Heart of the Country

by Tricia Stringer

  Beside her sat her mother and her father. Isaac, the youngest of her four brothers, rode his mare alongside. Tethered to the back of the wagon was a new horse for her oldest brother, Edmund. The occasional squawk could be heard from the new rooster in his wooden cage perched on top of the load.

  “We achieved quite a lot in the short time we had,” her mother said.

  “You do well enough with your home-made medicines, Lizzie girl,” her father said.

  “We suffer enough already,” Isaac teased. “You don’t need to be poisoning us with any new potions.”

  Lizzie poked her tongue out at him.

  “That’s a fine look,” he said. “I’m sure all the gentlemen in Adelaide were delighted by it.”

  “We had no time to meet anyone, let alone any gentlemen – and I certainly don’t see any here.” Lizzie glared at him. There was so little opportunity to meet other people in the isolated part of the country where they lived, let alone a suitable husband.

  Isaac poked his tongue back at her and crossed his eyes. “No one could compare to your handsome brother, at any rate,” he said.

  She chuckled. A good-looking young man of twenty, he was two years younger than Lizzie and her favourite brother. When they’d arrived in New South Wales their father had managed a property and their mother had been kept busy with their three older siblings and the work of managing a home and garden and feeding them all. Lizzie had happily looked after her baby brother for as long as she could remember. Not that he took too kindly to her ministrations these days.

  “We did come across a bit of a fuss in the street before we left,” her mother said.

  Her father glanced across at them. “What happened?”

  “A gentleman was accusing a young man of stealing his horse.”

  “It was a lot of nonsense about nothing,” Lizzie said.

  “It drew a large crowd,” her mother replied. “At least until the constable came and moved everyone on.”

  “Horse thieving,” her father shook his head, “is a hanging offence.”

  Lizzie frowned at the thought of the handsome young man at the centre of the disagreement being stretched by his neck. It wasn’t a pleasant picture.

  Lizzie’s mother tut-tutted. “I hope it won’t come to that, George.”

  “The accuser looked like he was a heavy drinker,” Lizzie said.

  “How can you know that?” her mother asked.

  “His ruddy cheeks. He looked just like Mr Duff from next door.”

  Lizzie saw her parents exchange looks. “He probably lost his horse and thought the one the young man had was his,” she continued. “I’m sure the accused was too well mannered to be a horse thief.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this chap,” Isaac said. “I thought you didn’t meet any gentleman in Adelaide.”

  “We didn’t meet,” Lizzie snapped. “I just noticed his good manners in the shop where he was purchasing a hat.”

  The wagon gave another sharp lurch, tilting them forward on their seat. Lizzie and her mother both cried out and held on as best they could.

  “Damnation!”

  “George,” his wife admonished.

  “Well it’s enough to drive a man mad, Anne. It’s barely two days since we passed this way and the road is even worse than when we came in,” George complained. “Ride ahead, Isaac. See what we’re in for. I remember there was a creek crossing all churned up. We might be better to camp this side of it for the night and make the crossing in the morning.”

  Isaac urged his horse forward into a trot.

  Lizzie watched him dodge skilfully under a branch and disappear around a bend in the road. How she wished she were on a horse, free to ride beside her brother. Her behind was already aching from the unforgiving seat beneath her. Her father had resourcefully made a bench seat across the front of the large wagon to give them somewhere to sit. It was a practical innovation but offered no comfort save her mother’s cushions.

  “Pity we didn’t have another saddle,” she said. “I could have ridden Edmund’s horse.”

  “That horse is far too spirited yet,” her father said.

  Lizzie sighed. “Can I walk for a while?” she asked.

  “At the rate we’re moving you may as well.” Her father brought the wagon to a halt and she climbed down. She stepped back away from the wheels then fell into step beside as he urged the bullocks on.

  The late afternoon sun shone weakly through the clouds building on the horizon. She was happy to be returning home to their place in the bush. She found the landscape always changing and full of surprises. At this time of year the creeks were flowing with water and the bush dotted with the brilliant yellow of the wattle in full bloom.

  Their run was nearly the furthest from civilisation but its isolation didn’t bother her. It was seven years since they’d made the tedious journey by ship to Australia; the excitement of their grand adventure had been tainted by the barely tolerable conditions aboard and her mother’s disposition to sea sickness. After several years in New South Wales, her father had put money aside and had moved them to South Australia for the prospect of owning their own property. He had secured land in the country to the north of the colony. It had been hard work and they’d never looked back but now, as she approached another birthday, she did wonder how she would meet a suitable partner. She didn’t want a man who stuck to the town. She loved the bush life but they were surrounded by properties overseen by shepherds who were either already married or older, and with bad habits.

  Time aboard ship had given her the chance to read and she had been taken with the grand adventure of Mr James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans and the forthright main character of Miss Jane Austen’s Emma. Lizzie wasn’t prepared to settle for a quiet life keeping house for some pale office-working husband. That was not her intention at all.

  “We have to look for more land.”

  She lifted her head at her father’s voice. It had that tone he used when he and Mother were discussing things by the fire after she went to bed. They always thought she couldn’t hear them, which was quite ridiculous since her bed was in the main room of their small home. She took a few extra steps so she was a little closer to the seat of the wagon.

  “With four sons we need to look beyond the land we’ve got now,” he continued.

  “George.” Lizzie could hear the placating tone in her mother’s voice. “We’ve just started to make ends meet.”

  “We can’t rest there,” George said. “Once we’ve enough money put aside we’ve got to expand. The country beyond us will be next to open up. We have to be ready.” Suddenly her father stood up on the board and peered forward. “What’s that in the shadows? Looks like another deep rut. Hang on, Anne.”

  He climbed down from the slowly moving wagon. Lizzie hastened her steps. Just as her father drew level with the lead bullock she could see there was indeed a deep gouge in the track in front of it. The bullock stepped down and as it did, its solid body lurched sideways and slammed her father into the trunk of a large gum tree.

  “Father!” Lizzie ignored her mother’s scream and ran to him. “Are you hurt?”

  He leaned against the tree clutching his arm to his chest.

  “George!” Anne cried.

  “The wagon,” George groaned and pushed himself away from the tree. Lizzie turned to see her mother slide along the seat as the wagon rolled down through the cutaway. The horse tethered behind pranced and whinnied and the rooster carried on with a series of strangled squawks.

  At that moment Isaac rode up on his horse. Instantly he was out of the saddle and beside the bullocks bringing the whole parade to a stop.

  Lizzie watched him help their mother down then turned her attention back to her father. His face was ashen and his breaths came in shallow gasps.

  “Zac,” she called. “Come and help.”

  “George, are you hurt?”

  Lizzie was surprised by the wobble in her mother’s voice. With fi
ve children there had been many accidents over the years. She was normally stoic in the face of adversity.

  “I’m all right,” he wheezed. “Just knocked the stuffing out of me for a moment. What about you, my love?”

  “I was frightened, that’s all.”

  Lizzie could see her mother was holding one arm stiffly, cradling the elbow with her other hand.

  George sucked in a ragged breath. Lizzie thought him in more urgent need of attention.

  “Let’s sit you down, Father,” she said. “Isaac, take his other arm.”

  Together they eased him to the ground with his back to the tree.

  “Where are you hurt?” Lizzie asked.

  He moved his legs up and down and stretched his left arm out. “Nothing broken.”

  She eyed his other arm, still pressed to his chest.

  “Isaac, can you get to the calico we bought? It’s somewhere in the wagon. Father might need some support for his arm.”

  “Perhaps we should go back for the doctor, George.”

  “It’s not broken, Anne. Don’t fuss. We don’t need a doctor when we have our Lizzie.” He managed a smile and Lizzie’s heart swelled at the trust he placed in her.

  “Where in the wagon?” Isaac was already moving away.

  “I’ll come with you,” his mother said. “I know where it is. We don’t need everything turned upside down.”

  Once they’d moved away, Lizzie reached for her father’s arm.

  “How is it really?” she asked.

  He lifted the limb in question and his face creased in pain. “A bit sore, Lizzie girl, but I’ll live.”

  “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

  She watched as he did then gently prodded and probed. He had movement, albeit with significant pain. It was his chest she was worried about. He could easily have broken ribs.

  “Here we are.” Anne had returned with some large strips of calico. “Isaac is going to look around for a place for us to camp the night. It’s best we all rest and start afresh in the morning.”

  Lizzie was pleased to hear her mother’s usual good sense had returned.

  “I think Father’s right,” Lizzie said. “Nothing broken.” She cupped his face with her hands. He was still pale but his breathing had returned to normal. “I’ll bandage this arm so it’s supported. It will help while you give the damage time to heal.”

  Lizzie set to her task. She’d realised long ago they were so far from anywhere that there was no hope of medical help and had taken it open herself to learn the basics. She’d already patched her brothers up on several occasions and dealt with a variety of ailments.

  “There.” She sat back and admired her handiwork. “Is that comfortable?”

  “Much better.” Her father managed a smile. “Thank you, Lizzie.” He turned his eyes to his wife. “What about you, Anne? I see blood on your sleeve.”

  “I’m fine.” Anne brushed gently at her sleeve. “Just a graze.”

  “I’ll get some water,” Lizzie said.

  Her mother stopped her with a brief hug. “You’ve done a fine job once more. Thank you.”

  Lizzie brushed at her skirts. Anne wasn’t often one to make a fuss.

  “What would we do without you, Lizzie.” The colour was returning to her father’s face.

  She felt her cheeks warm as she glanced from one parent to the other. She smiled, enjoying their praise and relieved at their escape from real harm. She put her hands to her hips. “I’m not a doctor but I think you’ll both live.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” George beamed at her and reached for his wife’s hand.

  Lizzie made her way to the wagon. Isaac had untethered the flighty horse and led him away. Thank goodness no greater damage had been done to man or beast. There were still many miles ahead of them, and it would not be a comfortable journey for her father. She pushed the bolt of calico back under the cover and ladled some water into a tin mug. She turned to see her mother sitting beside her father, her head on his good shoulder. Lizzie paused. It was so rare to see them like that. They made very little public show of affection and yet she was in no doubt of their love for each other. Lizzie wanted that kind of love. But where would she find it out here?

  “I’ve chosen a suitable camp to settle in for the night.” Isaac strode up beside her. His smile split his face from ear to ear. “And I’ve got dinner.” He hoisted a small furry animal into the air.

  The rooster picked that moment to let out a hearty crow.

  Lizzie sighed. “You make the fire and I’ll prepare it,” she said.

  Six

  “Get ready.”

  Yardu glanced across at the bright eyes of his cousin, Gulda. His own eyes opened wide at the thrum of many feet and an unfamiliar bleating. He tensed. With a snap the bush parted and the strange creatures Gulda called sheep skipped and bounded through the narrow gap in the scrub. Gulda leaped forward and threw his arms around one of the animals, yelling at Yardu to help him. Yardu grabbed at a kicking back leg but it slipped out of his hand. He looked down to see tiny streaks of blood on his palm from the prickles in its fur.

  The two younger cousins who had herded the animals through the gap ran to help Gulda wrestle the sheep. Yardu picked up his spear but one of the men hit the animal on the head with his waddy and it collapsed. Gulda gave its neck a sharp twist.

  “Hurry,” he said.

  Yardu picked up the young sapling branch he’d prepared. With practised dexterity, they tied the sheep to it. The two cousins hoisted the branch to their shoulders as a loud crack echoed down the valley.

  “Go, quick!” Gulda said and gestured to the bush behind.

  A shout rang out but Yardu didn’t understand the strange dialect. The sounds were nothing like he’d ever heard but there was no mistaking the threat in them. Loud drumming reached his ears. He remained rooted to the spot. A huge beast appeared through a gap in the trees, a white-skinned man on its back.

  His cousins were already weaving through the thick bush, headed for the narrow ridges where they would disappear into a cave, but Yardu remained, mesmerised by the shouts of the white man and the heavy thudding of the animal he rode. A horse, Gulda had told him. The hat blew from the man’s head revealing a pale, hairless scalp as he pulled the beast to a stop. It made loud screeching calls and danced in circles.

  Yardu kept perfectly still. These sounds had echoed in his head for many cycles of the seasons, ever since he’d first heard them much earlier, in his own country further up the ranges. The noise had terrified his wife so much she’d slipped down the rugged cliff she’d been climbing and fallen to her death, their unborn child dying with her. He had come to visit his cousins to bring her bones back to her country. This was her heart country, where she was born.

  Yardu drew himself up, sucked in a breath and began to chant, hoping the spirits from his country would join the spirits from this country and give him strength to avenge his wife’s death. He could see his wife walking towards him through the trees. He smiled at her, knowing they were both invisible to this white stranger.

  The horse and rider stopped and the man leaned forward, scanning the bush. With a final culmination of the chant, Yardu called to his wife. The white man lifted a large stick and pointed it in his direction. Yardu rushed forward and flung his spear. The white man’s stick lurched up. A loud bang reverberated around the bush.

  Gulda’s hands gripped Yardu from behind and dragged him into the shadows. “Go,” he urged. “We must go.”

  Yardu glanced back to see the horse once again dancing in circles. The white man was no longer on its back. Instead he lay spread out on the ground like a kangaroo skin stretched for curing. Yardu lifted his eyes to the sky. He shouted his gratitude. His wife and child had been avenged at last. Yardu gave one last look at the figure on the ground then spun on silent feet and followed his cousin into the bush.

  Seven

  Thomas shifted in the saddle. The pain that shot up his back made him wish he
hadn’t. The poor horse beneath him was barely more than a bag of bones but it was all he could afford. Beside him the bullocks pulling the dray came to a stop. Ahead of him was the first of the inns that would pepper his journey north. AJ had marked it on his map as a place to feed and water the stock and get a meal.

  The rough-built establishment was barely bigger than a hut. A small verandah was propped up at its front with lengths of tree branches. Smoke billowed from the small chimney just above its thatched roof. In front and around were several teamsters from the copper mines, already arrived with their assorted drays, carts and wagons.

  Thomas would see to his animals but his own food would be some bread and pickles from his supplies. He was down to his last coins thanks to Seth Whitby’s deception and he wasn’t planning on parting with them any time soon.

  He eased himself down from the saddle. He’d only been on the road a short time yet every muscle and joint screeched in protest.

  He lifted his head at the thud of hooves. A horse skidded to a stop in front of the inn and the rider slid from its back with a shout. The man was gesturing wildly.

  Men went to him, and raised voices carried across the clearing. He watched for a moment as the men milled about the newcomer, until he heard someone call out, “Constable!” That was sufficient incentive for Thomas to mind his own business. He’d had enough of the law for one day. Anger burned in his chest again as he recalled the way he’d been duped.

  He’d taken the constable and Mr Bayne to his dray, but his hopes of a reasonable explanation diminished with every minute that passed with no sign of Seth.

  The constable had asked Mr Bayne to send for his stable master. When he verified the horse was Gideon and owned by Charles Bayne, Thomas had finally conceded he had been well and truly tricked and was in real danger of being arrested.