Daughter of Australia

by Harmony Verna

  Ghan cut through the simmering lines to the Aussie side. As it was closer to town, the news had come here first, boiled longer. Voices rose within tents. A ring of men clustered near the camp cook, warmed their thick hands next to the fire. Ghan placed his coins in the open can and took his coffee and eggs to a spot behind the men. He sat on the bare ground, his good leg bent under him, the peg leg sticking out like a broken wing.

  Two men came near with their tin plates. They plopped down on the dirt, their shadows edging his own. “Whot yeh bringin’?” one man asked the other, his voice low as distant thunder.

  “Knife. You?”

  “Fists.” The man stretched out his hand over his plate before grabbing the fork. “Like t’feel the bones crunchin’ under the knuckles.” His face was pockmarked, the holes opening and scrunching with each bite. “Timing couldn’t be better, eh? Wiv that manager party at the hotel.”

  The other man laughed. A piece of egg fell slobbery onto the ground. “Give ’em a party t’remember, eh, Hugh?”

  “Bloody hard t’hold back till then. Men want to wait till the party starts, wait till the streets dark. Still, hard t’hold back.”

  “Shhhh.” The slobbery one wiped his mouth. “Careful. Cripple’s listenin’.”

  Ghan shoveled in his eggs without tasting them, tried to keep his face even.

  “He ain’t gonna say nothin’.” Hugh raised his voice. “Ain’t that right, peg leg?”

  Ghan chewed slowly, kept his eyes straight on the food.

  Hugh chuckled. “Told yeh.” He rubbed his hand over his scarred skin, his eyes severe. “Heard ’Arrington’s gonna be there.”

  “Heard right. Bringin’ that wife of his wiv ’im.”

  “No shit? Whores gonna miss their favorite customer.” The men laughed, snorted again.

  “Ain’t been wiv a woman so damn long, I’d take half a whore at this point.”

  “Fair dinkum.” Hugh scowled. “Ain’t seen my wife for three years. Like t’get my hands on that ’Arrington lady, I tell yeh. Teach her whot a real man feels like.”

  The other man stuck his fork in the air. “Why don’t yeh? Might as well grab some fun while the men gettin’ worked over.”

  “Whoa-a!” Hugh clapped his hands. “Hell, we all deserve a good turn! Get the other blokes fired up just to talk ’bout it. By Gawd, Angus, yeh got somepin there! Pass the lady round so everybody gets a smack.”

  The food lodged in Ghan’s throat. He stopped chewing, stopped moving. His stomach cramped. The air pressed against his body like walls.

  “Hey, cripple!” Hugh hollered. “When the last time yeh been wiv a woman?”

  Ghan raised his eyes over the plate but did not turn his head. “Go ask yer wife,” he spit.

  Hugh’s face contorted and one lip jutted, but Angus erupted in laughter, slapped his friend on the back. “He’s pokin’ yeh, mate!”

  Hugh’s lip settled, curved up; he laughed a little too hard. “No worries, mate. We’ll get yeh a turn!”

  Angus plowed in a mouthful of eggs and spluttered, “Yeh comin’ wiv us tonight, ain’t yeh? Kick them E-talians out once an’ fer all? Teach ’em managers a little lesson?”

  Ghan stayed silent and the men’s eyes darkened above their smiles. “Either wiv us or against us, mate,” warned Hugh.

  Ghan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood to go. “I’ll be there.”

  Torn. Ripped between two parts. Ghan walked. He walked in one direction and then another. He walked toward the sun until it seared his nose and then he walked against it until his back sweated through the shirt. And with the walking came the listening—murmurs and plans, impatient and idle knuckles cracking. If he ratted out the strikers, the Aussies and Italians would beat him; if he kept quiet about the strike, the managers would beat him; if he didn’t do anything and some woman got manhandled, he’d beat himself. There was no middle road, no gray. He had to choose one way and then run as fast and far away from the dogs at his heels.

  Ghan missed Whistler fiercely. The anger that crowded around the camp made him weak. Whistler had felt it first, tried to warn him. And now it was here and he was in the thick of it. He knew too much.

  Ghan cursed that breakfast with grinding teeth. Wished he hadn’t heard those men talk, wished he hadn’t listened to their poison. He was sick with it now. Thinking about that woman; thinking what they wanted to do to that woman. The managers be damned. Harrington be damned. At this point, let all the men be damned, white and olive. But not the woman. Not a woman, for God’s sake. Man’s never got a right to hurt a woman. Didn’t matter who this woman was, good or bad, mean or nice, ugly or pretty. A man don’t ever touch a woman like that.

  Ghan crawled inside his tent. He lay on his back, stared at the filthy ceiling. Shadows of resting flies dotted the underside of the canvas. He could go to the police. They’d come out with clubs and warnings and stomp through the camp. Men would pout, look dumb. Ain’t no trouble ’ere, they’d say. But they would wait. The anger would wait and grow. Outcome was still the same, different night, different day.

  Ghan let the heat of the trapped air sink into his brain, soften it. He could go to the managers. Tell them the strike was coming. Rat the whole crew out. Ghan shook his head sadly. But the managers . . . that Harrington . . . they’re a cocky crew. They’d go to the police. Or they’d want to fight the miners themselves. They would hold their party. Miners just maggots to them. A rich man with a line of police ain’t got no fear of maggots.

  Ghan pulled himself up on his elbow. He put the last of his money in his pocket and climbed out of the tent with an exhale of the inevitable, his decision made.

  In town, Ghan crossed to the telegraph office, saw the two men from breakfast stationed in front, watching everyone who passed, listening for loose tongues. Ghan turned back, tried to get his thoughts straight again. Three worn bicycles lined the messenger’s office. A lanky boy crouched in the corner between jobs. Take a biker half a day to get to the Harrington place, Ghan guessed. Besides, you couldn’t trust those boys, their tongues as loose as their pedaling legs. His eyes moved to an old, roofless ute. A black man slept in the front, his legs hanging out the window, his bare feet covered in dirt. His hat covered his face.

  Ghan hurried over to the truck, pounded on the thin metal hood. “This yer truck?”

  “Boss’s,” the young black man said dryly, peeking from his hat. “Boss drunk at the pub.”

  “Yeh drive this thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want t’earn a few bucks?”

  The man dragged his feet in and rested his folded arms on the dashboard.

  Ghan continued quickly, “Yeh know Wanjarri Downs?”

  “Yeah, know it. Got family there.”

  “How long it take yeh t’get there?”

  “If I speedin’? Three, four hours.”

  “Need yeh to deliver a message to Mr. ’Arrington. It’s urgent.”

  The man laughed, his white teeth stretching the length of his mouth. “Who gonna listen to an Abo, boss?”

  He was right. “Hold up.” Ghan dug through a pile of trash rotting near the co-op and found an oily paper bag, ripped off a rectangle. “Yeh got anything to write wiv in there?”

  The man searched the floor and pulled up a pencil. Ghan handed him the paper. “Write this down.”

  The white teeth glistened and he handed the paper back. “Don’t write nothin’ but an X.”

  Ghan stared at the paper. He put it on the hood and tried to hold the pencil, fumbled it between his fingers, then finally grasped it in his fist. He set the lead down and closed his eyes, tried to remember a word as a picture in his illiterate head. Sweat poured off his nose and spotted the paper. He cursed. He looked down past the station and his eyes settled on the Hotel Imperial and its bold letters vertical on the side. He knew its name. Sounded it out in his head, moved his tongue in his mouth with the sound, rolled each letter. The first was shorter and must be “Hotel.” />
  Ghan flattened the paper and with stuttering wrist copied the word HOTEL in big letters on the paper. “Hotel”—the first word he had ever written, no better than a three-year-old. He looked at the heavy print with anger and shame and sadness. He drew a big X over the word. It was all he could do. He handed the paper to the Aborigine. “Mr. ’Arrington gets this, yeh hear me?”

  “Whot if he don’t want it?”

  “Then give it to any white man there. Tell him not to let Mr. ’Arrington leave. Orright?”

  “Sure, boss.” The man smiled and folded the note, put it in his pocket. He held out his hand. Ghan gave him a few bills and the man’s eyes grew wide. He started the truck with a roar.

  Ghan pounded the hood. “When yeh get back ’ere, don’t say a word, got it?”

  He smiled his white teeth again. “Who gonna listen to an Abo, eh, boss?”

  The car rolled away down the street, the black man’s thin body bouncing with each jolt. He watched him go without relief, only resignation. Ghan had done all he could.

  Ghan headed for his camp, tried not to look at the rows of tents that would probably be burned by nightfall. He stumbled with throbbing head under his canvas, pulled at the wood post that kept it straight, but then stopped. If he took the tent down, news would run through the camp like sewage that he was packing up. He gritted his teeth. He’d have nothing—no money, no tent. Ghan packed up what he could and stuffed it in his shirt. He left the hovel, looked behind him one last time and scurried toward the trees as fast as his peg could move.

  CHAPTER 55

  James ran after the shearing truck and waved at the driver to stop. When the truck slowed, he climbed on the rear bumper and pushed in the bales of wool that were sliding out. He retied the rope and jumped back to the ground. “Load nearly toppled out,” he said to the driver, then smacked the door. “You’re good now.” The man tipped his hat and drove off, the load swaying like a dancing rump.

  An old ute carried a trail of dust from the other side of the road, turned too fast into the drive, lifting half the wheels off the ground, then settled with an angry bang. The truck parked in front of the house and a lean Aborigine sauntered out, his hat so low that only his chin showed. He climbed the stairs to the big house and knocked on the door. Meredith came to the window, peered out with a grimace and disappeared behind the curtain, closing it tight. The Aborigine waited for several minutes, then laughed, retraced his footprints lazily.

  Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead, still panted from loading the bales. “What you think he wants?”

  “Maybe a bite.” James frowned. “Cook didn’t even open the door for the bloke.”

  The black man went back to the car. “Something I can get for you?” James shouted.

  The man flashed him a full set of white teeth. “Lookin’ fer Mr. ’Arrington.”

  “Left this morning.”

  The man’s smile faded. “Too bad. Had a message fer ’im.” He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of brown paper, handed it to James.

  The lead had smeared on the oily paper, but he saw the word, saw the pressure of the X that had ripped holes. “Who gave this to you?”

  “White fella. Told me t’tell Mr. ’Arrington not t’come.” The man watched James’s face carefully and the black lines lost their silliness. “There’s trouble in Coolgardie. Tonight. Everybody steamin’. Everybody lookin’ t’fight.” His eyes were full then and deep and held James with a steady urgency. He pointed a finger at the paper and shook his head. “Trouble. Gonna get ugly. Men gonna strike. Riot.”

  James thought of the car that left this morning. Alex had the suitcases. Leonora sat on the passenger side, her head down. He hadn’t looked at them further. He couldn’t look at them together without feeling sick. The Aborigine was watching him and James balled up the paper, balled up the image of Alex and Leonora.

  “You want to rest in the shade for a bit?” James asked. “Can give you some tucker for the ride.” He spoke as he would to a white man and the Aborigine relaxed.

  “Naw. Gotta get back ’fore the boss wakes up. Drag his arse out ’fore the trouble starts.”

  James nodded and the man drove away, his body bouncing in the seat of the lurching, burping old truck.

  Tom walked over. “What was that all about?”

  “Said there’s going to be trouble in Coolgardie.” James clenched the crumpled paper in his palm, squeezed it until it was small as a pea. “A strike. Came to tell Alex to stay away.”

  Tom scoffed, “Och. Sounds like a ghost story to me. Somebody tryin’ to spook him!” Tom smirked then. “Second thought, serve the cocky bastard right to find a little trouble.”

  “Leonora’s with him.” The words sounded like a memory.

  “You buyin’ it?” Tom paused, didn’t get an answer.

  “Got a bad feeling about it, Tom. Something in that bloke’s eyes. Can’t explain it.”

  “I can.” Tom smirked. “You miss your girlfriend.” He held his rib with the joke, stretched his arm up to untighten it. “Orright,” he conceded. “Won’t hurt to check it out. Hell, haven’t been to town in months, maybe we can get a good meal out of it.”

  Tom’s lips tired with songless whistling as he and James sped through hours on the straight road to Coolgardie. They passed the hacked forest, the dots of stumps appearing black as holes in the falling twilight. The tires followed the embedded wheel ruts of the road and James fought with the steering to keep the car in steady alignment. He flicked on the headlights, a pale light fighting against the gray and sharpening with approaching night. Tom’s bottom slid back on the seat and his back straightened. “You smell that?”

  “Something’s burning. Look.” James pointed. In the gray-blue of falling dark rose the matching thin lines of smoke.

  “Christ.”

  James pressed on the gas and ground the wheels faster. Tom rubbed his forehead. “We got t’think here, James. Orright? We can’t just throw ourselves into this thing.”

  “She’s in there, Tom.”

  “I know.” His breath came quick and he moved closer to the edge of the seat. “I know, but we got t’think here or we’re gonna get ourselves killed.”

  The smoke from Coolgardie grew and blossomed in a venomous cloud. From the east another sky illuminated in red with a glowing swell and then the smoke followed, rougher this time as it competed with the flames. “Aw, Christ. This is bad.”

  The car rose up a ridge, brought the first distant view of a lit Coolgardie. Smoke poured and fought with billowy black limbs to crawl higher and higher into the night. Red flames licked at yellow sparks and the town haloed orange in spots. Tom tried to speak, but his lips moved uselessly. He swallowed, then tried again, “It’s all over the place. They don’t know which direction they’re going.”

  “Yes, they do.” James’s voice came hard and deep. “They’re circling.”

  The car churned toward the heated valley. “Remember where the hotel was?” James asked shortly.

  “Yeah. To the left of the depot.”

  “We’re going to head out behind the tracks and leave the car, round up by the depot and see if we can get into the hotel.”

  In town, the smoke joined and thickened. The headlights struggled to cut through the swirling black. The car flew off the main road onto a horse route and clattered blindly to the tracks. The tires hit a steel line of track, pushed over it. They left the car and pulled their shirts up over their noses, ran toward the buildings spotted with fire. Ears throbbed with the shrill bells of the fire trucks. Breaking glass popped to the hard ground. Men shouted; voices echoed.

  James and Tom slunk through a long alley perpendicular to the main street. A fire truck stood lifeless, its hose hacked to pieces, the ladder lying in splinters. They pressed backs against a brick wall and waited as a mob of men, a faceless and crawling beast, rushed down the main road toward the hotel. A man broke from the group like a snapped thread, smashed a wood beam studded
with nails into the tires of a dead car, beat the ground until the wood snapped. The air reeked of spilled oil and kerosene. James grabbed Tom’s shirt and pointed to the far wing of the hotel. “We go in the side window.”

  One quick breath and then they ran at the hotel, the fourth tier already awash with flames. The back window was smashed and they climbed over the shards of razored glass into the dark and smoky lobby. A few strays of the mob saw the figures and rushed the window, swinging sticks at any moving body. A hit landed to Tom’s lower back and left him stumbling. James and two other men caught who they could and sent them flying through the cut window. New pounding erupted from the front doors while men barricaded the entrance.

  In a flash, they were spun and separated by the panicked patrons. “Tom!” James shouted, but his voice was lost. A flame shot from the bar and small explosions followed as the bottles of alcohol erupted. In the flash of light, terror streaked faces, women screamed and men barked orders. James scanned the room between the intermittent illumination and searched for her face. And there was Alex—bobbing under the shooting glass, holding collars and shouting into men’s ears. James plowed through the people and grabbed his arm. “Alex!”

  Alex looked up, bewildered.

  “Where’s Leo?” James screamed.

  Through the chaos, Alex paused, cocked his head, and James wanted to strangle him. “Where’s your wife, goddammit!”

  Alex’s face twitched as if slapped, turned tortured. “I can’t find her! She wasn’t with me when the fire broke out.” He grabbed James, frantic as a drowning man. “You’ve got to find her! So help me, I’ll never forgive myself if anything’s happened to her!”

  “What floor were you on?” Please don’t be the fourth.

  “Second! The whole floor is covered in smoke.”

  “All right.” James scanned the room again, rose up slightly. “Listen, Tom’s here, too. Somewhere.”