Just outside the shed, Septimus caught a glimpse of Neales moving some sheep. He wondered how long his pathetic shepherd had been lurking by the door. Septimus’s eyes narrowed. He must be sure to remind Rix to keep an eye on the man, make sure he knew who he was working for.
The heat in the shed was already overpowering in spite of the early hour, but Septimus resisted the urge to remove his jacket. He planned to have one last talk to Rix and then be on his way. He’d been on the road a long time, organising Rix and Pavey, purchasing stock and provisions. He was looking forward to a treat, a short holiday with Dulcie in the hills. He had to check on Ned at the inn of course, but that wouldn’t take long.
He’d brought a tin tub to the hut and, in spite of the dry, Dulcie always managed to find water to fill it and massage away what ailed him. Septimus smiled. He might even stay a week.
“What do you mean business has dropped off?” Septimus had taken longer than expected to reach the inn near the pass through the hills. His horse had gone lame and he’d had to purchase another. The farmer had driven a hard bargain, not wanting to part with one of his horses. Septimus had paid him far more than the horse was worth and left the lame one in the deal. Now here he was, sitting at the bar of his inn, the only customer.
“The long heat has affected everyone,” Ned said. “There’s no feed for the bullocks so we’ve had fewer teamsters through, and those that do pass by camp over near the creek. Not many of them have called in lately. Saving their money, most likely. We’ve had few other customers. No one wants to travel in the heat.”
“Let me see the ledger.”
“I can get it if you like but it won’t show any different.”
“Let me see it.” Septimus thumped his hand on the bar.
“Who’s doing all this hollering?” Ethel came bustling out of the kitchen. “Well, well,” she said as she laid eyes on Septimus. “It’s the boss. Why didn’t you tell me, Mr Wiltshire was here, Ned? I bet you’re hungry after your travels. I’ve got a nice possum pie just out of the oven. Sit down at a table.” Ethel tugged at his arm.
“Don’t fuss, woman,” Septimus said, but she manoeuvred him to a seat before he knew it.
“It’s not fussing.” Ethel laughed loudly. “Nothing’s too good for the boss. Get him some of that ale we’ve had cooling in the cellar, Ned.”
Septimus hadn’t planned to eat at the inn and he didn’t often drink ale, but before he knew it Ethel had a plate of delicious-smelling pie in front of him and Ned had produced a mug of beer.
“Once you’ve got that inside you, I’ve a nice steamed apple pudding and some clotted cream.” Ethel appraised him as if he was a child. “The dear old cow has been giving us a nice lot of milk, hasn’t she Ned?”
Septimus’s mouth watered. Pavey was a capable cook but he had been travelling a long time and living on dry mutton and black tea for most of it. He settled back and enjoyed the feast Ethel provided.
It was almost dark by the time Septimus mounted his horse and made the journey over the hills behind the inn to his hut. After the meal Ethel had made a pot of tea and they’d all sat out on the verandah, enjoying the gully breeze and the changing colours of the sky. They’d offered him a bed but he’d said he’d prefer to camp out, as he always told them when he visited.
He tethered his horse at the front of his hut and pushed open the door. The main room was empty, as was the bedroom. There was no sign of Dulcie and no coals in the grate. His longed-for bath was not happening tonight by the look of the empty tub. He went out the back towards the shed, through the bush either side of the hut, where she sometimes sat and made an open fire, then out the front. There was no sound except for the evening breeze moaning through the trees. It was the one thing he’d never liked about this place – it sounded like a woman crying.
He walked down to the creek and under the large gums, with their roots reaching down to the creek bed. It was here he’d first taken Dulcie as his own. There was no water in the creek now, but the memory of that encounter had blood pounding through him, kindling the desire that had been building all day.
“Damn!” He thumped his fist against the tree and returned to the hut.
He slept the night alone in the bed. His sleep was restless and he arose early the next morning. Birds were busy carolling in the new day but there was still no sign of Dulcie. Once more he walked around the hut, the now-empty shed and dilapidated sheep yards. He had no use for this place any more. It was only Dulcie who brought him back here and she had always been waiting for him or appeared not long after he’d arrived. It had been two months since he’d seen her last. He needed her badly.
Blast it. He decided to continue on to Port Augusta. At least he knew Harriet would always be home. He’d grown used to the flies but that morning they were particularly thick, crawling all over his face and hands with no breeze to carry them away. They added to his irritation as he batted at them only to have them return as soon as his hand was still. It was barely spring and the heat was wearing. For the first time since he’d arrived in this rugged country, he didn’t look forward to the heat of summer.
He made his way through the hills below the inn and joined the road that wound down through the valley and then across the plain to the port. He overtook several bullock drays loaded with copper ore trundling in the same direction as he was taking. The men driving them acknowledged him as he passed but kept their heads lowered beneath their floppy hats.
He urged his new horse into a gallop, keen to escape the dust cloud created by so many hooves and the discomfort of being in the saddle as soon as he could. It wasn’t until he was halfway to Port Augusta that he remembered he’d not gone back to look at the inn ledger. Still, Ned was probably right. It had been a difficult twelve months for everyone, with the prospect of continued dry.
Luckily for Septimus, his investments were spread about. He didn’t think Baker would have the common sense or the funds to make such arrangements. Septimus got the impression that paying off the debt would clean the fool out. The thought gave him some cause to smile as he traversed the dusty road towards the port.
Fifty-eight
1857
Thomas shielded his eyes against the heat haze: something moved on the ground ahead. He moved his horse cautiously forward. The creature paused, twisted its head then spread its huge wings and launched itself skywards, the insignificant form of a lamb clutched in its talons. Thomas looked back to the ground where the eagle had been. The carcass of a ewe was split open in a pool of dark blood, buzzing with flies. Wild dogs would have taken it down and the eagle had come to claim the lamb they had somehow overlooked.
It was late afternoon on another long, hot January day. The sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky. Further off to his right along the dry creek bed was a waterhole, one of the last of his permanent supplies to still hold water. The vegetation had been stripped for miles around it, leaving a desolate landscape.
Thomas slithered from his horse; his legs began to crumple beneath him. He gripped the saddle with one hand and thumped his backside with the other, trying to get the circulation moving again. Every day he rode out to keep his sheep from straying too far. The summer had been relentless in its ferocity, but his drive to keep his stock safe was just as ferocious. He was so tired he’d been nearly asleep on the horse when he’d noticed the movement of the eagle. Under such conditions the sheep struggled to find enough food and then make it back to the waterhole. They were easy pickings for dogs, eagles and even the natives.
Gulda did his best to discourage his people but Thomas knew from the prints he’d learned to read around the muddy edges of the waterhole that barefoot men took his sheep as well as the wild creatures of the bush.
Timothy rode in from the other direction. He brought his horse to a stop beside the dead animal and slid to the ground with ease. Thomas envied his energy.
“What a mess,” the shepherd said as he bent over the poor creature. “Those blackbirds have got its e
yes.”
“At least it was dead,” Thomas said. “I’ve found them pecking at the eyes of living sheep too weak to move.”
“This is the tenth carcass I’ve found today along the boundary.”
Thomas felt his spirits sink lower. He couldn’t afford to lose so many sheep. He squinted skywards but saw not a glimmer of a cloud to give him any hope.
“Only one was ours though.” Timothy brushed the flies and ants from the dead animal’s ears.
It was then Thomas noticed the two notches he’d missed before. This poor creature was from Smith’s Ridge. He gazed in the direction of his boundary.
“Those shepherds don’t do much of a job,” Timothy said.
Thomas knew Rix brought sheep to the Wildu Creek waterhole. There were other permanent sources of water on Thomas’s property but they were all low as well. He would happily have shared if Smith’s Ridge still belonged to Jacob and Zac but he had no interest in being neighbourly with the likes of Rix and his employer.
“It doesn’t matter what we do,” Thomas said. “We’ve got too much land and too many sheep to be in one place all the time. Zac and Gulda have got their work cut out.” He wiped a trickle of sweat from his cheek. “No matter how much time we put in to shepherding, this boundary is a problem.”
“That Mr Rix knows we’ve got water and bluebush. They don’t have much of either on Smith’s Ridge,” Timothy said.
“You’ve been there?”
“A few times. Just to get a bit of a look. I didn’t neglect my duties here,” he said quickly. “First time I found myself there by accident. I was following the trail of some sheep. They’ve got too much stock for the kind of country it is.”
Thomas studied the young man. He had adapted to life on Wildu Creek after less than a year. His knowledge of sheep and their management grew every day. He worked hard and he listened and watched. Joseph adored him and Lizzie had him calling her Mrs Lizzie like Gulda did.
“You’re right,” Thomas said. “I hear Wiltshire bought poor stock just before shearing last year. He might have got the wool off their backs but there’d be few of them left now.”
“They keep staggering around looking for feed and water. There’s not a blade of grass or a low-hanging leaf between this waterhole and way beyond their boundary.”
“If only there was some way to keep him out.” Once more Thomas looked to the east.
“I built a fence for Ma back in Port Augusta. The goats kept getting into her vegetables. Pity we can’t do the same thing here.” Timothy chuckled. “That’d keep those Smith’s Ridge sheep out.”
Thomas lifted his hat and rubbed at his hair, which was plastered to his scalp. He looked north along the invisible boundary between his property and Wiltshire’s. He knew several miles away it was marked by a rocky outcrop pointing south like a huge bony finger. At the southern end it met a wide dry creek bed dotted with large gums and occasional cliffs and cutaways. If he ran a fence between those two natural barriers, few stock would find their way around it.
He shoved his hat back on his head and grasped Timothy by the shoulders. “That’s it,” he said. A surge of excitement swept through him. “We’ll build a fence.”
Timothy gaped at him. Thomas let go the lad’s shoulders and strode back to his horse with an energy he hadn’t felt in weeks. When he climbed on his horse and looked back, Timothy was still standing there watching him. “Come on,” Thomas called. “Time to go home. Mrs Lizzie will have food on the table by the time we get there and we’ve a lot to work out.”
“What will you make it from?” Lizzie asked as they sat out under the stars. They had eaten their meals on the creek bank all summer. As soon as the sun went down they had some relief from the flies and sometimes, like that night, there was a soft breath of a breeze along the gully. They had a small fire on the sandy bank to boil the billy and a lantern hanging in a tree. Their outside room, Joseph called it.
“Further south of us there’s thick bush,” Thomas said. “We’ll make a brush fence.”
“It would be a huge job,” Zac said.
“I know,” he replied. “But we’ve little else to do but watch our stock die.”
“More your neighbour’s stock, really,” Timothy said.
They all looked at him.
He sank lower in his chair. “It’s just that Wildu Creek is a much better property,” he said. “Better stock, better management –”
“Better people,” Zac said and they all laughed.
“Perhaps Jacob would help,” Lizzie said. “He went home for Christmas and wasn’t going back to the mines. Mother’s letter said he planned to visit us next.”
“Won’t your father need him?” Thomas asked. He knew George suffered more and more from rheumatism across his shoulders.
“He’s still got Edmund and Samuel,” Lizzie said. “Anyway, I doubt Jacob would stay here with us. It will just be a visit.”
“Well,” Zac said, lifting his mug of tea, “it looks like we’re building a fence.”
They all lifted their mugs to touch his.
“When will we start?” Timothy asked, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm.
“Before dawn tomorrow morning,” Thomas said. They turned to look at him. “We take the wagon and the dray and head south. Cut as much brush as we can before it gets too hot and bring it back. We can take it in turns to do our rounds and build the fence. I’m hoping Gulda will help us. He’s an expert at making those huts of his from bush. And we have the fine fence builder, Mr Timothy Castles, with us as well.” Thomas grinned at his young shepherd. “Isn’t that right?”
Timothy’s face beamed back. “Sure thing, Mr Baker,” he said.
There was more laughter. Thomas tilted his head back and looked at the stars. It felt good to have a project, something more productive than waiting for rain.
The next morning they were cutting the first of the brush as the sun rose, a golden orange ball in a pale, lifeless sky. They were all there, the men cutting, Lizzie and Daisy making bundles and Joseph and Tommie running wild, excited by this totally new experience. Thomas marvelled at Daisy’s ability to keep working with baby Rose nestled to her chest in some kind of sling.
By mid-morning the wagon and the dray were both piled high with brush. Thomas asked Gulda to take the women and children home in the cart while he went with Zac and Timothy to make a start on the fence. Lizzie gave Thomas a cheery wave but he could see the work had tired her. She insisted on working as hard as ever and she never complained, but he knew the heat bothered her as her body began to swell with the baby. He worried, but she would have none of it.
“Let’s go build a fence,” Zac called and cracked the whip over the bullocks.
Thomas put his concern to one side at the prospect of the task ahead.
For all their enthusiasm they got little built that first day. Zac wanted to start at the southern end and Thomas the northern. Timothy suggested they start in the middle. In the end it was decided they would have a team working at either end, finishing wherever they met. Each morning they would cut the brush and then build during the day between looking after the sheep.
They got into a routine. The women came with them each morning to help cut and stack the brush, then they went home and the men continued to build the fence when they could. That the structure had strength was due to Gulda. He was an expert at stacking and winding the brush so it held together. They learned from him. It was slow going but Thomas could see progress was being made.
February arrived with a week of extremely high temperatures, then suddenly clouds appeared and they had their first reprieve from the incessant heat in weeks. Everyone cut and stacked brush as usual but when it was time to go to the boundary, Lizzie insisted the women come to inspect the fence.
“We want to see what our work is going towards,” Lizzie said. “I’ve packed a picnic.”
Thomas took a seat on the cart beside her and led the way to the southern end of the fence, where the large gu
ms along the creek would give them some shade. They must have looked a strange procession: Thomas in the cart with Lizzie and Daisy, baby Rose in her arms; Gulda on horseback; Timothy and Zac with the wagon and dray; and Joseph and Tommie bouncing along on top of the bundles of brush.
“Oh, look at it,” Lizzie exclaimed as the start of the fence came in sight. Beginning at a high point above the creek, it continued on up the hill and disappeared over the rise.
Thomas felt a small burst of pride. Their hard work was paying off. “It’s just as long at the northern end,” he said. “A few more weeks and we should meet in the middle.”
Thomas took the cart across the creek bed. They’d formed quite a track after the many crossings they’d made. He’d thought about making some kind of sign to hang from a nearby tree, something to announce the start of Wildu Creek. How quickly time had gone since he’d driven the first mob of sheep over this very spot.
“You’ve achieved a lot in five years,” Lizzie said as if reading his mind.
There was a small cry behind them. They turned to look at Daisy. She had climbed down from the slow-moving cart and strode past them towards the fence. Gulda slid from his horse and followed her. Daisy turned on him, speaking loudly in a language none of the others understood.
“I’ve never heard Daisy sound so upset before,” Lizzie said
Gulda put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder but she shrugged it off and spoke to him again, waving an arm at the fence.
“It’s the fence,” Thomas said. He handed the reins to Lizzie and climbed down from the cart.
“What’s the matter?” Zac asked as his wagon rolled up next to Thomas.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Everything was fine until we got here.”
He walked towards the natives. He couldn’t understand what they were saying but he recognised the tenor of Gulda’s voice. At first it had been sharp but now he spoke in soothing low tones, trying to placate the agitated Daisy.
“What is it, Gulda?” Thomas asked.
Daisy stopped her diatribe. Her shoulders sagged and she kept her eyes averted from Thomas. She turned away, called Tommie to her side and walked around the group to the creek.
Heart of the Country Page 36