“Mr. Markham, I must ask you to remove this young lady. I take it you are related? Yes? . . . I would like to get this business concluded. I have many other matters to attend to this afternoon.” Captain Farley, a swarthy man not much taller than her father, came to stand beside Edward Markham. His eyes were cold with disapproval as they moved over Sarah.
“This—business—has gone quite far enough!” Sarah’s voice was as icy as the captain’s. She glared at him, chin thrust defiantly forward, arms akimbo, her fists planted on her hips. In her unfashionably plain white shirtwaist and dun-colored skirt, with her hair swept back into a dowdy bun, she should have been a negligible figure, easy to dismiss. Only those great golden eyes flashing angrily warned that she was not.
“Mr. Markham!”
“Sarah!” Her father was almost growling with exasperation. His hand on her arm tightened, and for a moment Sarah thought that he meant to pull her out of the way by force.
“Pa, this is the man meant for Lowella, isn’t it?” It required little imagination to link the whip’s victim to Percival’s tale. At her father’s reluctant nod, she continued, “Then he is subject to your authority and no one else’s. You surely will not allow him to be beaten to death! I would never have believed such a thing of you!”
“Young lady . . .” The captain’s tone was ominous. Sarah met his eyes with outrage in her own. He fell silent.
“Sarah, I have renounced all claim to the man. Captain Farley has returned the money I paid for him. And, since I have refused to take him, he remains under Captain Farley’s jurisdiction. Under the circumstances, the captain had no choice but to order the man punished, and I cannot feel that the punishment is unjust. I know it seems harsh to you, but it serves as a deterrent to others as well as to the man himself.”
“If he survives it,” Sarah muttered. From the corner of her eye she could see the subject of their argument. He was slumped against the pole, the muscles of his arms threatening to burst through the skin as they bore his whole weight. He hung limply, head down, apparently oblivious to the cessation of the whipping. Blood ran down his arms and welled from his back to soak his breeches, which were so faded and filthy that their original color was impossible to determine. A swarm of green flies, now that the killing lash had been stilled, buzzed around that bloodied back; occasionally one would alight to gorge itself on the oozing pulp. Bare to the waist, bloodied, drenched with sweat, the convict was animalistic in his maleness. Ordinarily Sarah would have been repulsed by such raw masculinity. But the man aroused a fierce protective instinct in her. She was determined to save him.
“Mr. Markham!” Captain Farley sounded furious now. He kept glancing around, and as Sarah followed his eyes she realized that one reason for the rapid increase of his temper was the staring, murmuring crowd of men surrounding them: Captain Farley disliked being made to look a fool. “I must insist that this outrageous situation be resolved at once! If you do not remove this young lady—immediately!—I will do so.”
“You will not lay a hand on my daughter.” Edward Markham was not the most loving of fathers, but he had never laid a hand on her, and Sarah knew he would allow no one else to do so. “Sarah . . .” His mouth was tight with exasperation as he turned his eyes back to her.
“Give the captain back his money, Pa!”
“Sarah!”
“I mean it, Pa: I’m not moving until you do.” Her chin jutted with determination.
“Sarah, you know as well as I do that a man of that stamp is the very last thing we need on Lowella. For God’s sake, use your head, girl!”
Sarah met her father’s eyes steadily. “I know he’s a troublemaker. It makes no difference. No matter what he is or what he has done, he does not deserve to be beaten in such a fashion.”
“Sarah . . .”
“Mr. Markham!”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Edward Markham snapped, glaring from Captain Farley’s angry face to Sarah’s determined one. With a snort, he reached into his coat pocket for his purse. “Have the man cut down, Farley,” he growled. Then, turning back to Sarah, he added in the same tone, “You’re getting too headstrong, girl. No wonder you haven’t got a husband. You’d badger the poor man to his grave.”
“Thank you, Pa.” Sarah ignored her father’s exasperated aside and smiled at him as, wincing, he counted the sum out of his purse and handed it to Captain Farley, who did not appear mollified. Instead of returning her smile, Edward Markham glared at her.
“I’ve a feeling you’ll soon rue this day, daughter, and no doubt I will, too!”
Sarah did not reply. Instead, she turned her attention to the two sailors who were, on Captain Farley’s orders, sawing through the thick rope that bound the convict’s irons to the hook. When the rope was cut, the man’s arms dropped heavily around the pole. For just an instant, as his legs struggled to bear his weight, he stood upright, leaning heavily against the pole. Then his knees buckled. Groaning, he sagged to the deck. Only his arms, which were still shackled around the mast, prevented him from pitching forward onto his face. His forehead resting against the smooth wood of the mizzen, he half-crouched, half-slumped. The flies, which had swarmed upward in alarm at his sudden movement, settled in once more to continue their meal. One broad, bloodied shoulder twitched in silent protest.
Sarah stepped forward, meaning to shoo the flies away, but her father’s hand on her arm stayed her.
“Don’t get carried away by kindness, daughter. The man’s naught but a convict, remember. And dangerous.”
“That may be true, Pa, but he’s nearly unconscious. And something must be done for his back. We can’t possibly transport him to Lowella in that state.”
“You’ve saved his life for him; that’s enough. If he’d had the full two hundred lashes Farley had ordered, he would surely have died. I have not the slightest doubt that he’ll survive until we can get him back to Lowella and Madeline can tend him. Curse the luck.” This last was an irritated mutter, but Sarah heard.
Frowning, she considered. Madeline, an aborigine who had lived on Lowella for as long as Sarah could remember, was a very good nurse. It was she who cared for the convicts when they were ill or injured. Sarah, as the virtual mistress of the station, was almost as well versed in the arts of healing, but she practiced only on her family and the house servants. She had never nursed a man—her father had never been ill a day in his life—and certainly never a convict. Their neighbors would have been scandalized if one of Lowella’s ladies had so demeaned herself. But, under the circumstances, the only humane thing to do now was to administer at least rudimentary first aid to that grievously injured back.
“If that man’s back isn’t cleaned and covered before we set out, you’ll have wasted a considerable amount of money. If he doesn’t bleed to death, which looks to be entirely possible, those wounds could putrefy. In either case, he’ll die.”
Edward Markham stared at her for a moment, then turned his eyes to the convict, now sprawled face down on the deck. His expression registered doubt, then disgust. But still he didn’t release his hold on Sarah’s arm. He turned to look at Captain Farley, who stood several paces away, his arms folded across his chest, disapproval plain in his face as he stared at the convict.
“Farley, give him a dose of the rough-and-ready. My girl’s right, we can’t take him like this. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Farley glanced over his shoulder at them, scowling.
“Going to mollycoddle him, are you?” he said with a snort. “Well, he’s your problem now, and if he lives it’s your lookout. I won’t be giving you your money back a second time, that’s certain.”
Edward’s mouth tightened in response. Farley shrugged, then turned back to the sailors who hovered over the convict.
“Give him a dose of the rough-and-ready, Vickers.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The man called Vickers, a tall, husky, fair-haired fellow who didn’t look as if he was yet out of his teens, salute
d. Then, turning, he bent to grasp the edge of a bucket that had been placed nearby. With one hand on the bucket’s bottom and the other grasping its rim, he flung its contents over the convict’s raw back. As the clear liquid splashed over him, the convict stiffened convulsively, and a hoarse cry rose from his throat. He tried to lever himself up off the deck, straightening his arms beneath him so that his head and black-furred chest were clear of the wood by perhaps two feet. His head jerked around; as he stared in their direction, features contorted with pain, Sarah had her first glimpse of his face.
Beneath the coating of grime, and whiskers, she saw that he was fairly young, certainly no older than his mid-thirties. And once he was cleaned up, she thought, he might be passably attractive. His features seemed regular enough. His eyes met hers, and despite their glazing of pain she saw that they were of a blue that was as clear and bright as the endless sky overhead. They seemed far too beautiful to belong to a convicted criminal. Even as Sarah was absorbing their impact, they closed. The sudden burst of pain-induced strength seemed to vanish as quickly as it had come. Shuddering, he collapsed. Sarah stared at that sprawled figure, and winced as Vickers emptied another bucket of clear liquid over the convict’s back. This time the convict didn’t even move.
“What was in the bucket?” Sarah’s lips felt stiff as she asked the question of her father. Now that she had seen his face, and those beautiful eyes, the convict seemed almost as vulnerable as she was herself. Which was ridiculous, she told herself sternly. He was only a convict, after all. Everyone knew that if convicts had feelings, they were only of the coarsest, roughest kind.
“Brine water, ma’am,” Vickers answered.
“Brine water!” Sarah could not restrain a shudder. No wonder the poor creature had cried out. It must have burned his back like liquid fire; the salt, seeping into the open wounds, must be burning still.
“It’s standard treatment after a flogging,” her father said in her ear. Sarah said nothing more, but she felt ill. She would not use a wounded animal so, and she was fairly certain that her father would not, either.
“Captain, I would thank you to have a couple of your crew carry the man down to my dray. He doesn’t look capable of making it on his own.”
Farley scowled, and for a moment Sarah thought he was going to refuse. Then he shrugged. Sarah guessed that he was remembering the roll of pound notes he had just pocketed. The same two sailors who had freed the convict from the mast lifted him to his feet as Farley gave the order.
“Come, Sarah.” Her father’s hand on her arm tightened.
“But his back—shouldn’t it be bandaged, at the very least? The flies—and the dray will kick up dust. . . .”
“We’ve no more time to waste on the likes of him. Besides, open air is the best treatment for a wound like that. A bandage would just stick to it.”
There was truth to that, Sarah knew. But watching the flies swarm around the convict’s torn flesh made her feel ill. If the wounds were left open to every swarming insect and swirling particle of dust between here and Lowella, there was every chance that they would putrefy. And that mode of dying would be even more hideous than being beaten to death. But her father clearly was impatient to be on his way. Nothing would be gained by making another scene, Sarah realized. Besides, she didn’t have any bandages with her.
She allowed her father to lead her through the crowd of men, already parted to permit the two sailors to pass with their burden. The convict’s arms were around their shoulders; each sailor gripped him with one hand fastened around his wrist and the other clenched on the seat of his breeches. Sarah quickly averted her eyes from that mutilated back, but not before she saw that the convict was at least partially aware of what was happening. He was trying to walk, his knees wavering as his bare feet shuffled weakly across the deck. The sailors had no patience with his puny efforts. They dragged him along between them. Even sagging at the knees as he was, he was taller than either of them. Sarah could see that it was a struggle for the convict even to hold his head upright; he tried, but instants later his head slumped forward in defeat.
In her outrage, Sarah had completely forgotten her reason for going aboard the Septimus in the first place. But as soon as their little group approached the dray, her eyes widened with remembrance. Liza! Liza hated the sight of blood at any time, claiming it made her nauseated. And with her already feeling ill . . . Sarah broke away from her father to hurry forward, meaning to warn her sister to turn away from the distressing sight. But she was too late; even as she approached the trap where Liza sat, the sailors were lifting the convict into the dray. His back was presented to Liza. With her sister, Sarah again absorbed the full impact of blood welling from more than two dozen open wounds, of bared tendons and drying crusts of blood and swarming flies. . . . She turned back to her sister just in time to see Liza’s eyes roll back into her head; she was barely able to catch the younger girl before, with a little moan, she slumped over in a dead faint.
From Lowella to Melbourne and back usually took three days. This time the trip home seemed twice as long. Liza was ill and had to lie with her head in Sarah’s lap as Sarah drove the trap. The heat was suffocating, even with a fringed parasol set in a holder to ward off the glare of the sun. Clare’s hooves kicked up whirlwinds of dust that seemed to seek out every tiny opening in Sarah’s clothes and settle grittily against her sweat-soaked skin. Behind them, the bullocks drawing the dray raised even worse clouds of dust; Sarah shuddered to think of what must be settling into the convict’s open wounds as he lay sprawled flat on the wagon bed. It was useless to hope that any of the other convicts sitting scrunched together in what was left of the space would try to keep the worst of the dirt and flies out of those wounds. They were likely cursing their mate for crowding them in such heat. Percival, driving the dray, must be even more hot and miserable than she was herself. Only Edward, riding astride at the head of the procession, had any hope of escaping the miseries of the dust; he could outride it.
For a while their route took them along the banks of the Yarra Yarra River. There was little more than a trickle of water left to wend its way through steeply sloped banks of sun-dried mud. Huge eucalyptus trees towering overhead usually provided plentiful shade, but not this day: the sun had left them with only a few small, dry leaves. The red stringybarks, ashes, and slender beech trees had suffered the same fate. Their denuded branches stretched pitifully toward the sky. The ghost gums with their thick gray trunks were just as dry, but their lack of water caused alarm rather than pity: if the heat became too intense, they were likely to explode. Many a brush fire had been started by the spontaneous combustion of a ghost gum in the dry season.
It was nearly dark by the time their little procession pulled into the yard of the inn where they would pass the night. The Markhams were well known at Yancy’s place. They nearly always passed the night there on their way to and from Melbourne. In fact, they had spent the previous night there before riding on to Melbourne that morning.
After being shown to the room they would share, Sarah helped Liza to bathe and eat and saw her into bed. By then she wanted nothing so much as a bath and bed herself. The bath she would have, she decided; bed would have to wait a little longer. She would never sleep if she did not do what she could for the injured convict.
With the day’s grime washed from her skin, she felt a little better. Winding her hair into its customary knot, she glanced longingly at her nightrail before resolutely donning the clothes that she had packed for the morrow. Not for anything would she wear the filthy garments she had just discarded, but she certainly couldn’t parade through a public inn in her night clothes, much as she might long for their soft comfort against her sun- and dust-abraided skin. Liza was soundly asleep in the one large bed; Sarah listened intently to her light breathing for a moment, then bent and blew out the candle. Although she would need a light, she was too much of a grazier’s daughter to take a lit candle into a stable. And the stable was where the convicts w
ere bedded down for the night.
Percival and her father would be in the inn’s taproom, drinking and spinning yarns with the other men at Yancy’s place that night. They would violently disapprove of what she was planning to do, so Sarah had no intention of letting them find her out. Accordingly, she made her way down the stairs past the taproom with extreme caution, her hands clutching the small medical kit that accompanied every bush-wise Australian on journeys of any length. The accidents that could occur in the bush were many and varied, from snakebite to sunstroke to a broken limb. Only fools challenged the unforgiving miles of sun-baked wilderness unprepared.
Sarah was thankful that the moon was up as she crossed the yard toward the stable. Its silvery light made the night almost as light as day, but far cooler. She shivered in her sleeveless dress of tan calico. The garment was as unfashionable as the skirt and shirtwaist she had worn earlier, but it was also as serviceable. Sarah, seeing no reason to emphasize her plainness with fine feathers that could only make her appear ridiculous, chose colors that rarely showed dirt.
The stable was dark with eerily shifting shadows. Sarah hesitated for a moment in the wide, open doorway. The convicts would be securely chained, so, if she was careful, they could do her no harm. But it was always possible that some other, unfettered man lurked in the darkness. . . .
Chiding herself for an overactive imagination that was uncharacteristic of her—she was usually practical to the point where it drove Liza and Lydia to fits of screaming irritation—Sarah resolutely stepped forward. She had come out tonight to do a job, and she would do it.
The first several stalls she passed housed horses. Then came the bullocks. Companionable beasts, they were penned together, munching contentedly at mangers of straw. In the last two stalls were the convicts. Three in one, chained securely and sleeping, judging by their resonant snores. And in the other, the man she sought: even in the gloom, his bloodied back turned uppermost as he lay sprawled in the straw, his height and clearly defined muscles were unmistakable. Another, smaller man was chained with him, huddled in a ball in a far corner of the stall. From their steady breathing, she knew both men were sound asleep.
Dark Torment Page 3