by JH Fletcher
Charlie looked at them in turn. ‘What sort of problems?’
‘Big problems,’ answered the first guard.
The second guard smiled happily. ‘This bloke you borrowed the horse from. Thing is, he don’t seem to know he lent it to you. We got a telegraph message says the owner don’t reckon he lent it to nobody. He says somebody stole it.’
‘That’s nonsense.’ Even to his own ears, Charlie’s answer sounded feeble.
‘Maybe yes and maybe no. What we’ll do, we’ll make some inquiries.’
‘That’s the right thing to do,’ said Charlie earnestly. ‘In the meantime I got some pressin’ business. I’ll ride on and —’
‘You’re goin’ nowhere.’ No smiles now. ‘You’ll stay in the lockup till we’ve sorted this out.’
‘I told you, I got business —’
‘It’ll have to wait.’
Charlie would have been willing to argue but saw the guards’ pistols and knew there was no point.
The lockup was just outside Evans, a tiny riverside settlement five miles from the border. The second guard escorted him there on horseback.
‘Don’t try and get away, will you? I wouldn’t want to have to shoot you.’
Such consideration! Charlie rode slowly, shoulders hunched, wondering how he was going to get out of this one.
The lockup was only a wooden shed but it was massively built, with walls of double planking and a door to match. One look and Charlie knew he’d never smash his way out of this place without an axe.
The guard put one hand on Charlie’s shoulder and shoved him through the doorway.
‘You’ll stay ’ere till mornin’. By then we should have an answer from Adelaide.’
‘What about the horse?’
‘In the shed round the back,’ the guard said. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t let anything happen to it. Evidence, see?’
‘Doesn’t look like this place is used much,’ Charlie said.
‘You’re privileged,’ the guard told him. ‘Mostly it’s just a store. What I’d really like is to have Captain Moonlite in here but until they catch him I guess you’ll have to do.’
He went out and secured the door behind him. Charlie stood in the darkness, listening to the bolts shooting home, the rasp of the key turning in the lock. The earth floor smelt damp, the air was stale, the darkness pressed upon him.
He heard the clop of hooves as the guard rode away. When the sound had died he went systematically around the shed, groping in the darkness, testing every plank and corner, finding nothing. The wood was as solid as stone.
Except in one place. The door — he thought it was the door — gave slightly under his fingers when he pressed it. He still had the matches he’d bought in Adelaide. He struck one and saw he’d been pressing a log in a stack of loose twigs and branches that someone had left to one side of the door.
His shoulders slumped. No help there.
The match started to burn his fingers. He cursed and dropped it. It flared briefly and went out, leaving the cell darker than ever.
Slowly the night passed while Charlie’s mind scurried like a rat in a maze, testing one possibility after another. He could kick his way through the door. Or the wall. He could find a weakness in the roof. He could dig his way to freedom through the dirt floor.
He considered each idea in turn. The double-planked walls didn’t move no matter how hard he shoved them. No chance of getting out that way. The roof was out of reach and likely to be as solid as the walls. The floor might have been more promising, if he’d had anything to dig with.
That left the door. Again he ran his hands over it, pressing and pushing, eventually hammering it with clenched fists in his frustration. Nothing. It did not shift even a fraction of an inch. There was a gap beneath the door. He could taste freedom in the outside air but the opening was no more than an inch or two wide. No way could he escape through that either. The hinges … He couldn’t find them in darkness so dense that it seemed to choke the breath in his throat. He struck another of his precious matches. As he had feared: the hinges were on the outside, beyond his reach.
He crouched in a corner of the cell, back pressed against the wall, face in his hands, while in the darkness flowed images of the hard labour to which he would undoubtedly be sentenced if he could not escape. He imagined himself on the treadmill or labouring in a chain gang under the iron whips of guards and could have set fire to the cell in his frustration.
Suddenly he paused, thoughts on tiptoe.
What if …?
His first thought was that it was impossible. A match to burn heavy timbers? Absolutely impossible.
Yet if he sat and did nothing …
The treadmill clanked in the darkness.
He took a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts.
There were cracks between the planks that made up the walls. There was a gap between the walls and the door. The untreated wood was dry and rough to the touch. Then there were the twigs and branches that had been stored here and presumably forgotten.
Would a fire of twigs and branches generate enough heat to set the door alight? And, if it did, how would it burn through the door without roasting him to death in the process? He imagined his flesh torn by teeth of flame.
There was only one way to find out.
He built a nest of the smallest sticks against the door and placed a few of the branches nearby to add to the flames as soon as they had burnt up enough.
He paused, matches in hand. It was impossible but there was no other way.
‘Please, God …’
He struck the match.
The twigs flared at once. The smoke made him cough. He placed two of the smallest branches over the flames, leaning them against the door. The fire licked them, hesitated, and went out.
‘No!’
Charlie’s clenched fists pounded the earth.
He took a deep breath and tried again. The same result. He placed his hand on the door. Barely warm. It was as he’d feared: the tiny flames weren’t creating enough heat to set fire to the heavy timbers.
He wouldn’t give up. There had to be a way.
With fumbling fingers he counted his precious matches. Only ten remained. When they were gone he would be truly without hope.
Yet if he left them in his pocket there was no hope anyway.
Think!
At last an idea came. Fumbling with eagerness — Don’t drop them! — he took three and jammed them into the crack between the door and the wall. He hesitated, then added a fourth. If this didn’t work he would have no hope anyway, yet he could not bring himself to use the remaining matches. With sufficient heat the door should catch easily enough.
With sufficient heat.
Again he built his fire, pressing as many twigs as he could into the crack around the matches.
A deep breath. He struck a match and held it to the stacked twigs. They flickered in a curl of smoke. They flared. Charlie watched with glaring eyes, willing the branches to catch. He was mindless of the smoke, of anything but the will to escape. He thought of the paddle steamer waiting for his return, his brothers who had put their futures in his hands. Come on, he told the flames. Come on!
A match exploded in a spurt of yellow fire. Then another. The flames grew stronger. One of the branches was burning now. The edge of the door smouldered with smoke and glowed red.
Come on!
Yet instinct warned him the fire was still not hot enough. The door was glowing but not yet alight. And it seemed to him the flames were hesitating.
He must not allow them to die.
Desperately he fed a match into the flames, followed by another. They exploded. The flames grew brighter. Still it wasn’t enough.
Now he had only four matches, not enough to light another fire if this one failed. With the air of a man placing a noose about his own neck, he took the remaining matches and jammed them into the crack between the door and wall.
All or nothing.
&n
bsp; The matches exploded. Flames ran along the base of the door. They flickered blue and yellow. They took hold. Charlie willed the fire to grow. It did. Slowly at first, then faster. The timber crackled. It began to sing. He piled on more branches, recklessly. The flames grew higher.
For the first time he became conscious of the smoke. It billowed in thick clouds, no longer merely a nuisance. The fumes tore at his throat. He lay flat on the ground with his face as close to the flames as he could bear, sucking in the fresh air that entered beneath the door. The flames were creating their own draught, but that also brought oxygen to fuel the flames.
The door was well alight, the walls smouldering. The danger now was that they too would catch fire. If that happened the cell would become a furnace with Charlie trapped inside. Even with his face flat on the floor, the smoke was making it harder and harder to breathe.
The flames had eaten deep into the door’s timbers. All the world had become a whirlpool of dazzling red and golden fire.
Charlie took a deep breath and stood up. He backed away, then ran forward. He lifted his boot. With all his force, he kicked flat-footed against the door — which showered sparks, but held.
At once he threw himself to the ground again, the smoke like razors in his throat. He sucked what fresh air he could into his tortured lungs. The flames roared. Soon it would be too hot to lie by the door at all. Soon, if the door did not give way, he would indeed be roasted alive.
Again he slammed his boot against the door. Again the timber showered sparks. Again it did not yield, but he thought it might have moved, just a little.
He lashed out again. This time it definitely moved. He waited, counting to a hundred, eyes screwed tight against the heat that scorched his face and seared his chest. He opened his eyes a fraction to look down and saw his shirt was smouldering.
Again he backed away and ran forward, yelling. His boot crashed against the door. It quivered. Again he did it. Again.
Now the walls on either side of the door were glowing red. Yet again his boot crashed against the door. Fuelled by heat and mounting terror, exhaustion was overwhelming him. He backed away once more, hurled himself forward and kicked with the last of his strength.
The door burst outwards in a stream of sparks and flame. He followed, flinging himself to the ground, eyes streaming, sucking in air that filled him like a spring, cool and wonderful. At his back the whole cell was ablaze. He could not stay here, yet could hardly stand.
Somehow he managed it. Staggering, gasping, he found his way to the stable, which fortunately was a dozen paces from the blazing cell. Even so, the gelding was snorting, wild-eyed with terror. Open the door and it would certainly bolt.
He eased himself into the stable, speaking soothingly to the horse, whose hooves lashed the stable wall. Somehow he got the bridle over its head, the saddle on its back. Beneath his hands, its flesh quivered with fear.
One foot in the stirrup, he hauled himself into the saddle. The horse was backing and twisting. He kicked open the door, holding on for all his worth, driving his knees high into its ribs. The gelding bolted.
The flames quickly faded from view. The blackness was full of branches. Charlie kept his head close to the straining neck, eyes shut, arms and legs holding on, literally, for his life.
The gelding ran for what seemed miles then, slowly, eased into a canter as panic faded and exhaustion took over. Finally it stopped, legs a-quiver, barrel heaving. Charlie eased himself in the saddle and gentled the horse with his open hand.
‘There … There …’
He was safe.
Yet another problem remained. He did not know where he was, knew only that at all costs he had to avoid the border guards. When they discovered the burnt-out lockup there would be hell to pay. He would have to be a long way off when that happened, but for the moment he had no idea which way to go.
He looked up at the sky but it was overcast and he could see nothing. He eased the reins and let the horse find its own way.
It walked through the scrub on legs that in time ceased to tremble. He guessed it would be thirsty and would make for the river. So it proved.
The trees thinned out and there came the scent of fecund earth, rich and damp. Another twenty paces and the Murray flowed silently before him. He was surrounded by the moist exhalations of the earth. The gelding stopped at the river’s edge, lowered its head and drank.
CHAPTER 13
Charlie drove himself and his mount so hard that the days became blurred by exhaustion. The derisive voices of cockatoos pursued him through the scrub; kangaroos leapt across his path; an echidna froze into simulated death as he went by. The memory of the burning lockup accompanied him as he fled deeper into the wilderness. And always, while he put the fugitive miles between himself and the custodians of an outraged law, he glimpsed intermittently between the trees the polished, silent presence of the great river.
He had to cross it, yet dared not risk the ferries, in case they were watched. Eventually he discovered a rocky shelf across which he drove his stolen mount, its hooves skittering on tongues of slippery rock. They waded to the saddle flaps through pools where the sinuous current wrapped itself about them, threatening to carry them away. Once across, he plunged again into the shadowed forest.
A blur of days — accompanied by the iron clank of the treadmill in his head, and the dread that he might be too late, that despite all his efforts he would arrive to find Brenda trapped for mosquito-haunted months in a mud-girt pool.
He reached the final crest and came down through the trees to the river. Which, thank God, was still there.
Will met him, truculent as ever. ‘What kept you?’
It was a miracle he was here at all, with no delay to speak of. Did Will think he should have flown?
‘I’ll tell you about it, one of these days.’
Next it was Henry’s turn. His eyes were wide with worry, his mind warring with the problems of engines. Grease smudged one cheekbone and blackened his fingers.
‘Did you get it?’
No talk of delay, or ‘Did you have a good journey?’, only concern that the engine should be made good again.
‘I did.’
‘Let’s see it.’
Charlie took it out of his pocket. Together they looked at it. It seemed so small a thing. There had been days of hard riding; one horse lost and another stolen; government property burnt; Charlie himself nearly roasted alive. Now, for all he knew, there could be a price on his head. All for this, a few inches of inert metal. Yet with the gift of life in it.
Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Let’s see if it fits.’
If it didn’t …
With Henry breathing anxiously at his shoulder, Charlie bared the engine’s wounded heart. And hesitated.
He twisted his neck to look up at Henry, who, far more than he, spoke the language of engines.
‘Which way round does it go?’
‘Let me.’
Henry squeezed past him. The grease-blackened fingers took the piece of metal and slipped it tenderly into place. Or nearly. At the last moment, it would not fit. Charlie watched helplessly, sweat on his face, as Henry coaxed the new part this way and that, talking to it as to a baby.
‘Come on, now. Come on. That’s right. That’s my beauty. Come on.’
A faint click. A sigh. Henry sat back on his heels.
‘There.’
His voice was quiet but his face flamed with delight. He leapt to his feet, dancing as though Brenda’s hull were on fire beneath his feet.
‘We done it!’
‘Will she work now?’
‘Course she’ll work! Like a champion!’
‘Can I help?’ Charlie asked, but Henry wanted to be alone with his champion and shook his head.
‘I’ll do it.’
Charlie went on deck and found Will standing there.
Will pointed his chin at the river. ‘Level’s droppin’. If we don’ git outta here in a day or two …’
&
nbsp; They both knew what that would mean.
The long day was dying, the sun setting over the flat and empty land. Along the narrow waterway the drab trees, grey and silent, were tinged with flame.
‘We’ll be on our way tomorrow.’
God willing.
‘Where’d you git yer ’orse?’ Will asked.
‘I borrowed it.’
‘Who’d lend you an animal like that?’
‘Long story.’ Some things were better unsaid.
It was dark hours before Henry was finished but he didn’t let that stop him. It was nearly full moon and Brenda had mirrors of polished metal mounted in the bows for night work. The mirrors were positioned so they could reflect the moonlight down the river ahead of them. Now Henry unshipped them and brought them aft so that the reflected moonlight shone on the engine.
To Charlie, watching, it was a confusion of shining metal with shadows as black as jet, utterly meaningless, but Henry’s fingers found their way as though the machinery were speaking to them.
About midnight it was done.
Henry and Will had used Charlie’s absence to build up a huge stack of timber. Now the three men lugged it on board and fired the boiler. By dawn, the stokehold drumming with heat and the steam gauges creeping ever higher, they were ready.
The gelding, head tossing, eyes white and rolling, was coaxed aboard. Charlie climbed the steps to the wheelhouse. He placed his hands on the long spokes of the wheel, moving it experimentally this way and that.
He looked at the waterway snaking ahead of him through the thirsty land. It was a journey leading to the Murray’s green depths and to a future that none of them could foresee, and Charlie couldn’t wait for it to begin.
He put his hand on the bell and rang it once.
A moment’s delay, long enough for the heart to lurch, for him to wonder …
A tremor went through the deck, through the wheel, through Charlie’s tightly muscled arms. He let out a full-throated yell as Brenda began to move.
Navigating the Darling was like working their way through a maze. They edged between rocks and whirlpools, skirted the edges of shallows, winched themselves around a hundred tight bends in a river that seemed to be made up of nothing else.