Dark Torment

by Karen Robards

  Her father’s connivance wounded Sarah to the heart. Although why it should, she didn’t know. He had never listened to her, never really cared for her, at least not enough to protect her from Lydia and, now, Percival. For the good of his beloved sheep, he was prepared to hand her over to Percival lock, stock, and barrel.

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing abruptly. Before anyone could reply, she put her napkin on the table and walked from the room.

  Sarah spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, defiantly reading a very lurid and very enjoyable novel. It was so seldom that she had time to read that she felt guilty, but she continued nonetheless, hoping that the plot’s melodramatic twists and turns would take her mind off the many things that troubled her. It did; for a couple of hours Sarah forgot Gallagher, Percival, Lydia, her father, the breeding papers she should be going over, the mending that needed to be done. . . . She read until at last, thankfully, she felt sleepy. Then she washed her face and hands and put on her nightrail, a plain, prim affair of sleeveless white cotton. It buttoned clear up to her neck, but in deference to the heat Sarah left the top two buttons undone so that what little breeze there was could reach her throat. She brushed her hair and braided it in a single thick plait, which she secured with a bit of yellow ribbon before twisting the braid into a loose coil on the top of her head. The night seemed even hotter than usual; only the merest suggestion of a breeze stirred the lengths of peach silk that draped the sides of the open windows. Sarah blew out the lamp, then crossed to stand by one of the windows, looking out over the garden without really seeing it. She was remembering the morning in the attic when she had leaned out another window, clad even more skimpily than she was tonight. Even from a distance of three stories, Gallagher’s eyes as they had raked over her body had been incredibly blue. . . . Sarah shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold despite the heat. Why Gallagher’s disappearance should so upset her she did not know.

  Sarah was turning away from the window when an orange glow caught her eye. She turned back, her eyes widening as she saw flames, vivid and pulsing as they burst forth, reaching for the black velvet of the night sky. The stable!

  “Fire!” The scream tore out of her mouth. Whirling, she barely paused to snatch up her wrapper before flying from the room. “Fire!”

  She ran along the hall to her father’s and Lydia’s bedroom and hammered wildly on their closed door.

  “Pa, Pa, come quick! The stable’s on fire!” she screamed. She heard his answering shout, and didn’t wait for anything else.

  Dragging on her wrapper as she ran, not even conscious of her bare feet, she tore down the stairs and out the back door. Dried stalks of grass cut into the tender soles of her feet as she went; she could feel the heat of the fire on her face before she was halfway there. The screams of the horses trapped inside mingled with the roar and crackle of the flames.

  Men were pouring out of buildings all around her; free men, convicts, and aborigines alike rushed to fight an enemy all understood: fire. Sarah rushed toward the stable, the smell of burning acrid in her nostrils, feeling the terror of the horses as if it were her own. They had to be gotten out: Malahky, Clare, Max, and the others. . . .

  “My God, the breeding barns!” The hoarse cry, in what Sarah barely recognized as her father’s voice, came from behind her. Automatically Sarah glanced to the west, in the direction of the breeding barns, as she ran. More seething flames raged in the distance. The sheep barns were burning, too.

  “Leave the stable! Get to those barns! My sheep!” Her father was shrieking, beside himself with dread, as be mustered the men. With the horses all trapped in the stable, and the bullocks rolling their eyes and lunging against the fence in a nearby paddock too slow, the men, following her father’s urgent call, began to run. Under Percival’s hoarse direction, they grabbed up buckets and blankets and shovels and pitchforks.

  “What about the horses?” Sarah was screaming at their departing backs. The horses were shrieking; the terrified cries tore at Sarah’s heart. They would all perish. . . .

  They would not! She would save as many as she could. Tearing off her wrapper, Sarah ran to the stable door. It was closed; the wood felt hot against her tugging hands. It would not budge. She nearly despaired, then she felt the door give. Other hands added their strength to hers.

  “Mrs. Abbott!” Sarah cried, looking around to see the woman’s plump, determined face. Mrs. Abbott’s nightcap was wildly askew, and her voluminous nightgown flapped behind her in the breeze that showered them both with sparks. In the background, Sarah could see Liza and Lydia huddled together on the porch, watching.

  “Let’s get them horses!” Mrs. Abbott yelled.

  Sarah had no time to speculate on the gallantry of this woman who would risk her life for animals that belonged to a man who had done nothing to prevent his wife from openly scorning her. She rushed through the open door, her wrapper still clutched in her hand. The tremendous outpouring of thick black smoke nearly sent her reeling back. Ducking low to the ground, she forced herself forward. Already she knew that, with only the two of them, they would not be able to save all the horses. Clare’s was the first stall. Sarah opened it, and the terrified mare lunged past her and bolted out the stable door.

  “Open the stall doors! Maybe some of the others will run out on their own!” she called to Mrs. Abbott, barely getting the words out for the smoke that threatened to choke her. But Mrs. Abbott heard, and obeyed. Coughing, Sarah ran down the opposite row of stalls, throwing doors wide. Some of the horses bolted past her, running for safety. Others reared and plunged, trumpeting their fear, but were too terrified to leave their stalls.

  Max—Max was out. Sparks were dropping on Sarah from the roof, which was now almost fully ablaze, as the big horse galloped by, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling, mane and tail flying, hooves pawing the earth. There was no way to know how many horses remained. Some did; panicked screams told her that. “We’ve got to get out!” Sarah shrieked at Mrs. Abbott, who had just reached the end of her line of stalls. Mrs. Abbott lifted an arm to show Sarah she understood. Sarah could barely see her for the thick smoke that was stinging her eyes, making them water, choking her. . . . Overhead, the roof gave an ominous creak. There was no time to do any more. The roof could collapse at any time. She was not foolish enough to stay any longer.

  Malahky! Sarah saw the bay rear and lunge in the corner of his stall as, crouched low, she ran past. Her wrapper, which she now had wrapped around her mouth and nose, was the only thing that kept her from suffocating on the thickening smoke. She could not leave Malahky. Sarah stopped, trembling with fear as the roof gave another warning creak. Sparks showered all around her, along with charred bits of wood and ash. She waited until Malahky was down on all four legs, then darted into the stall, praying that he wouldn’t rear again before she could grab his halter. She made it just in time. She could feel the great strength of him as he tried to go back on his hind feet. Practically swinging from the halter, Sarah held him down. He backed and plunged, whinnying frantically. If he chose to run for it now, he would trample her.

  He did not. Sides heaving, he stood still while she tore the wrapper from around her own nose and mouth and wrapped it around his eyes. Coughing, she led him from the stall.

  The smoke was denser now, the heat more intense. Sarah had been holding her breath. She could do without air no longer; her lungs felt as if they would burst. Taking a deep, shuddering breath without volition, she felt the hot, thick, malodorous vapors swirl into her lungs and gagged. Her head began to spin. Sarah knew that she was going to faint.

  With the last remaining bit of her strength, she heaved herself up on Malahky’s back. Leaning forward, she whipped the wrapper from around his eyes and clapped her heels hard to his sides at the same time. She could only pray that he would run for his life.

  Sarah felt him sweating and trembling beneath her as he plunged for the open door. Her hands clung to his mane and her knees locked
into his sides as she leaned low over his neck.

  Sarah was barely conscious, her whole being focused on keeping her seat on that slippery back, as Malahky leaped forward. No sooner had they cleared the door than she heard the crash of the roof collapsing behind them. Immediately they were awash in a rain of sparks and flying, burning debris. Panic-stricken, Malahky lunged out of the stable yard for the dark mystery of the scrubland to the east; clinging to his back, Sarah’s last coherent thought was how very human were the sounds of horses’ screams.

  XIII

  There were rifle shots to the west, in the direction of the sheep barns. Sarah heard the sharp, staccato bursts and surmised that whoever had set the fires—there were too many for them to have started accidentally—had encountered the guards Percival had posted. It sounded like a small war. For an instant, Sarah considered riding over to see if she could be of help, but then her common sense told her that she was more likely to be in the way. Her best course of action would be to return to the house.

  She was a few miles from home. Malahky, crazed with terror, had run until he could run no more. Finally he had slowed his headlong gallop to a canter, then a trot, and then a walk before stopping altogether. He stood now with his head down as he drew in great gulps of air; his sides heaved with the aftermath of exertion, and he was trembling. Sarah, still astride with her nightrail hiked up around her thighs so that most of her long, slim legs were bare, leaned over to pat his reddish-brown neck soothingly. He shuddered in response; his eyes rolled wildly, showing the whites. Sarah knew that he was still terrified; horses feared fire more than anything. Only exhaustion had made him stop running. If she had been wearing shoes, she would have walked him back to Lowella. But the rocky ground with its sharp sticks and razorlike blades of dried grass would crucify the soft skin of her bare feet. She would ride Malahky back, but very, very slowly.

  They were in the middle of the bush, with great, eerily bare ghost gums rising up out of the sun-cracked earth to tower overhead. Sarah remembered that the aborigines wouldn’t pass a grove of ghost gums at night, and shivered. They believed that the souls of the dead occupied the trees, and that it was this that accounted for the trees’ distinctive gray-white color. This was very easy to dismiss as nonsense—during the day. At night, without another human for miles around . . . Sarah listened to the soft groans of the branches swaying in the wind and resolutely forced her mind to more mundane matters.

  Without a bridle, it was difficult to pull Malahky’s head up. Sarah pondered the problem for a moment, then reached down and tore off the small flounce that edged the hem of her nightrail. Securing each end of the strip to either side of the halter, she made a crude hackamore. Then she hauled Malahky’s head up, and, kicking him lightly in the sides, pointed him toward home. Sweat-soaked sides heaving, he obeyed her command, walking slowly forward. Sarah rewarded him with a whispered word of praise in his ear and another pat on his neck.

  Sarah guessed that it was nearly an hour before they passed the dried-up gorge from which the homestead was just over the next rise. The night was spookily silent; the gunshots had ceased some time before. Instead of being allowed to roam freely as they generally were, the sheep had been herded into pens and barns so that they could be watered more easily during the drought; Sarah missed their incessant baaing, which had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. The birds slept at night, so their cries were silenced too. The only sound was the distant, echoing howls of a pack of dingoes on the hunt. The moon, mistily white, floated near the horizon behind her. The hot wind blew small particles of dust with it.

  Before they topped the rise that would bring the homestead into sight, Sarah became aware of the acrid smell of burning. Along with the more familiar pungent scent of charred wood and ashes was another, stronger odor that Sarah could not immediately place. The stink was nauseating. Malahky’s head was up now; his eyes were rolling again, and he was tossing his head from side to side as he sidled, refusing to go forward. Sarah had to fight him for a moment before he gave in. Only then did she realize what the smell was: cremated horseflesh. Her stomach twisted violently, and she gagged.

  Malahky was misbehaving again, and Sarah had to concentrate on controlling him. He gave every evidence of wanting to flee back the way they had come. It was only as they reached the crest of the rise and Lowella lay spread before them like a miniature city that Sarah realized they were no longer alone. To her right, some little distance away, surged a dark tide of men, some holding blazing torches, some carrying shovels and pick axes, a few shouldering rifles. Sarah pulled Malahky to a halt, staring. It was a veritable army, and it was headed down the rise toward Lowella. The only sound she heard was the thud of dozens of marching feet; the men’s very silence was ominous.

  An uprising! Sarah felt her breath stop as the only possible explanation popped into her mind. As had happened on Brickton, Lowella’s convicts had taken up arms and meant to wreak bloody vengeance on their masters. But there were too many of them to be just from Lowella; the station had only about three dozen. Neither Percival nor her father particularly liked employing convicts. They maintained that they were dangerous. Instead, they preferred to hire on the bands of itinerant workers roaming the countryside. And now Sarah saw how right they had been: if this mob made it to Lowella unhindered, her family wouldn’t stand a chance.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to Sarah than she clapped her heels hard to Malahky’s sides. The horse was exhausted, but she had to ride, to warn the station. . . . Malahky neighed a protest even as he leaped forward. Heart thudding, Sarah looked over her shoulder to see if she had been spotted. She had! The torches were turning in her direction; the faces beneath them were ugly. Angry muttering rose from the mob as they stared at her. A few individuals broke into a run. Suddenly more were running, toward her—and Lowella. . . . Sarah clapped her heels to Malahky’s sides again, wrenching her attention away from the threatening horde and forcing herself to concentrate instead on reaching the homestead, which was peaceful now in the aftermath of the fire. As Malahky stretched out beneath her, his sides heaving, Sarah felt fear constrict her throat. If that mob should catch her . . . But of course they wouldn’t catch her: she was mounted, while they were on foot.

  The pounding of Malahky’s hooves echoed in her ears. Only a little farther now, and she could scream a warning. . . . Suddenly Sarah realized that the thudding hoofbeats did not all belong to Malahky. There were too many. . . . Turning around, she saw that three riders were bearing down on her from behind, formless black shapes swooping like bats out of hell.

  “Go, Malahky!” Sarah screamed, kicking the horse again and lashing at him with her makeshift reins. The big bay responded with a truly heroic effort; he surged forward, flying over the uneven ground, galloping toward the homestead and safety while the three dark riders pounded close behind.

  “Uprising!” Sarah shrieked as Malahky sped toward the house. The stable had burned to the ground, she saw; only a single wall remained standing amid the blackened ruins. She was afraid to look behind her, afraid the riders were right on her tail. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, she screamed her warning again. Malahky, panicked anew by the terror in her voice and by the horses closing in behind him, leaped forward wildly, out of control. Sarah didn’t care. It was the only chance she had of warning the homestead.

  “Uprising!” She was nearly in the yard now; she dared a glance over her shoulder. The riders were almost upon her. Behind them she could see the mob surging down the rise toward Lowella, their sputtering torches trailing dark streams of smoke as they ran. They were no longer silent; the clash of metal from their makeshift weapons mingled with hoarse shouts and the thud of running feet. Sarah kicked Malahky one more time, and felt his muscles bunching beneath her as he gave her all he had.

  “Uprising!” The house was strangely dark, Sarah noticed, puzzling at it. Surely, in the aftermath of the fire, they would be prepared for trouble. Then the dreadful thought occ
urred: What if the men had not yet returned from the sheep barns, and the women were alone in the house? Horrified at the implications, as she hurtled through the yard she screamed the warning at the top of her lungs. It should not have been necessary now. The roars of the mob behind her reverberated like thunder.

  Without warning, men seemed to burst from the house and the outbuildings. Rifles at the ready, they ran to form an uneven line between the buildings and the oncoming mob. Sarah practically cheered—and wondered why they waited to open fire. . . .

  “Get out of the way, Sarah!” her father bellowed from near the house. And Sarah knew why they were waiting. She couldn’t have stopped Malahky if she had tried, and she wasn’t trying. Now she hauled hard on the reins, dragging his head to the right. . . . Suddenly they were no longer between Lowella’s defenders and the mob. Malahky was still running as the defenders opened fire.

  Safe at last, Sarah began to saw rhythmically on the makeshift reins, trying to convey to Malahky that the danger was past. Gradually he responded, slowing.

  Suddenly behind her a hard arm swooped around her waist and lifted her clear up off Malahky’s back. Sarah screamed as she was flung face down across the saddle of another galloping horse, one that raced right by Malahky and kept going.

  XIV

  They galloped into the night for what seemed like hours. To Sarah, who was held ruthlessly across the saddle bow by a man’s hand bunched in the loose folds of her nightrail, the nightmarish ride was endless. At first she fought, kicking and screaming in an effort to writhe free. That earned her nothing but her own exhaustion; her captor continued to ride as if she were no more than a squirming pup. Finally she surrendered to the inevitable and lay still. At least, her body was still. Her mind seethed with fright and fury. Fortunately, the indignity of her position, to say nothing of the pain of it, gave fury the upper hand. How she would like to get her hands on the vile creature who dared to use her in such a way, she fumed. She would get a great deal of satisfaction from clawing out his eyes.