by JH Fletcher
‘Yes. Of — of course I remember.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do. Tell me, who’s the toughest of them?’
That was easy. It had to be Armstrong. Yet Rufus hesitated. It could be a trick question. No-one knew better than he how much his father hated Charlie Armstrong. Think, he told himself. But the thoughts refused to come. He made another frantic guess.
‘Jock Harris?’
‘Harris?’ George’s lemon-sour mouth showed what he thought of that idea. ‘Armstrong would eat Jock Harris for breakfast.’
‘Yes, of course …’
‘Send Saul to talk to Armstrong. Tell him to make him an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘But you hate him!’
‘There’s no room for hatred in business. Get Armstrong on our side and the rest will soon collapse. Then we can deal with him later, at our leisure.’
‘But will he agree to join us?’ Rufus wondered. To join you was what he meant but he did not dare say it.
‘Why shouldn’t he? Provided he doesn’t know we’re behind it.’
‘He’s bound to find out.’
‘Later, perhaps. But by then it’ll be too late.’
A fortnight later, with Brenda moored for the night five miles upriver from Eagle on the Hill, Charlie and Will had a visit from attorney Saul. They reluctantly asked him into the saloon.
‘Thought we’d seen the last of you,’ said Charlie, not disposed to politeness towards this man.
‘Hoped we had,’ added Will.
Saul was not a man to let hostility trouble him. He laughed genially. ‘You made a powerful impression on me at our last meeting, Mr Armstrong. Very powerful.’
‘As I recall, you threatened me.’
‘With a warrant,’ said Will.
‘You must grant us poor attorneys a degree of latitude,’ Saul said. ‘Threats are our stock in trade.’
‘So what are you threatening us with now?’
‘Gentlemen, please … No threats this time. Far from it, I assure you. I’ve come to offer you a business opportunity.’
‘He’s got some wool he wants us to ship,’ Will said.
Saul seized on his words. ‘In a sense that’s exactly right.’
Charlie looked at them: the gamecock youth; the slithery slip of a lawyer. ‘Keep goin’ the way you are now, Mr Saul, and my brother may just end by chuckin’ you in the river.’
‘I’m sure you’d protect me.’
‘Why should I bother? Or has George Grenville sent you to offer us an exchange? Eagle on the Hill for Brenda?’
A thin smile. ‘Hardly.’
‘Lucky. Means I don’ have to offend ’im by sayin’ no.’
‘Mr Grenville has nothing to do with this business. It is another client I am representing.’
‘Who?’ Straight-to-the-point Will.
‘I am not at liberty to disclose his identity.’
It was day’s end and Charlie was too tired to play games. ‘G’day, Mr Saul.’
‘Hear me out, Mr Armstrong. My client asked whom I would recommend. I took the liberty of mentioning your name.’
‘What’s all this about?’ Charlie was intrigued despite himself.
‘He wishes to enter into a joint venture with you.’
‘When I don’ even know who he is? What kind of a fool does he take me for?’
‘He doesn’t take you for a fool, I assure you. He sees you as someone who’ll recognise a good business opportunity and be man enough to grasp it.’
Twilight had fallen while they were talking. The faces of the men were dissolving in the gathering darkness. Charlie got up and lit the lamp. In the sharp yellow glare he returned to his seat.
‘Man enough?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘It’s a simple proposition. No doubt you have heard of Titan.’
Charlie’s eyes sharpened. ‘We’ve all heard of Titan, Mr Saul.’
‘Then you will also know that Titan’s rates are extremely competitive.’
Charlie said nothing.
‘You may have wondered how she is able to charge so little and remain solvent. My client’s suggestion is that you should reduce your rates to match Titan.’
‘I’ve a better idea,’ Charlie said. ‘I take the selectors’ wool for free. That way I’ll go broke even quicker.’
‘We’re not talking about going broke. Quite the opposite. My client would undertake to make up the shortfall.’
A ripple broke against Brenda’s side.
‘So we match Titan in the marketplace but recover the balance from your client?’ Charlie asked.
‘Look on it as a subsidy.’
‘Look on it as a bribe,’ said Will.
‘A normal business arrangement.’
Charlie’s expression was shut tight. ‘Which would drive other captains, men I know, most of whom I like, out of business.’
Saul shrugged. ‘The way of the world, Mr Armstrong. The strong flourish, the weak go to the wall.’
‘And you want me to be the one to put ’em there.’
‘If you don’t, someone else will. What difference does it make?’
‘At least my way I get to sleep at night.’
‘Unless you, too, are driven to the wall. Do you think others will refuse the opportunity, just because you have too nice a conscience to take it yourself?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘Some may not.’
‘It would only take one.’ Saul looked at the brothers in turn. ‘I admire a certain sturdiness of character. But in this case I believe it will be in your own interests to accept my client’s offer. He envisages that you and he will control all the river trade between you. Shut out competition and you’ll be able to set your own rates. You’ll be rich, Mr Armstrong! Rich!’ His excitement echoed in the lamplight. ‘I have a draft agreement —’
‘Don’ rush me.’
Charlie got up and went out on deck. Among the trees a roosting bird cackled drowsily.
Just as he’d thought. Titan’s owner planned to control all the river trade. He wanted the Armstrongs to help him do it. It would mean riches, security … and Saul was right. If Charlie said no, they’d soon find someone else. But he thought of Max Duggan and his vast family. Ferocious Jock Harris. He liked these men. They trusted him. No way was he going to stab them in the back. There was no need to talk it over with Will. His brother would go along with whatever he decided. He turned and went back into the saloon.
‘Thank your client,’ he said. ‘The answer’s no.’
Saul had not expected to be turned down. There were sharp words. Eventually Will had to offer to chuck him in the river, after all, before they could get rid of him.
1876
CHAPTER 19
It was a year later — October 1876 — and the rain was falling in torrents. It took over the river and forest; the plains vanished behind its grey veil; it filled the air so that to Charlie, standing in Brenda’s wheelhouse, she seemed to be travelling not upon the surface of the river but through the depths of a waterway that reached high into the sky.
The river’s chocolate-coloured surface curdled with white where it broke against the drowned roots of trees and spilt out across the land. Overnight the Murray plain became an inland sea. It reminded Charlie of their last trip down the Darling with Henry.
It had been a good season in the Outback. Despite Titan, Brenda’s holds were packed full of wool bales, with more roped in piles along her decks, as she headed west through the downpour. She entered the section of the river that led to the small waterside settlement of Evans, where two years ago Charlie had had his run-in with the border guards over the question of a borrowed horse. For months after that he’d been cautious about showing himself in Evans for fear of meeting up with either of the men again. It had never happened, and he had later heard they’d been transferred to other areas, yet caution had become a habit and even now he avoided the town when he could.
He was twelve miles east of the town, po
wering down one of the Murray’s rare straight stretches, when he saw a young woman standing up to her thighs at the stream’s edge, arms waving like flags about her head. For a moment he thought she was simply waving to him, then the urgency of the flailing arms made him realise that she was trying to attract his attention.
He rang the bell for Will to reduce speed. As the engine note fell away he called across to her.
‘Need any help?’ The noise of the river drowned her reply. ‘I’ll try and get a bit closer.’
He spun the heavy wheel. It was tricky work, bringing the cliff-like side of the paddle steamer broadside to the racing current and then, not more than thirty yards from the bank, holding her in place against the racing stream. But somehow he managed it.
He left the wheel and went out onto the deck.
‘Can’ get no closer!’ he called. ‘What’s the problem?’
Now he could hear what the young woman was telling him, although many of her words were still swallowed up by the rush of the stream. Something about a rowing boat washed away by the floods and the need to fetch supplies for her family.
He studied her as he listened. She was drenched. Her clothes clung to her like a second skin; her dark hair hung about her face. She was tall and slim, with a determined set to her mouth; she looked capable of pulling up a tree by the roots if she had a mind.
‘Want a lift down?’
‘Would you?’
‘I’ll send a boat across for you.’
It would please Will no end, rowing across the raging river in a deluge.
She ran back up the bank and into the trees. When she returned she had a boy of about twelve with her, bony knees and eyes everywhere.
She was obviously not used to the water; when the boat came alongside Brenda she stood up so clumsily that it was a miracle she didn’t tip them over.
Charlie reached out to grab her. ‘Gimme your hand!’
And he half-hauled, half-guided her aboard.
She had tied back her hair. She had strong cheekbones and her eyes were a vivid blue. As she stumbled onto the deck, her hand imprisoned in his, her skin felt cool and roughened by work. It was the capable hand of a good-looking, capable young woman.
Her name was Sarah. Sarah Keach. Her brother was Arthur. Her father, as Charlie had guessed, was a selector.
‘So where is he at the moment?’
‘At a neighbour’s place. Our house was washed out by the floods so he’s gone to ask if they’ll help him put it up again.’
Something made him ask: ‘And will they?’
‘No chance. They’ll all be drunk by now.’
As though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for her it was; stories like this were familiar along the Murray.
‘And your mother?’
‘I made a fire and she’s got some gin. She’ll be right.’
It was none of Charlie’s business, after all. He led her and her brother into the wheelhouse and they went on down the river.
After dropping the pair of them off at the Evans wharf he found himself thinking of Sarah repeatedly.
Such a tough life. All along the river selectors were trying to scratch a living from the arid soil. A man like George Grenville, with a large estate and plenty of money, might make a good income from his vines, but it was difficult to see how the selectors would make out on their stamp-sized blocks. Some would battle through, but the majority would not. They would be ground down by the remorseless land. And what would happen to their families? They, too, would be swallowed up. Including Sarah, with her blue gaze and air of quiet competence. It seemed such a waste.
He reminded himself again that it was none of his business, yet her image travelled all the way downriver with him, and was at his shoulder when he discharged his cargo of wool and took on a fresh supply of goods from old man Tomkins, the Goolwa store owner.
After a week carrying out minor repairs, he and Will were making ready to head upriver once again. Charlie thought he might stop off on the way to see how things were working out for Sarah and her parents. For purely altruistic reasons, of course.
He might have done it, too, had a piano not intervened.
CHAPTER 20
Steam was up and Brenda was ready to cast off when Owen Snibbs, the chandler, sent his boy chasing along the wharf to tell Charlie that something had come up. For which Snibbs, of course, wanted a cut.
Charlie and Will had been commissioned, could you believe it, to deliver a grand piano to a squatter whose wife, weary of sheep, hoped to introduce a little culture into her life.
Mrs Flora Madigan, all flounces but steel beneath, had come personally to Goolwa to supervise the loading. Now the boat she had intended to use had got itself grounded on some rocks upriver. The piano was due to arrive at the port the next day and Mrs Madigan wanted action at once, action now. She inspected Brenda, cross-examined Charlie for an hour and at the end of it declared herself willing to entrust him with the honour and responsibility of transporting her precious piano to Menindee.
That was a business.
Overnight the weather turned foul. The piano arrived and was stored in a warehouse, but within an hour the rain was pouring down. Mrs Madigan, terrified that the storm might mark her prized possession, refused to authorise loading until the skies cleared. So Brenda lay alongside the wharf while the crated piano stayed in the warehouse with a sheet over it to keep off the dust.
It rained for three days and three nights, and for the whole of that time the only movement came from Mrs Madigan. She paced up and down the wharf in her tight little shoes and looked sourly at the sky from the shelter of her parasol and more sourly still at Charlie, as though he’d planned the weather deliberately to spite her.
After a bit Will was sick of it. He took off into town on the pretext of buying a spare injector for the engine. When he came back three hours later he had bells on his toes.
‘Where is it?’ Charlie asked.
‘Where’s what?’
‘The injector.’
‘Oh. The injector. Right.’
To anyone with eyes it was obvious he’d been distracted by something — or someone — a good deal more interesting than an injector.
Charlie smiled inside, but said nothing. While Mrs Madigan brought down the wrath of God on the rain, which continued to fall regardless.
The rest of the day passed in silence, with Will getting up now and then to stare through the saloon window at the rain, before sighing like a furnace and sitting down again. Until at last …
‘Somethin’ on your mind?’ Charlie asked.
‘Why should there be?’ Will scowled as though the question were a mortal insult.
‘I just asked.’ Again Charlie smiled inside himself.
Time passed, while the rain drummed on the deck overhead and seethed on the surface of the river.
‘Did you know Snibbs has got his daughter helpin’ him in the shop now?’
Will spoke in a tone of wonder, as though never before in the history of the world had any shopkeeper’s daughter helped her father in a shop.
‘See ’er, did you?’
Will had done better than that. He had spoken to her, and all thoughts of injectors had flown straight out the door.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Petal.’
‘Petal?’
‘You got a problem with that?’ Will was very fierce about it.
‘Why should I have a problem with it?’
‘Because if you have you better spit it out.’
Petal Snibbs. Good grief. But Charlie knew better than to make a squeak.
After Will had paced the saloon for another hour or two, sighing and staring at the engine, seeing nothing, the rain finally stopped. With Mrs Madigan in charge, the removals gang brought the piano into the light, its glossy surface shining through the wooden slats of the crate. Its colour …
‘Pink?’
‘Made special,’ said Mrs Madigan.
&
nbsp; The men went to fasten the sling.
‘Careful with the rope,’ she said.
The men looked at each other.
‘Get on with it,’ said the foreman, voice shut against all he might have said. He too had endured Mrs Madigan for what felt like a lifetime over the past three days.
‘Be sure the crate is balanced!’ ordered Mrs Madigan. ‘Keep it level! That piano is valuable. We don’t want it sliding about.’ Which was clearly impossible, with the piano as snug-fitting inside its crate as a man in a straitjacket.
The crane chuffed steam as the hook was fastened to the sling.
The foreman revolved his hand clockwise above his head. The cable grew taut.
Mrs Madigan screeched as though the crane hook were in her throat. ‘Stop! Stop!’
The foreman cut his hand sideways. The crane stopped.
‘Well?’ Murdering her with his eyes.
‘It’s going to slip. I know it.’
‘Mrs Madigan,’ the foreman said, speaking as though half-strangled by all the words he was holding back, ‘I have moved a hundred pianos in my time. A thousand, maybe. And I have never yet —’
‘Hoist it like that,’ Mrs Madigan told him, ‘it’ll end up in the river.’ She could imagine so clearly the tragedy that would break her heart. ‘All I am asking for is a little care.’
‘A little care,’ said the foreman. ‘Of course. Haul away,’ he shouted to the crane driver. ‘With a little care, if you please. For Mrs Madigan’s benefit.’ How he would have loved to set the piano on fire, with Mrs Madigan on top of it.
Up the crate rose — with care. An inch. A foot. Swinging a little, held by the restraining ropes. Up a little more. Now it was level with their heads. Now above, with Flora Madigan distraught in her floral hat.
‘Stop!’ screamed the squatter’s wife.
This time the crane driver did not wait for the foreman’s signal. The wire rope stopped. The piano hung in midair.
Mrs Madigan turned on Charlie. ‘You told me the hold was big enough to take the piano.’
‘So it is.’
But Mrs Madigan was having none of that. She knew better, as in all things; even her husband’s sheep had learnt to obey her. ‘Look at it. It’ll never get through that opening.’