Heart of the Country

by Tricia Stringer

  It had been then that a dishevelled man had rushed at the constable, grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him away, babbling something about a dead woman. It had taken some effort to calm the fellow down, partly due to his mad ranting and partly due to the overwhelming stench keeping them at bay. He obviously worked with pigs – and lived with them, if the smell of him was any indication.

  The constable had decided he should investigate and that took precedence over the discrepancy with the horse. He’d sent Bayne grumbling on his way and warned Thomas to be more careful about his future purchases, before hurrying off with the pathetic gibbering man in search of a corpse. Thomas had felt both relief and guilt. Some poor woman had lost her life but at least it had taken the constable’s attention from him.

  Once he was alone, both emotions were short lived as he realised the trunk he’d left sitting on the ground was also missing. He harboured little hope Seth had put it with the landlady for storage. The man was obviously a liar and a thief.

  With the last of his money, Thomas had gone back to the bazaar. There had been few horses left to select from. The animal he’d purchased was all he could afford, having spent Mr Browne’s money on Treasure.

  “Treasure indeed,” he muttered. “It certainly cost me.” He looked at the pathetic creature he had now and the aches in his body gave him cause to lament his foolishness yet again.

  He removed the saddle and allowed the horse to eat and drink while he looked after the bullocks. The huge animals would have none of his urging. At the rate they travelled, he’d be lucky to reach the property in a month rather than the three weeks AJ had advised it would take.

  It was nearly dark by the time Thomas had tended the animals. The poor light didn’t help his temper as he fiddled with the harness. He was trying to work out some way he could attach a rope to tug on and so urge the bullocks forward at a faster pace, instead of the stop-starting ramble they’d had today.

  “Where you headed?”

  He turned to see a man leaning against a tree. His face under a broad hat was almost completely hidden by a thick grey moustache and long woolly beard. His shirt was brown with grime and his black baggy pants were held up with a piece of rope. Thomas glanced past him to a group of teamsters sitting around a fire. He assumed that’s where the man had come from.

  “North,” Thomas said.

  “North takes in a lot of country. You going far?”

  “Several weeks’ journey. My employer has a sheep run. A place called Penakie.” Thomas turned back to the rope. He hoped the fellow would go away. He was in no mood to trust another stranger, not to mention the rope needed to be fixed before he lost the light. He wanted to be ready for an early start in the morning and he still had to prepare himself something to eat.

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” the fellow persisted. “Your employer own these animals?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said quickly followed by, “No … At least, the bullocks are his. The horse is mine.”

  “I’m not a horse man myself. You worked with bullocks before?”

  Thomas glanced at the rough face. He couldn’t see the man’s expression but the question sounded genuine. “No.”

  “Would you accept some advice from someone who has?”

  Thomas hesitated. He was tired and hungry and his confidence in humanity had recently taken a beating.

  “These bullocks are trained to walk beside you,” the man continued as he came closer. “They won’t be dragged.”

  Thomas let go of the rope in his hands and felt an ache across his shoulders. When he had agreed to be AJ’s overseer he hadn’t realised quite how hard it would be just to get to the property.

  “My name’s Bert Hawson.” The man thrust his hand out.

  Thomas hesitated a few seconds then put out his own hand and accepted the rough grip. “Thomas Baker.”

  “We’ve got a fire going, some food and stories to share.” Bert flicked a look back over his shoulder. “You could be a long time on the road. It’s good to seek company when you can get it.”

  Thomas hesitated. The smell of roasting meat wafted around him. He accepted Bert’s offer and walked beside him to the fire. Thomas reminded himself he was only sharing a campfire, not looking to buy anything.

  “We’re all headed to the mine at Burra,” Bert said. “We spend a lot of time together so it’s always good to meet someone new. This is Tom Baker,” he announced to the group.

  Thomas smiled at the shortened version of his name. No-one had ever called him Tom before.

  Those grouped around the fire looked up. They were all older men with wrinkled faces and ruddy skin. They welcomed him then fell silent. Thomas’s stomach growled loudly. Bert began to laugh and his friends joined in. One man thrust some meat sandwiched in damper into Thomas’s hands and another shuffled along the log so he could sit.

  They let him take the first mouthful before they began with their questions – where had he come from? Where he was going? He felt obliged to tell his story between mouthfuls of the delicious meat. They offered condolences at the loss of his father though there was no pity in their words.

  “You’ll make a go of it here in South Australia, Tom,” Bert said. “We’ve all come from different beginnings to this country but we wouldn’t trade the life, would we, mates?”

  A chorus of voices agreed with Bert.

  Then the stories began, each man giving an account of where he’d been and what he’d been doing since they’d last met. Some stories sounded rather embellished to Thomas but they made him laugh and he was glad of it. They passed a jug of some kind of liquor between them, and when it got to Thomas he hesitated then took the offered drink. His eyes opened wide as the liquid burned its way down to his stomach. The man next to him grinned and slapped his back. There was laughter all round and they continued their story telling.

  Thomas was enjoying their easy company but he could feel his eyes getting heavy. He wasn’t as adept at life on the road as these men appeared to be. He waited until the next story was finished and the jug was going around again, then stood up.

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” he said. “I’d best turn in.”

  Bert stood. “We’ll be doing the same soon.” He shook Thomas’s hand. “Always happy to help a new chum.”

  Thomas nodded farewell and made his way back to his own temporary camp. He dragged a blanket and pillow from the dray and crawled underneath. The murmur of voices and the shuffling of animal hooves were the only sounds in the cool night.

  Before he knew it, the movement of men and animals around him told him it was morning. He didn’t remember shutting his eyes. Thomas scrabbled from the rough bed he’d made for himself and groaned as the aches and pains from yesterday returned, only strengthened by his dreamless sleep on the hard ground. In the dim light of early dawn, he saddled his horse and harnessed the bullocks. The sounds of other men doing the same renewed his enthusiasm for the adventure ahead.

  “Ready to go, Tom?”

  Bert was beside him, the broad hat on his head. Thomas wondered if he slept in it and looked around for his own hat.

  “I reckon so,” he said.

  “This might come in handy,” Bert said.

  Thomas peered at the stick Bert pressed into his hands. It was about six feet long and smooth, with an even longer plaited leather strip attached to it.

  “It’s a whip.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas accepted the gift, still not sure what he was to do with it.

  “I’ll give you a quick lesson before I head out.”

  Thomas had planned to boil a billy and have some bread and a mug of tea before he left but he could see some of the bullock drivers were already urging their teams away; some headed along the road to the mines at Burra and some back towards Adelaide.

  Bert gave a quick demonstration then urged Thomas to try. The long tail of the whip wrapped around him several times before he managed to get the end to go where he wanted it.

&nbs
p; “Keep practising,” Bert said. “Remember it’s not meant as a weapon. These bullocks are well trained. The whip helps you to give them a reminder from a distance. They’re fine animals your boss has supplied. My advice is get to know them. Learn their names. They’ll respond to your voice.”

  Thomas looked at the bullocks. The two leaders came as high as his shoulders and had long, twisted horns. He hadn’t thought of them as anything but beasts to do the work of pulling the wagon.

  “You got a firearm?”

  Thomas turned back to Bert. “Yes.”

  It was somewhere in the dray. AJ had given him brief instruction in its use. He wasn’t sure he would remember how to fire it.

  “A shepherd rode in last night looking for the constable. Says blackfellas have been stealing their sheep and one of them threw a spear at him. Evidently it’s near that Penakie place where you’re headed.”

  Thomas stopped flicking the whip. AJ had suggested he watch out for natives pilfering sheep but he hadn’t said they were dangerous.

  “Perhaps you’ll accept some more advice from an old man before you go.” Bert didn’t wait for a reply. “Reading and writing is one thing, but out there,” he stabbed a finger in the direction Thomas was headed, “out there, you need common sense and patience to survive.”

  Thomas found himself staring into the bush. Bert’s words sounded more like a warning than advice.

  “You’re a good man. You listen and learn and you’ll be right.” Bert thrust his hand out. “You take care.”

  “Thanks Bert.” Thomas accepted the strong grip.

  “On your horse, Tom.”

  Bert tugged the whip from his hand so Thomas could climb into the saddle. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the bullocks moved forward. He clutched at the reins as his horse turned in a circle.

  “The horse will get used to it.” Bert grinned and tossed the whip up to Thomas. “Good luck,” he said as Thomas gained control of his mount and moved away beside his steadily plodding bullocks.

  He looked back to see Bert lift a hand in a wave then stride off to his own team. Thomas turned again to the track leading away through the bush; his rear end ached already at being back in the saddle but his spirits, high with anticipation for what lay ahead.

  Eight

  Septimus pulled his wagon into the shade of some large gums. He was pleased to see water in the bottom of the stream below. In the last few hours the breeze that had helped cool him had dropped right out and the late afternoon sun had beat down with more ferocity than he expected for early spring.

  He stretched and looked around. This patch of trees and thick bush was off the track and afforded him protection from the sight of anyone following the road north. He’d kept moving steadily for two days since leaving Adelaide, avoiding the busy inns along the way and only making a basic camp each night, not even lighting a fire for his billy. He knew his wagon was distinctive and that it was best to remain cautious. He wasn’t yet confident he’d put enough space between himself and any trouble that might have come if the real owner of the horse he’d sold to the gullible Baker should make a fuss. At least Baker had never seen the wagon.

  Tonight Septimus would set up a better camp, maybe catch something to roast over a fire and – he wrinkled his nose as he inhaled a breath. He’d have to go through his wagon and work out what that terrible smell was. He’d noticed it briefly the previous night then again once the breeze dropped out a few hours before. Perhaps one of his potions had leaked or, worse still, some of his bottles had broken. He couldn’t think what else among his things could make such a stink, unless of course there was something in the trunk.

  A smile spread across his face. It had given him great pleasure getting Baker to buy the horse: a touch of delight from the good old days in England. He’d made a good living from trading behind his employer’s back until he’d slipped up and been caught red-handed. That had resulted in his transportation to New South Wales. He’d survived that and now he was set to make a good living from the unsuspecting folk of South Australia.

  Septimus tutted to himself and climbed down from the dray. Of course, tricking someone so wet behind the ears was almost too easy. The money from the sale of the horse had enabled him to purchase an assortment of goods to sell and taking the trunk had been icing on the cake. At a quick glance he knew there were several items he could peddle on his travels. Serve the man right for being so green.

  The sun was dropping quickly. Septimus rubbed at the seat of his pants, stretched his arms back then reached under the wagon to retrieve his animal trap. The small cage had served him well in the bush before. He’d become quite adept at snaring a small furry creature, snapping its neck and roasting it. Now he had some provisions he could make damper to go with it.

  He busied himself finding a grazing spot for Clover, setting the trap and preparing a fire. Just as he neared the wagon again to locate his flour and tea, he stopped short and listened. Birds chirped from the nearby bush and Clover ripped at some grass and munched, but Septimus could swear he’d heard a moan. He tugged the new hunting knife from inside his trouser leg, wishing he’d spent some of his cash on a firearm as well, then he heard it again. Groaning, coming from his wagon.

  Septimus undid the straps that held the cover in place and carefully lifted the canvas. There was very little space in the wagon. He had packed a lot of supplies around his potion shelves and the large trunk he’d stashed in the back. Then right in front of him, in the middle of the wagon, the pile of new men’s shirts and trousers moved. Some kind of animal had buried itself in his goods. He reached across and began lifting the clothing away, then lurched back as an apparition in human form began to rise from underneath.

  He covered his nose and mouth with his hand. The smell was unbearable and the being so ugly he would have thought he’d trapped a ghoul if he believed in such nonsense.

  “Help me.” The voice was feeble.

  Septimus didn’t move. He couldn’t comprehend how this female – he could see more of her now – had got into his wagon, or when. The head was a mass of matted hair, caked in mud and possibly blood, if the congealed stains down the side of the face were any indication. The eyes were swollen slits, the nose was at an odd angle and the mouth was a mangled mess.

  He winced and watched in horror as a filthy hand reached towards him. “Septimus,” she croaked.

  He gasped. How did this creature know his name?

  “Help me, please. It’s … Harriet.”

  Septimus gasped again. “Harriet?”

  But as he spoke she slowly sank back into the pile of clothing.

  “No,” Septimus bellowed. Those clothes were part of his new money-making venture. He didn’t want the filthy creature spoiling them. He pulled on her arm but she didn’t move.

  “Harriet.” He tugged more fiercely and then gagged as the smell enveloped him again. It was a mix of human and animal, putrid and overpowering.

  He flung back the good clean clothes she’d burrowed under. Her dress was torn and caked in mud. He picked up one of the hessian bags he kept for carrying animals he trapped and used it to grip Harriet and lift her from the wagon. She didn’t move or murmur as he laid her at his feet. He poked her with the toe of his boot but there was no response. Someone had done her over good and proper from the look of her and somehow she’d got into his wagon.

  Septimus looked around. He was a long way from anywhere but he suddenly felt vulnerable. There was no way he was going to take the rap for the little slut’s death. He took the bag and wrapped it around her then lifted her up. She felt barely heavier than one of the sacks of flour he had stashed in the wagon. He walked towards the stream then thought better of dumping her close to where he was camped. Further along, the water trickled and disappeared into large flat rocks. He jumped from one to the other then the stream dropped away and he looked down into the large pool of water that had formed below: the perfect spot. He stretched out his arms and let the body roll off the bag.
There was a satisfying splash as it hit the water. In the dim light, Septimus turned and retraced his steps.

  Close to his camp he heard the sounds of something scrabbling in his trap.

  Good, he thought. There’d be something to roast for his evening meal while he cleaned up his wagon.

  A small furry creature with a long tail ran around in the cage. Perhaps a stew would be better, possum stew. There’d be plenty of time for it to cook. He would probably have to wash some of the shirts and trousers and rearrange the wagon. Septimus wrapped the animal in the bag, slit its throat then set about preparing his meal and cleaning out the wagon. He decided to leave washing the clothes till morning, seeing as it took till full dark just to move boxes and barrels around and scrub the filth from the boards. He gave no further thought to Harriet.

  A crackling sound penetrated his sleep. Septimus was instantly awake. He lay perfectly still in the cosy bedroll he had created for himself, but opened one eye a slit. The fire was flaming gently in the hollow he had created last night. His brain registered the flames, which should be coals now, not fingering skywards with a steaming billy beside. There was a movement to the edge of his vision. He slid his hand down for the knife he’d tucked under the canvas and jumped up, ready to lunge.

  “Septimus, it’s me, Harriet.”

  He froze and gaped at the small figure in front of him. The clothes were those of a man but there was no mistaking the soft voice and battered face belonged to Harriet.

  “But …”

  “You must have thought I was dead.” Harriet placed a steaming mug of tea in front of him and stepped back. “Is that how I got in the water? I don’t think I could have crawled there myself.”

  Septimus didn’t speak. Harriet moved away around the fire. He noticed her steps were careful and deliberate. He kept the knife in his hand at his side and watched her like he would a snake in his camp.

  She picked up another mug and stood gazing into the fire. “I sure wished I was dead.” Then she looked directly at him through swollen lids. “I don’t know how you got me here but that dousing in the water saved my life.”