by Peter Corris
'There's more,' Findlay said suddenly.
'Ah.'
'Delicate, like.'
'Concerning … ?'
'Mrs Fanshawe. It's passing strange how the quality seem to think that ordinary people don't have eyes and ears like their own. Sufficient to do the work, of course, but not for seeing and hearing …'
Perry snapped his fingers impatiently. He had often had occasion to entertain similar uncomfortable ideas. Enough of the carrots, he thought, time for the stick. 'I'm paying for information, not philosophy.'
Findlay was startled by Perry's change of tone and attitude. As he opened his mouth to respond a thunder clap shook the slab hut and a lightning flash, penetrating through the gaps and cracks in the structure, lit up the space like a briefly flaring sun.
'Holy Christ!' Findlay covered his eyes.
Heavy rain had fallen and lightning had been crackling in the sky all evening, so Perry was unconcerned until he heard a drumming sound. He dashed to the door and flung it open to see six terrified shrieking horses galloping around the house, trampling the garden, buffeting and breaking the sheep runs. The lightning flashes appeared to confuse them; they followed a leader, a large grey stallion, that dashed at fences, rearing and shattering timbers with its flashing hooves. Perry was relieved to see that his own horse was not among the frenzied bunch. The stallion wheeled, whinnied and struck out at an equally frightened white pony circling with the others. As he watched Perry saw a small, white figure run from the house. There was another earthshaking thunderclap and the bolt of lightning appeared to strike only feet from the terror-stricken horses. Perry was moving while the scene was still garishly lit. The stallion was pursuing the pony, lashing at it and shrieking as the pony evaded the flying hooves.
'Vicky! Vicky!' The small figure was a girl in her nightgown running headlong at the maddened grey. Perry tripped her as she ran past. He made a leap at the plunging horse, caught its mane and swung himself up onto its back. The horse reared and bucked and Perry clung with hands and feet, tugging the head down and turning the animal away from the skittering pony. He wound his left hand in the mane and soothed the animal with his right, stroking its ears and neck.
'Steady there. Steady, boy. Steady now.'
Gradually, the stallion calmed as the pony trotted away. There was no more thunder and the other horses began to mill about in a confused group, churning up grass and turning the yard into a muddy slough. As he controlled the beast, Perry became aware of people gathering, standing under the dripping trees, some in their nightclothes. He distinguished the boys, William and Samuel, pale-faced and big-eyed under the lantern one of the house servants was holding. Henry Fanshawe was tending to the girl Perry had tripped. She was muddy from face to knee and struggling with her father.
'Vicky, I want Vicky.'
'The pony's all right, Lizzie, my dear,' Fanshawe said. 'Thanks to Mr Perry. Are you hurt?'
The girl was on her feet, staring up at Perry as he dismounted, still controlling the stallion with a firm hand in its mane. 'No, father, I'm not hurt.'
'You must go inside out of this cold and wet.' Fanshawe was fully dressed, but in clothes more appropriate to sitting in front of a fire than being out on a wet night. 'Will, take your sister inside. You too, Samuel. Martha, take them! Go, children!'
Samuel looked at Perry, who had accepted a halter from Findlay and was securing it on the stallion. 'The pony's named after Queen Victoria,' he said.
Perry smiled as he wiped mud from his face and bridled another of the horses. 'Why not?'
'Can you teach me to be brave?'
Perry was embarrassed. He had slightly wrenched his hip in subduing the horse and he rubbed at the sore spot. 'Go to bed,' he said, more abruptly than he had intended. The boy allowed himself to be taken to the house. He heard Fanshawe shouting and saw Findlay backing away from his master.
'You're drunk,' Fanshawe roared.
'I'm not, sir, I swear.'
'And you must have left the rail off that gate. You're a drunken, lazy Irish sot.'
Perry steered the still-nervous horses away from the fracas and led them to a hitching rail. He secured one and handed the other two over to Josh Billings, who had come running from his quarters. Findlay had bridled and tied two horses and Fanshawe had hitched the sixth to a post near the shattered yard gate. The top bar lay clear, possibly knocked out by the horses if it had been in place to begin with. Perry bent to examine it when he heard a yell and the sound of a blow. Findlay had his hands up shielding his face and Fanshawe was striking at him with a length of rope. The Irishman stumbled and fell; Fanshawe drew back his foot but controlled himself at the last minute. He flung the knotted rope in Findlay's face. 'If you are not off this property in the morning I'll have you prosecuted for trespass.'
'Me wages,' Findlay whined.
'You're responsible for this damage. To hell with your wages. Good night to you, Mr Perry, and my deepest thanks.'
Perry nodded and assisted the shaken Findlay to his feet. 'Come on, Mick. A tot of rum will restore you to rights.'
Findlay spat blood into the mud and worked at a loose tooth with his tongue. He was pale with anger and his eyes following Fanshawe's broad departing back glittered with malice. 'Wesley Lincoln fucked his wife,' he said. 'Fucked the very life out of her he did.'
7
Perry got detailed instructions from Fanshawe and rode north to inspect the original site of the nugget and the place where the squatter had relocated it. His knowledge of auriferous country was not great, but it sufficed to see the character of the area where Fanshawe had made his discovery. The land had clearly been worked by the first wave of alluvial miners—the gullies had been deepened by the sluicing and some of the creeks had been diverted to cut erratic courses in the clayey soil, still searching for bedrock. The tailings and mullock-heaps had long since been overgrown by mallee grass and scrub which bore a different, less permanent look, than the original vegetation. Perry had seen it all before in California, so he was little surprised to find the derelict remains of a Chinese vegetable garden with some of the exotic plants still struggling in the alien soil and small, carved figures still mounting guard.
The morning was crisp and cold under a clear sky and had warmed up only slightly two hours later. Perry dismounted, tied his horse to a branch and prowled along the banks of the shallow gully now carrying a thin stream of muddy water, but dry when Fanshawe had ventured up it in search of stock. An odd place for such great wealth to lodge, he thought. But perhaps not so odd. Tall gum trees formed a natural arch over the place where, according to the directions, the nugget had been found. A slender wattle tree with a curious bend to its trunk marked the spot. It was almost as if the location had been protected for millennia. Why had the miners of the '50s not worked this creek? Presumably because it had not existed in their time and was a product of the change in the watercourses they themselves had brought about. Chance, pure chance.
Perry allowed his horse to graze for a few minutes before remounting and riding still further north. After twenty minutes he came to a track that led to a small cluster of buildings huddling in the shelter of a hill. On a board nailed to a tree he read, HERTZBERG ABORIGINAL MISSION. He rode down the track, noting that most of the buildings were broken down, invaded by blackberries and other creepers, and that some of the settlement's fences and paddocks were in a state of neglect. He saw a few people moving around at a distance, beyond the tree-line, like ghostly wraiths trying to stay out of the sun. He stopped outside one of the two buildings that appeared to be occupied and maintained—a low stone structure with a shingle roof and well-mounted iron water tank. Its verandah was patched with new timbers and several of the uprights had been recently renewed.
'Hello,' Perry called. He remained seated on his horse.
A dark face appeared around the left side of the building and quickly blended back into the shadows. The door opened and a tall, thin man with a white beard emerged, blinking in the
sunlight that angled down through the trees. The man wore a threadbare dark suit with a collarless shirt. His cheeks were sunken and his dark eyes were shadowed by heavy brows that seemed to be set in a permanent frown. 'Yes?' he said. 'You are lost perhaps?'
'No, I'm not lost,' Perry said.
'Why are you still on your horse?'
'Where I come from, it's polite to be asked to step down.'
'I can't imagine where you come from, but you are welcome to dismount here.'
Perry dismounted. The bearded man gestured and a small, dark-skinned boy appeared at Perry's side. He took the reins of the horse, made clucking noises, stroked its muzzle and led it towards a water trough. Perry watched in amazement; his horse was not a docile animal and usually stubbornly resisted handling by anyone else. He pulled off his glove and extended his hand, 'John Perry,' he said. 'I'd guess you're a man of the cloth.'
Perry's hand was firmly gripped and shaken. 'Pastor Johannes Blenkiron, Mr Perry. Your horse is safe with Adolf. He has a way with them.'
'I can see that.'
'Please … come into the house. A poor place but our own. I can offer you some refreshment—a glass of wine?'
'Wine?' 'We have fine grapes here and make good wine. Alas, we have little else to boast about.'
'Moselle?'
Blenkiron shrugged. 'Of that type. I'll have to be blunt. What brings you out here?'
'Nothing special, Pastor. I'm just travelling about. At present I'm a guest of Mr Fanshawe …'
Blenkiron took a backward step. 'You are a spy for that man.'
'No, no. Do I look like a spy?' I'm not exactly inconspicuous. I'm engaged to teach his sons to ride and shoot.'
'Better to teach them to have consideration for those less fortunate than themselves. I pray for Mr Fanshawe, of course, but not for the success of his enterprise. Do you have any influence with him?'
'Perhaps a little.'
A young woman had brought two cane chairs out to the verandah and Blenkiron gestured for Perry to sit. He smiled at the woman as he took off his hat. Her dark face turned shyly aside to avoid his eyes. The clergyman noticed and said, 'Sarah is not used to seeing people of colour not of her own kind.'
Perry lowered himself gingerly into the chair. His hip was still sore from the previous night. 'The boy didn't seem concerned.'
'Ach, boys, at that age they scarcely think at all. The women are the thinkers and feelers, especially among these folk. Thank you, Sarah.'
The girl had brought out an earthernware pitcher and two stemmed glasses. Blenkiron poured the pale wine and he and Perry drank. 'That's excellent,' Perry said. 'Who are these people exactly?'
'They are the remnant of a band of the Jardwa tribe that used to occupy this land. By this land I mean as much country as you could cover in any direction from this point in several days ride.'
'The remnant? Where are the rest?'
'How long have you been in Australia, Mr Perry?'
'Less than two years and a good part of that in Sydney and Melbourne.'
'You know nothing of the Aboriginal people? Their history?'
Perry sipped the cold, sweetish wine and shook his head. 'Very little. I've been surprised to see so few. I've tried to learn more about them but with no success. The common opinion seems to be that they are dying out. In America the Indian tribes are still numerous despite wars and diseases. They have large reservations set aside by law … '
'Not so here. The Aboriginals were reduced in number with incredible swiftness. Not so much by war, although they did resist, but by massacre and disease and despair. There are several reserves where survivors are gathered—miserable places on the whole, wet, cold and barren. A great crime has been done here, Mr Perry.'
Perry swivelled and looked away to the right. A line of trees marked a watercourse and he now saw that a hillside he had thought was bare was a vineyard. A draughthorse grazed in a paddock opposite and the flower beds in front of the verandah were neat and well-tended. 'And yet your mission here appears to be well-founded, Pastor. I assume you sell the wine and other produce and the people get the benefit.'
Blenkiron snorted. 'This mission, as you call it, is a fantasy. The signboard you saw is … a vanity of mine. The place struggles on from year to year. The soil is not good and some seasons are very harsh. What we sell buys enough to feed us and plant again, nothing more. The people have an unassailable claim to this land, but cannot borrow one penny to improve and develop it. They cannot sell off or lease any part of it to raise money for the rest.'
'How is that?'
'The Jardwa are considered not to exist, therefore the land once ceded to them reverts to the Crown. One of the largest landowners in the district is suddenly covetous of it and spending money on lawyers and politicians to secure it.'
'But they do exist!'
Blenkiron shook his head. 'I have twenty-three people here. Arguably, four or five of them are pure-blood Aboriginals but they are old and cannot survive long. The rest have an admixture of European blood. A few are quite fair. Perhaps you know what I am talking about?'
Perry nodded. 'I have a sister as fair as little Lizzie Fanshawe herself. I take it Fanshawe is the landowner you are talking about?'
'Yes. Another glass?'
Perry stood. 'No, I have to. be going. Thank you for your hospitality, Pastor. Of course, I can't promise anything, but I have a feeling Mr Fanshawe may soon abandon his claim on the reserve.'
Blenkiron stared. Sarah stepped from inside the house and stood on the verandah. She was tall and slim, wearing a blue frock that had been much washed and mended. She wore cracked and down-at-heel buttoned boots but her erect carriage and glossy dark hair distracted attention from her dress. Her skin was almost as dark as Perry's and her large eyes much darker.
'Sarah Braun is my best pupil,' Blenkiron said. 'She speaks excellent French and German and she is also what you would call der Geist des Waldes, the spirit of the woods. She sees and hears everything that goes on around Hertzberg.'
'Guten tag, Fraulein,' Perry said.
Sarah bobbed her head. 'Guten tag, sir.' 'Can you help us to secure the title to our land?'
'Braun,' Perry said. 'A fine name.'
The pastor finished his wine. 'Not so very imaginative perhaps. Mr Perry is just a visitor, Sarah. He has no reason to help us and probably no means.'
'We need help. If not from the other man then perhaps from this one.'
'Other man?' Perry said.
'A white man who spoke something like you.' Sarah held up her left hand. The palm was pink and slightly roughened by housework. 'He wore a black leather glove on this hand.'
Blenkiron said, 'That man was no friend of ours.'
'I thought he was,' Sarah said. 'He asked me about our stories and … superstitions. He wanted to know about our country. He said he would help us, but he went away and we have heard nothing.'
'All that is true,' Blenkiron said, 'but … '
John Perry had no doubt that he was adding to his growing dossier on Wesley Lincoln but he scarcely thought of it. He had bedded many women and had enjoyed the friendship of several. His experience was that the combination of sexual passion and mental and emotional interest was elusive. The young woman standing in front of him was physically alluring, the more so because she seemed unaware of the fact and was concerned only with what was in her mind. Perry had been celibate and intellectually unstimulated for a long time. He bowed slightly and made a slight flourish with his hat.
'Miss Braun speaks from the heart. I doubt that I am in a position to help in any way, but I'll do whatever I can. And thank you for the wine. May I call again, Pastor?'
'Please.'
'Goodbye, Mr Perry, and thank you.'
'No thanks yet, Miss Braun. I have done nothing.'
The girl's laughter rippled out. 'I don't think Adolph would agree.'
The wiry, broadly smiling boy came trotting towards the verandah astride Perry's horse. He dropped lightly to th
e ground and held out the reins. Perry ruffled his dark curls. 'Where I learned to ride this kind of horse is called an outlaw,' he said. 'You've tamed the outlaw, Adolph.'
'These people have many talents,' Blenkiron said. 'And still more difficulties.'
Perry mounted, touched his hand to his hat and rode back in the direction he had come from. The other sound building, he now noted, was a small church. No believer, Perry grimaced and wondered what kind of authority Blenkiron wielded in the small community. He urged the horse to a trot and felt its response. The animal wanted speed and so did he. Perry touched its flanks with his heels, adjusted the drawstring securing his hat and bent forward. The horse picked up speed along the track and soon passed the signboard and the last of the settlement's straggling fences. The cold air flowed past him exhilaratingly and he allowed himself a moment's fantasy—of Sarah Braun being mounted behind him, her breasts pressed against his back and her hands around his waist. A pleasant fancy. Much less pleasant were his thoughts about the deception Henry Fanshawe had set out to practise.
Perry had no difficulty in finding the place where Fanshawe had hidden the nugget although, as in the other spot, the level of the stream had risen and rain and run-off had made the banks muddy. He contented himself with standing above the gouged-out hole, munching on some bread and cheese he had brought from the staff cookhouse while noting where sheep and cattle had grazed. He made a small fire, boiled a billy and threw in some tea. As a drink he preferred coffee the way he had learned to brew it in America, but the beans were almost unprocurable in Victoria, and the small supply he had bought at great expense was long since exhausted.
He sat on a log and drank the tea, feeling the mixture of peace the Australian bush gave him and a homesickness he could not define—whether it was for the lush green of Barbados or the harsh yellow of the South-West or the muted tones of England he could never tell. It was useless to look for tracks in and out of the place even though he had seen a good example of Lincoln's horse's hoofprint. Fanshawe himself had ridden about in his agitation, animals had drunk in the creek and the rain had washed the ground clean. Perry tossed out his tea dregs, stood and made a slow, deliberate full turn, straining his eyes into the distance. He was trying to put himself inside the minds of men—he had decided that Lincoln must have been acting on information and had therefore had an accomplice—who had taken the gold.