by Peter Corris
She nodded. 'Someone said you talked like a Texan.'
'That's why.'
He had been vague about his life to date, inventing as little as possible and always in danger of forgetting what he had told her. He did not encourage questions about his past and Tessa learnt not to probe. She seemed equally anxious to forget the details of her own life before his arrival. He took to wearing the single black glove again and said that his hand had been crushed in a stockyard gate.
The purchase of Jackson helped to ease some of the tension between Lincoln and Ned Blaxland. The boy continued to resent the American's presence in the stables and in his mother's bed, but he was dependent on Lincoln for chances to ride the horse, which he enjoyed. Lincoln was careful to ration the favour, thus keeping the boy's potential hostility in check. Having had no siblings and very little contact with children since his own accelerated youth, he was clumsy in his dealings with the boy and no real warmth entered their relationship. Somewhat against Tessa's wishes, he gave Ned some shooting lessons at which he proved quite adept. They set up bottles and tins against a hillock some distance from the stables and on one occasion he caught the boy's eyes flicking towards him before he sighted on the target. It occurred to Lincoln how easy it would be for the jealous, affronted youth to stage an accident in that setting and he discontinued the lessons.
By May he had begun to entertain thoughts of leaving. Tessa's passion had not slackened but his had. He was unused to spending every night with a woman and he tired of the regularity and predictability of it. He began to feign tiredness to avoid having sex. But she still had the ability to arouse him, especially on the nights when she took her careful measures of sherry and beer, and his responses on these occasions seemed to compensate her for the nights he fell asleep before she came to bed.
His refusal to attend church, which Tessa did for social reasons, caused friction.
'My father was a preacher,' he told her by way of explanation. 'He was a liar and a hypocrite but he could spout the Bible all right. I'll have no truck with it. I'm sorry, Tessa.'
She bit her lip. 'It's the right thing to do—the respectable thing.'
You're sleeping with a two-time thief who's killed a man in an alley with a knife, he thought. He shook his head stubbornly. 'I don't go to church. How could it be right for me to go in there and sing and pray when I believe that every single goddamn word of it is a black lie?'
'That's a terrible thing to say.'
'It's true. Do you want me to go, Tessa?'
'No, oh, Tom. No!'
He stayed and he did not attend church. Winter descended suddenly on the district in late May with heavy rain and blustering southerlies. The sky remained grey and the days were short and gloomy. Lincoln had not encountered such severe weather for some time and it took him by surprise. His hand ached in the cold and he developed a cough he could not shake off. He spent days in bed, expertly nursed by Tessa while Ned took care of the greatly reduced work of the stables.
The Blaxland house was solidly built with large fireplaces that drew well. A good store of firewood had been laid in and Lincoln appreciated the warmth and comfort. From his sickbed, and later as a well-nourished convalescent, he looked out at the trees bending before the stiff winds, and the muddy yard and the mist hovering on the ground and gave up thoughts of leaving Colac until the winter was over.
'Does it snow here?' he asked Ned, late one afternoon.
The boy looked at him with a touch of contempt. 'I've never seen it, but the old people say it has. Ma's seen it.'
Lincoln said, 'Your mother's not old.' He regretted the words the instant they were out. He seemed to have a knack for saying the wrong thing to Ned. His consternation brought on a coughing fit.
'When're you going to be better? You're not going to die, are you?'
The voice was colder than the sleety rain. That's what you'd like, isn't it, boy? Lincoln thought. He didn't trust himself to answer and merely shook his head before returning to his newspaper.
The next day, late in the afternoon, the boy joined Lincoln again. He hovered, fidgeting in the room, but he did not seem to be seeking the heat of the fire, nor to be interested in the piece of wood Lincoln was carving. He cleared his throat. 'Tom.'
Lincoln looked up in surprise. It was the first time Ned had addressed him by name.
'There's a fox bothering the chickens. Could I have a borrow of your shotgun to go after him?'
'Better ask your mother.'
'She's out buying groceries. This's about the time he comes sneaking around. Please.'
Lincoln considered. The shotgun was not a complicated weapon to use and Ned had fired it under supervision a couple of times. 'That scattergun's only good for ten, fifteen yards. You'd have to get real close to your fox.'
'I'll get close to him.'
'I can only give you one shell, Ned. So's you'll be careful and not shoot up the barnyard. That's how we did it when I was a boy.'
'Foxes?'
'Coyotes.' Again, Lincoln reproached himself. Were there coyotes in Canada? Probably not. Should have said wolves, maybe. Did wolves go after chickens? He didn't know.
'One shell's enough. Thank you, Tom.'
Lincoln fetched the gun and put a shell in the breech. He went over the mechanism again with Ned, who paid close attention, although he was almost hopping from foot to foot with anxiety to be off. 'Point it low and lead him a bit. If'n you're as close as you'll need to be, there's a good chance he'll smell you or hear you when you're getting ready to shoot.'
'I will. I will.'
'Be careful.'
The boy took the gun and almost ran from the room. Lincoln went to the window and watched him out of sight around the apple trees. Night was drawing in, but the clouds were high and light and there was no rain. Lincoln used the poker to enliven the fire and returned to his carving, directing the shavings onto a sheet of newspaper. He heard the report from the gun earlier than he would have expected but thought nothing of it, concentrating on removing a tiny curl of wood. The back door closed soon after.
'Ned. Did you get him?'
Tessa entered the room pulling off her gloves. 'My it's lovely and warm in here.' She kissed the top of Lincoln's head. 'What did you say just now?'
The knife slipped a bit deep into the wood. 'My god. I thought you were Ned. I heard the gun go off and …'
Tessa shrieked. 'Gun? What gun? Where's Ned?'
Lincoln was already bolting from the room. He threw open the door and ran with Tessa shouting incoherently behind him. The cold air flooded his congested lungs and he burst into coughing that almost doubled him over. Tessa ran past him and he heard her wail like a stricken animal. He fought for breath and struggled forward. She was crouched in the wet grass, bent over a small, still figure.
'Tessa…'
She moved slightly as she turned to look at him. Ned Blaxland was lying on his back with his foot caught in the tree root on which he had tripped. The left side of his face, from chin to eyebrow, had been blown away.
25
'Thomas Shelby,' the Coroner said. 'I cannot sufficiently express my astonishment and horror that you, an experienced adult, should have placed such a dangerous weapon in the hands of one so young. The modified shotgun that took Edward Blaxland's life should never have been brought into this country, let alone entrusted to a boy. You will have to bear the guilt attached to the manner and cause of his death for the rest of your life. The facts, however, are clear. The unfortunate young man tripped and fell while carrying the weapon which discharged and killed him. I have no other choice than to hand down a verdict of death by misadventure.
'The weapon has been destroyed. I offer my sincerest sympathies to you, Mrs Blaxland, although I am forced to observe that you contributed to your loss by offering employment and … hospitality to this irresponsible and thoughtless individual. The court is adjourned.'
'I'm going over to the church,' Thelma Blaxland said. 'I want you to go back to the ho
use, pack your things and leave.'
'Tessa, I … '
'There are people in this town who'll give me a shotgun. If you're not gone by the time I get back, that's what I'll do. I'll get a shotgun and blow you to hell. Do you understand me?'
She turned and strode away, black-coated and skirted, holding herself stiffly upright. Lincoln returned to the house, packed his belongings, saddled Jackson and rode out into a bleak wintry afternoon. He was still coughing and his chest felt as if a rope was tied tight around it, compressing his lungs and making his ribs ache when he breathed. He went through the town and headed west, obeying the old impulse of that direction and wanting to rid himself of all human company. Jackson was glad to be on the move after a long period of restricted activity and Lincoln found himself responding to the horse's enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, he spent a cold and miserable night camped under a railway bridge. His coughing kept him awake which was as well, because rats came out to investigate his small store of food. He threw rocks at them, swore at them and shot a large one with his pistol. A swarm of smaller rats fell on the larger carcass, dragged it away and fought over it in the darkness. Lincoln warmed his hands at the small fire and whittled at a plug of wood, throwing the shavings in the flames and savouring the smell of eucalyptus in the smoke. A train rattled overhead, shaking the bridge and causing the horse to neigh anxiously.
Lincoln wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and went out from his shelter to comfort the horse. A light snow was falling, the flakes disappearing as soon as they touched the ground. The sight reminded Lincoln of his last conversation with Ned and his shoulders dropped as he resumed his position by the fire. He threw the whittled wood away and made a disgusted examination of his damaged hand. It was smaller than the right; the skin was puckered and discoloured around the crater in the palm; several of the fingers were twisted and the thumb was stiff. The stumps of the fingers that had lost the top joints were soft and pulpy. Lincoln had bought a bottle of rum in Colac. He took out the stopper and had a long swig. After several more drinks he fell into a stupified sleep. The rats ate his bread and gnawed at his boots.
Later, Lincoln could recall little of the winter of 1871. He had spent it wandering into the Western District and then north into drier country. Often sick, frequently drunk, he eked out the money he had stolen in Melbourne and accumulated in Colac by living rough, eating little and cheap and doing odd jobs on farms and sheep stations. He reverted to his own name, knowing that Thomas Shelby was a name more despised than Wesley Lincoln would ever be. As much as possible, he avoided human contact, sleeping in barns and shepherds' huts and always moving on.
He resisted all offers to buy Jackson and several times had to produce his pistol to prevent attempts to steal him. The horse was one of the best he had ever had and he prized him and cared for him as the only worthwhile thing in his life. He seemed incapable of forming plans. He passed through Portland and discovered that a Russian whaling ship was in port. Whaling had ceased in the area ten years before and the vessel was a novelty, attracting a good deal of local attention. Lincoln had a vague notion of stowing away on the whaler and making his way back to the Northern Hemisphere, but he did not want to leave the horse. A few drinks, and the idea vanished. He thought of going to Horsham to visit Benjamin Turley, but it would have meant turning east and his only rule was that his way was west.
The coming of spring found him working for several weeks as a member of a bore-sinking gang. The work was hard and Lincoln was toughened and somehow renewed by it. Forced into association with his work mates, the cloak of reclusiveness he'd worn all through the winter was dropping away. The contractor forbade his workers to drink and Lincoln had gone without liquor for the whole time and felt better for it. He was invited to stay with the crew but his mood had changed with the improvement in the weather. He was anxious to be away again, ride off some of the condition Jackson had gained and see more of the country in this new, brighter guise. He was impressed by the bursting wattle and the flowering gums that filled the mild air with a heady smell.
He took his wages and rode north-west, pushing up out of the green undulating Portland Bay district into the harsher country known as the Wimmera. Sheep were being shorn on the large properties and Lincoln, working for a week as a roustabout and assistant cook, admired the shearers' skill with the blades. He regretted that, with his crippled hand, it was an art he'd never master. By November, six months after Ned Blaxland's death and nine since his crime in Melbourne, he had largely put those ghosts and fears behind him. He was disconcerted to find in himself the stirrings of sexual desire and ambition. The women in the small towns, whom he'd ignored in his previous sodden state, began to take his eye, and he envied the squatters with their vast acreages and substantial homesteads.
He camped on the Wimmera River, snaring rabbits, catching fish and venturing into the tiny nearby town only when he needed flour and tobacco. He had taken to smoking while working with the bore-sinkers, and had quickly become addicted to shag in a cherrywood pipe. Coffee was unobtainable and he learned to drink tea, heavily sweetened in the morning, and laced with rum at night. His time on the Wimmera was the most contented period he had known. The weather was balmy and the river bank afforded plenty of feed for Jackson. He rode the horse hard for a few miles each day and swam in the cool water every evening. His chief occupation, however, was carving. He had amused the shearers by carving rough replicas of sheep and awarding one to the man who sheared the most each day.
'You could sell those, Wez,' the shearer who almost always collected the prize said. 'You could make a few bob that way, mark my words.'
Lincoln set himself to carve a set of kangaroos, emus, kookaburras and wombats. He spent some time studying these animals and making sketches of them. Then he took time over the selection of wood. When he was satisfied with his drawings and choice of hard red gum, he set to work.
After three weeks he had completed ten carvings of each creature. They stood about four inches high and showed the animals in a characteristic pose. He polished them with oil from the leaves of the gum trees and wrapped them in squares of cheesecloth.
'We're going to town, Jackson. You can have a stall in the livery and eat oats instead of grass, and I just might find some guy with a mare wants breeding. What d'you say to that, boy?'
The nearest town of any size in a westerly direction was Wilding, twenty-five miles away. Lincoln washed himself and his few clothes in the river. He shaved, trimmed his hair and packed up his camp. Then he approached a tree that had intrigued him for the whole of his time in the area. It was a large gum with thick bark. In several places on its trunk, sections of the bark had been cut away, but never in such a fashion as to kill the tree. The exposed parts of the trunk had been sealed with riverbank mud and the tree continued to thrive. Lincoln resolved to ask someone about this. He had seen other trees similarly marked but this he considered 'the daddy of 'em all'.
Working slowly and with infinite care, respectful of the majestic tree, Lincoln carved his initials on the trunk. He would have included the date in his marking but he was unsure of it, so he merely added 'A.D. 1871'. He rode away feeling a mixture of sensations. The camp had been a happy interlude which had helped him to finally resolve his feelings of guilt and remorse. He felt a pang of regret at the knowledge that he would never return to this place of harmony. A set of wooden carvings of Australian animals wasn't going to make his fortune, but he had a strong feeling that he was in for a run of better luck.
Lincoln reached Wilding late on a Friday afternoon. The town impressed him as a go-ahead sort of place with its wide streets, substantial buildings and goldmines. The mountains to the south-east formed a nice backdrop. He put Jackson in the stables and walked around the town to get the feel of it. He bought a copy of the Wilding Mercury and read it in Miss Millicent Darcy's tea rooms over a cup of thin coffee flavoured with chicory. He ordered a plate of what he had learned in Colac to call scones, smothered the
m with butter and jam and devoured them hungrily. He hadn't realised what a boring diet he'd been on out by the river.
When the waitress came to ask if he wanted anything else she gasped at the model kangaroo sitting on the table next to his cup. 'Oh, my goodness. Isn't that wonderful?'
Lincoln grinned. 'You like it?'
'Yes, it's beautiful. Can I touch it?'
'Sure, pick it up. It's solid wood. Can't break.'
The waitress, who had been rather wary of the lean young man with the black glove on one hand, was emboldened by his easy manner. She picked up the carving and examined it closely. 'Why, it's perfect. Just exactly perfect.'
'Should be,' Lincoln said. 'Took quite some time and work to get it that way.' He unwrapped the emu, kookaburra and wombat and lined them up. 'How about these?'
'Peggy, what are you doing?' Millicent Darcy, her expression severe, stood by the girl's shoulder. She disapproved of many things, particularly her help flirting with the customers.
'Oh, Miss Darcy, look at these wonderful animals!'
Millicent Darcy's sour face sweetened. 'My word, they are beautiful. Where did you get them, sir? If you don't mind me asking.'
'He made them,' Peggy said.
'Yes, ma'am, I did that. And I want to sell them, so I came into the most respectable looking establishment in town to ask advice about how to do that. Would you care to sit down?'
Miss Darcy sat. 'Peggy, fetch a cup of tea and some more coffee for the gentleman.'
Peggy left reluctantly and her employer picked up each of the carvings in turn. 'These are quite exquisite, Mr … ?'
'Wesley Lincoln, ma'am. I hope you don't mind me coming in here like this. I mean, I'm a stranger here and I'm not sure how things get done.'
'I don't mind in the least. You're an American, I should judge. Would you like me to help you sell these pieces? How many do you have?'
'Got ten of each.' Lincoln looked around the tastefully decorated room. There were people of the respectable sort sitting at most of the tables and a quiet buzz of conversation. Several of the patrons were taking an interest in him and the proprietress. 'It's mighty nice of you to offer, Miss Darcy.'