. ‘I thought I was done with soldiers.’
‘How did you know I’ve been a soldier?’
Bowen regarded him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s the scars, boy, and not just these.’ He jabbed at the faded scar on Caleb’s uninjured leg, legacy of a bayonet. ‘It’s in your eyes. You’ll carry your soldiering and the sights you’ve seen to your grave.’
The doctor picked up the revolver and examined it for a long moment before handing it to Caleb.
‘The Crimea was bad, but I imagine a civil war would be much worse.’
‘England has had its civil wars.’
‘And Ireland suffered for them.’ Bowen straightened. ‘I’ll break the good news to Mrs Greaves that she has a guest for a few more days.’
‘I can find a hotel …’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’d stay where you are. If you wish, you could offer Mrs Greaves some decent coin for board. It will salve your conscience, and hers.’
&
nbsp; Bowen pulled out his flask and offered it to Caleb, who shook his head. It would barely be ten in the morning. He watched as Bowen took a swig.
‘Why do you drink, Bowen?’
Bowen looked at the flask in his hand. ‘At first it was to forget and then it was to remember.’ He stowed the flask back in his pocket and bent to inspect the leeches. ‘I think my little friends are done for today.’
Caleb shut his eyes as Bowen removed the bloated leeches and returned them to the jar.
‘No point in a bandage,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘In fact, I advise you to start moving that leg. You’ll stiffen up if you stay immobile.’
‘Can I come in?’
The brown-haired woman—Netty, Caleb presumed—who had been flirting with the carriage driver yesterday appeared in the doorway carrying a tray. The woman was older than he had thought, probably in her mid-thirties, slightly built with a pretty, narrow face and bright eyes.
‘Good morning, Miss Redley,’ Bowen greeted her. ‘I fear I had to remove your excellent parsley mash.’
The woman flushed. ‘My grandmother swore by parsley and cabbage. I can get a cabbage.’
‘In Mr Hunt’s case, leeches may be more efficacious.’ The doctor patted his bag. ‘I will return later today with some more of my little friends, hungry for a feed. Good day to you both.’ The doctor placed his battered hat on his head. ‘Going to be a hot one.’
The woman set the tray down beside Caleb.
‘Miss Redley, is it?’ Caleb enquired, his stomach rumbling at the smell of bacon and eggs.
‘Berenice Redley, but everyone calls me Netty,’ the woman replied. She hesitated, a muscle in her cheek working. ‘I want to thank you for what you did for Danny yesterday. It was my fault.’
Caleb examined the contents of the cup, neatly placed on a matching saucer. Tea. What was the attraction in tea? He dug his fork into the first egg. He’d heard chickens outside his door so he assumed it was fresh.
‘It was no one’s fault,’ he said. ‘The horse was spooked and young Danny was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Netty nodded. ‘I’m just grateful that you weren’t hurt worse. Thank you, Mr Hunt.’
‘We’ll say no more about it, Netty. Thank you for breakfast.’ He ran a hand over his unshaven chin. ‘Would it be too much trouble to ask for some warm water?’
‘I’ll bring some when I come back to fetch the tray,’ Netty said. ‘Miss Adelaide’s sorting the mail, but I’ll send Danny out with something for you to read.’
He must have dozed, waking in a sweat, the heat in the small room stifling. He pulled himself up with difficulty and poured a cup of water. Someone had left several broadsheets on the table beside the jug. Leaning back against the planks of the wall, he opened one of the broadsheets, The Argus, a Melbourne newspaper that predated his leaving that fair city.
He set it aside and picked up the second paper, a smaller edition that bore the banner of the Maiden’s Creek Chronicle. The news section was headlined with DARING RESCUE OF POSTMISTRESS’S SON and went on to recount the events of the previous day, concluding with ‘Mr Hunt is reported to be resting comfortably and is expected to make a full recovery.’
‘You must be that Yankee feller everyone’s talking about.’
Caleb stifled an exclamation. He’d not been aware of the door opening but a short, solid man with a thick, greying beard leaned against the wall near the door. ‘Who are you?’
The man rubbed his hand on his trousers and approached the bed. ‘Folks call me Mick.’
Caleb took the offered hand. ‘Then I owe you an apology, friend,’ he said. ‘I’m occupying your bed.’
Mick shook his head. ‘Missus lets me bunk ’ere on occasion, but truth is I don’t much like walls,’ he said. ‘I prefer to be out there.’ He gestured at the world beyond the slab walls of the hut.
‘What do you do?’
‘Missus pays me to deliver the mail up the track,’ he said. Counting off on his fingers he recited, ‘There’s the Red and Blue Sailor Mines, the Evening Star, Pretty Sally and on up to Aberfeldy. I ’ear you’ve an interest in Pretty Sally?’
‘How’d you hear that?’
Mick shrugged. ‘Word gets around. ’Annigan’s claim?’
When Caleb didn’t reply, Mick gave a snort of laughter. ‘Word is that claim’s not worth the paper it’s printed on.’
‘The word in this town is gospel?’ Caleb snapped.
Mick’s bright eyes twinkled. ‘You’ll find out, Yankee.’
‘If you and I are going to get along, Mick, I’d kindly ask you not call me that,’ Caleb said through gritted teeth.
Mick regarded him. ‘Fair ’nuff,’ he said. ‘Can I fetch you anything? ’ot as ’ades in here.’
‘Do you know where I can get my hands on crutches? If I stay here all day, I am going to either melt or lose my mind with boredom.’
Mick nodded. ‘Give me ’alf an ’our.’
True to his word, the man returned with a stout stick. He hefted it in his hand. ‘Nice piece of mountain ash,’ he said. ‘Should see you right.’
Caleb grasped the stick and hauled himself to his feet. Crutches would have been better but he appreciated the thought. ‘It’ll do fine. Thanks for your help, Mick.’
Mick tipped his fingers to his hat. ‘I better be making tracks or the missus will cut off me contract. See you round.’
Caleb sank back onto the cot and considered the vexed task of getting dressed. He didn’t much care whether Netty Redley put him to work peeling vegetables, but he was not lying around like an invalid.
Six
‘Afternoon, missus.’
Adelaide, deeply absorbed in sorting the mail, started, her hand going to her chest. ‘Mick! You gave me a fright. How did you get in?’
The shaggy bushman regarded her with his dark, deeply set eyes. ‘Door was open.’
Adelaide glanced at the post office door. It may have been unlocked but it had a bell set above to announce arriving customers. Mick had a habit of slipping past the bell.
‘I ’eard the mail was in. Got anything for me?’
‘Not yet. If you go to the kitchen, Netty will give you a cup of tea.’ She lifted the countertop to let him pass through. ‘Mick, I’m sorry, but there’s someone in your shed.’
Mick shrugged. ‘I ’eard you was lookin’ after the Yankee fellow. Seems like a decent sort.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Thought I should say g’day.’
‘Go and keep Netty company,’ Adelaide said, shooing him through the door as the bell rang.
She turned to face Mrs Russell, wife of the manager of the Bank of Australasia, and Mrs Jervis, wife of the manager of the Bank of Victoria. Their husbands may have been rivals in business, but these two ladies had formed an alliance and appointed themselves the moral arbiters of proper social conduct in Maiden’s Creek. This distinction existed entirely in their own minds, but they still had the ability to make life very unpleasant for any woman they felt fell outside what they deemed socially acceptable. Adelaide had the impression that they did not know where she fitted. On one hand, she was clearly a lady by birth and breeding, but on the other hand, she worked for a living in a job that should rightly have been filled by a man.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ Adelaide replied. ‘I have mail for you both.’ She passed several letters and small packages across the counter.
Mrs Russell turned the packets over with an irritating slowness. ‘How is Mr Hunt?’ she enquired, her casual tone belied by her bright eyes.
‘Much improved, thank you. Mercifully his leg is just cut and bruised. Nothing broken.’
Mrs Russell’s hand went to one of her many chins. ‘Such an awful thing to happen. Young Daniel was fortunate that Mr Hunt was on hand to save him.’
The bell above the door jangled again and two young women entered. On seeing the respectable matrons, Sissy and Jess, the youngest of Lil’s girls, froze.
The two older women turned as one, disapproval written in the set of their tightly corseted backs.
‘You are not welcome in places of respectable business,’ Mrs Russell said.
Sissy straightened, then thrust a hip in the direction of the outraged matron. ‘We’ve every right to be here.’ She brandished an envelope. ‘Jess has a letter to send and Mrs Greaves has promised to help her with her words.’
Mrs Russell rounded on Adelaide. ‘It has come to our attention …’
‘That you have been consorting with …’ Mrs Jervis continued but, seeming lost for words, turned to her friend.
Mrs Russell waved a gloved hand at Jess and Sissy. ‘… these unfortunate women from Mrs White’s hostelry.’
Adelaide had been expecting this. ‘They have every right to enter this post office, and who I choose to consort with is none of your business.’
Mrs Russell plumped herself up like one of Adelaide’s chickens. ‘As a respectable Christian woman, Mrs Greaves, it appals us that you should allow your son to be in the company of these hoydens. There is no place for fallen women in our respectable society.’
‘On the contrary, the good Lord himself made a point of consorting with men and women from all walks of society,’ Adelaide said.
Mrs Russell drew herself up to her full height, preparing to deliver a sermon.
‘Excuse me, ladies.’ As if he had been summoned by the good Lord himself, the neat, cassock-clad figure of the Reverend Johnson, vicar of St Thomas on the Hill, as the Church of England had been named, loomed up behind the two girls in the doorway. He doffed his hat to the room in general.
Mrs Russell sniffed and gathered up her packages. ‘Reverend, your timing is excellent. We were just expressing our views to Mrs Greaves that women of this kind—’ she waved at Sissy and Jess again, ‘—are not welcome in Maiden’s Creek. As chair of the Temperance Society, I exhort you to rid the town of … of such evil temptations.’
The vicar blinked behind his glasses. ‘And how precisely do you propose I do that, Mrs Russell?’
‘Drive them from the town!’ The colour in Mrs Jervis’s face had risen considerably and Adelaide wondered if the poor woman was about to have an attack of apoplexy.
The Postmistress Page 5