Eagle on the Hill

by JH Fletcher

  Safely on board, they had their own private celebration, including the baked cod that had already become a family tradition, a side of beef and another of lamb, a chook with potatoes baked in the fat, some carrots and green vegies and a jam pudding to pack out the corners. There was wine, beer, gin and whisky — which Petal, sampling it for the first time in her life, declared worse than strychnine — and a constant stream of visitors from the other riverboats in port. Solemnity was replaced by laughter and even, at a later stage in the evening, by singing as raucous in tone as it was robust in words: songs about women, and men, and women and men, and life. While all, all, was drowned in gales of laughter. Two blokes fell in the water, and a child stuffed himself to the eyes, got at the gin and was sick on the deck, to be slapped bow-legged by a mother barely more sober than he was. And all the while ardent Petal watched and marvelled at this new world, of which she was now a part, and wished that all the visitors would go away now so that she and Will could get on with the real purpose of the jollity.

  Eventually they did. Charlie took Brenda out into the stream and headed upriver, far enough for darkness and peace to return, and anchored off a little island, and they all turned in.

  Waddling Sarah undressed with difficulty. She hauled herself into the bunk and lay on her back.

  ‘I feel I’ve just finished a ten-mile hike.’

  There was silence, and then came the first stirring of sound from the big stern cabin, handed over to the newlyweds for the occasion. A murmur. A laugh. A squeak. A succession of indeterminate sounds that together added up to …

  In the next cabin, Sarah, listening unashamedly, held Charlie’s hand.

  ‘I’m so happy for them,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t listen!’ Charlie said.

  ‘You are.’ Which was true. ‘I only wish we could be doin’ it too.’

  For the moment it was out of the question, more was the pity.

  Sarah felt a seepage of the ardour that was being expressed so rhythmically on the other side of the bulkhead, but she was so exhausted it did not interfere with her sleep.

  She woke in the early hours of the morning. All was still. Charlie was breathing peacefully beside her. Beyond the window a full moon shed its silver light upon the sleeping world. From far away came the hoarse bawling of a ewe.

  Sarah knew herself twice blessed: once for being so and once for knowing it. She had married with misgivings, not over her choice of husband but over whether she was capable of being the companion he needed. Wife, lover, assistant, soon to be mother … a lifetime of tasks, spreading out in all directions until they consumed every particle of her being. Two years after her marriage, she still did not know whether she was equal to them. All she did know was that she would do her best.

  * * *

  Three days later, in the midwife’s rooms in Goolwa, while Charlie paced the wharf and the sun blazed from a sky shimmering with heat, Sarah Armstrong gave birth to a son.

  Charlie was summoned. He held the baby and didn’t know what to do with him, and was relieved to hand him back to his mother.

  Sarah watched her husband, a slight frown between her eyes. ‘You happy, Charlie?’

  ‘Of course I’m happy.’

  Indeed he was, yet his joy was not unqualified. Because with the child’s birth the balance of all their lives had changed.

  Sarah looked down at the child sleeping on her breast. With an outstretched finger she traced his nose and lips, very gently, but he did not stir.

  ‘What are we gunna call ’im?’

  Charlie hadn’t given it a thought. ‘Charles? William?’

  ‘We got enough of them already.’ Again the finger explored, so tenderly, as though she could not fully believe the reality of the life that she was holding. ‘I was thinkin’ Luke,’ she said.

  Charlie frowned. ‘No Lukes in my family.’

  ‘Nor in mine. But I thought it would be good. Luke in the Bible was a doctor, wasn’t he? That’d be somethin’, wouldn’t it, a son who was a doctor.’

  ‘You mean instead of a river rat like his father?’

  ‘I mean nuthun of the sort and well you know it. River rat, indeed! Don’ you dare say such things about my husband.’ But she was smiling as she said it.

  ‘Luke …’ Charlie repeated pensively. It would do, he supposed.

  Luke’s arrival, like Will’s marriage, did indeed change their lives. Before, there’d been only the three of them, with Will knowing enough to keep out of the way when he wasn’t wanted. Now there were two married couples, each with their lives to lead, and a baby with powerful lungs and a will of his own, who seemed to take up more space than the rest of them put together.

  Sometimes it seemed as though they were all breathing borrowed air, but there was no help for it. Charlie and Will owned Brenda between them — if you forgot about the one-third owned by brother Henry, from whom no-one had heard since he’d left. They couldn’t afford a second boat. In any case it would be difficult for either Will or Charlie to manage one on their own. So for the time being the two families would just have to battle on as best they could. Which they were used to doing, after all.

  Up and down the rivers they went. They got to know the Murray, the Darling and the Murrumbidgee so well they could probably have navigated them with their eyes shut. They put in to landings, they visited the small settlements that were beginning to spring up along the banks, they got by. They were never going to be rich, but it was a life.

  1880

  CHAPTER 26

  Once a week, when they were anywhere near a pub, Charlie and Will went ashore for a couple of drinks. Three days before Christmas 1880, Charlie met a man he hadn’t seen for years.

  Doug Champion was a stocky, middle-aged man with shoulders to make you blink and a face seamed with scars.

  He saw Charlie and grinned at him. ‘Hello, stranger. How ya goin’?’

  Doug had been a fighter in the bare-knuckle days. ‘Still in the same game?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I put on the occasional bout,’ Doug said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Money, mate. What else?’ Doug winked, tipped down his pint and signalled for another. ‘All hush-hush, mind. Agin the law nowadays.’

  ‘Like a lotta things,’ said Charlie, remembering an episode of a borrowed horse.

  ‘Darn right.’ Doug gave Charlie a keen-eyed look. ‘Still do any yourself?’

  ‘Not for years.’

  ‘Pity.’ Doug turned to Will. ‘A real talent, your brother. He was only a kid, but he coulda made a name for himself, if he’d wanted.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A waste, that’s what it was.’

  ‘Coulda scrambled my brains,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Like me, you mean?’ Doug grinned, more gaps in his jaw than teeth.

  ‘Not you. You were a champion.’

  Doug didn’t deny it. ‘Like my name. I took it, see? Doug Champion’s got a ring to it.’

  ‘What’s your real name?’ Will asked.

  ‘None o’ your business,’ Doug said, very fierce.

  When they left the pub Will asked Charlie the same question.

  ‘Clarrie Potts,’ Charlie said. ‘He hates it.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame him.’

  This from Petal’s husband, who’d been defensive about his wife’s name in his time.

  They walked back to Brenda, whistling and chatting cheerfully — and found trouble waiting for them.

  In the saloon was a woman whom neither of them knew.

  Sarah came towards Charlie, face grey, eyes anxious. She said, ‘Your brother Henry …’

  The woman turned and the light from the bulkhead lantern fell upon her. She was young and of striking looks, yet white and strained. Charlie felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘What about Henry?’ He knew, yet would not accept it.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the woman said.

  ‘How? When?’ Still his mind wouldn’t register.

  ‘Bloody �
�ell!’ said Will. ‘An’ who might you be?’

  She said, ‘Henry and me was together for two years. Over at Ballarat, in Victoria.’

  Henry, bitten by the gold bug, had always said there’d be an opening for an engineer in the goldfields.

  ‘What happened?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘It was the New Harmony Mine. Henry was below with thirty other blokes when there was a rock burst. That’s what they told us afterwards. The surveyors got it wrong, or something. Next thing, water was floodin’ in. They told us they done all they could. Two days they tried to pump out the water, in case some of ’em was in an air pocket, but it weren’t no good. Five got out. The rest drowned.’

  Including Henry, who had left the Murray because he hadn’t wanted to live his life too close to water.

  Charlie said, ‘I don’ even know your name.’ Or why she was here now.

  The woman walked towards him. ‘Alice Henderson,’ she said softly. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of me.’

  ‘Henry wasn’t much for letters.’

  Alice rested her hand on Charlie’s arm, while her eyes ate him up. ‘Henry told me so much about you,’ she said.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Twelfth December.’

  Ten days ago. It seemed wrong, somehow, that Charlie should have known nothing, felt nothing, when his brother died — yet how could he have known?

  ‘Good of you to come and tell us.’ His tongue was stumbling over the words. ‘If there’s anythin’ we can do …’

  Alice said, ‘He left me his share in the boat.’

  ‘I guessed there must be some reason you turned up,’ Will said.

  Charlie looked at her. Direct look, direct words: the only way. ‘Will an me’ll have a talk. But there’s no cash.’

  Alice’s face was flint. ‘Then you’ll ’ave to find some, woncher?’

  CHAPTER 27

  Charlie and Sarah were getting ready for bed. The candle flickered in the light breeze coming through the screened window. The only sound was a stirring of water birds in the reeds, yet Alice Henderson’s silent presence lay like a weight upon them both.

  Sarah skinned out of her bodice. A pale gleam of flesh as she put on her nightgown. ‘I’m sorry about Henry, Charlie. Honest. But I dunno about this Alice. We only got ’er word she was with him at all, ’aven’t we? For all we know, it could be a try-on.’

  Charlie blew out the candle. They lay side by side, staring up into the darkness. Their bodies were almost touching yet Charlie sensed that Sarah was far away from him. Her silence was like broken glass.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Comin’ in ’ere like she owns the place. “Henry told me so much about you!”’ she mimicked. ‘Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. Puttin’ her hands all over you …’

  ‘It didn’ mean nuthun,’ Charlie protested.

  ‘Better not ’ave. Just because she claims she was mates with one brother don’ give her no rights over the others.’

  ‘I hardly noticed it,’ Charlie lied.

  Hardly … a mistake.

  ‘Maybe that’s why you didn’ do nuthun to stop her.’

  ‘She’s lost her bloke …’

  ‘Yeah, an’ maybe she fancies her chances with the next one.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  If he’d put his own hands on Sarah she would probably have pushed him away, but he did not and that was worse. She turned her back, while Charlie cursed Alice for turning up out of the blue, and Sarah for building castles of jealousy out of nothing.

  Early next morning …

  ‘You’ll be stayin’ over Christmas, won’t you, dear?’ Sarah asked Alice. Which was another way of saying, You’ll be leavin’ after Christmas, won’t you, dear?

  ‘Kind of you.’

  They smiled at each other. How affectionate! How sweet! A fence of daggers on both sides.

  It would be a tight squeeze but there was no real choice. Sarah could hardly chuck Alice in the river, however much she might wish to.

  ‘So where did you meet Henry?’

  ‘At Ballarat. I was a waitress. In a hotel.’

  So that was what they called them nowadays.

  ‘Were you born in Ballarat?’

  ‘I was born in the bush but I always fancied the goldfields. There’s money there.’

  So there was. And miners. And plenty of jobs for waitresses. Or whatever you chose to call them.

  ‘And Henry met you at the hotel?’

  She nodded. ‘He was an engineer on one of the mines.’

  It might be true. It wasn’t important. What mattered was that Henry was dead and Alice was here.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Sarah smiled warmly at this friend who had decided to visit them for Christmas. ‘We’ll be real close, I can feel it. A woman needs a friend, don’t she?’

  Depending on the friend.

  Up in the wheelhouse, Charlie and Will were talking about the catastrophe that had befallen them. They were sad for their brother; each would mourn him in his own way. But Henry had left them five years ago. Their life no longer encompassed him as it had once. The problem was not Henry’s death but the woman who had descended on them to claim one-third of the only asset they possessed.

  ‘How do we know Henry left her his share?’ Will wondered. ‘Shown you a letter, has she?’

  Nothing like that.

  ‘I reckon she gotta prove it.’

  ‘And if she can’t?’

  ‘She can take a jump. How did she find us, anyhow?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be hard,’ Charlie said. ‘Henry would’ve told her we was working on the river. Would have mentioned the name of the boat. All she had to do was ask.’

  ‘Could cost us three hundred quid,’ Will protested.

  ‘More,’ Charlie said. ‘We must be worth fifteen hundred, easy.’

  ‘She’s got guts, I’ll give ’er that.’ Will said. ‘It’d be easy enough to get rid of her. Weight on her feet, drop her in Blenship’s Hole, no-one the wiser. They say it’s a hundred feet deep there.’

  ‘We’re not murderers.’

  ‘I never said we were. But some wouldn’t be so particular,’ Will said.

  Back in the saloon, the tea was going down a treat. In a minute or two Will would be coming to fire the boiler, Petal — not so quick off the mark these mornings, now she was in the family way — would be about, Charlie would be looking for his breakfast, but for the moment Sarah and Alice still had the place to themselves.

  ‘When you leave here,’ Sarah said, ‘have you thought where you’re goin’ next?’

  ‘I got an aunt in Goolwa. I might stay with her.’

  Goolwa. Which they visited nearly every month.

  Sarah smiled. ‘I fancy a scone. How about you?’

  Up in the wheelhouse Charlie tapped his fingers against the motionless wheel, his eyes studying the swirl and tug of the river. ‘I reckon she’s tellin’ the truth. We’ll have to pay her out.’

  ‘What with?’ Will asked.

  A good question.

  ‘I think I know a way.’

  That evening in the pub Doug Champion was in his cups.

  ‘Damn the bloody government! Damn the bloody joes!’

  He’d organised a bare-knuckles biff for Boxing Day, upriver somewhere, and the bastard wallopers had run in one of the blokes who was supposed to be taking part.

  ‘Some trouble with his old lady back in Melbourne. She laid a charge on ’im.’

  ‘What for?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Bendin’ her teeth a bit. What’s to complain about? Marry a fighter, what d’you expect? All I know is, I’m short a man for Boxing Day, and a thousand quid on the table in side money.’

  ‘Pros, are they?’

  ‘Do me a favour! There’s no pros in this sort o’ caper, not since they banned it. Just a coupla uglies. You’d ’ave taken either of ’em, once. Taken ’em both together! They’re nuthun much, but it’s a show, isn’t it, a
nd that’s what the punters pay to see.’

  ‘What’s the purse?’

  ‘A hundred.’ A keen look from the scarred eyes. ‘Interested, are you?’

  Charlie took a deep breath. ‘I might be.’

  ‘You’re barmy!’ Sarah said. ‘Outta your mind! You know that?’

  ‘It’s a way of payin’ her out.’

  ‘You risk killing yourself to pay out Alice Henderson?’

  ‘Not just to pay her out.’ Charlie was angry with Sarah for putting him in the wrong. ‘To get her out of our lives.’

  ‘You won’t get rid of her so easily. She says she’s gunna live in Goolwa.’

  ‘At least she won’t be on board with us.’ In bed, Charlie and Sarah again lay side by side, their instincts probing the silence between them.

  ‘Christmas tomorrow,’ said Charlie.

  So it was.

  ‘Hot tonight,’ he said after a pause.

  So it was.

  ‘Be hot again tomorrow, I reckon.’

  It was like trawling for fish in the river. You never knew what you might pick up. Could be nothing; by the look of it, very likely to be nothing. On the other hand …

  ‘Charlie,’ Sarah said suddenly. ‘I wanna ask you somethin’.’

  The tension in her voice told him she’d been working up to this moment. His heart sank. What now? He waited, saying nothing.

  ‘I’m afraid you may hate me for askin’.’

  ‘Don’ ask, then.’

  ‘I don’ want to. But I must. This Alice … you sure you never knew her before?’

  ‘You think I wouldn’ remember?’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d sooner forget.’

  ‘I never set eyes on her.’

  ‘How come she’s all over you, then? How come she’s here?’

  ‘Because of Henry.’

  ‘Maybe.’ But her voice was doubtful.

  ‘You want to know if I slept with her.’ His voice was cold.