by JH Fletcher
He nodded to them, then turned his back and walked up out of the hollow, heading towards town. When he had gone half a mile he turned and looked back. The hollow hid the men he’d left behind. The bush flowed unbroken into the distance. He might have been the only man in all that empty land. He turned and walked on.
He saw the low cluster of buildings, the harsh glitter of sunlight on iron roofs, at the same moment as he saw the men.
They were on horseback, a tight and purposeful group heading north up the river. Charlie saw the blue uniforms, the gleam of sunlight on the carbines in their holsters. He froze, becoming one with the bush.
They were riding fast, raising a cloud of dust that hung like a veil in the air before dissolving back slowly into the ground.
Charlie had willed himself into the shape of a tree. He stood motionless, not daring to breathe until the riders were out of sight. Thank God they had not seen him. He felt sick at his narrow escape. He hoped the rest of the men would be as lucky.
Drifting into town unnoticed would be impossible. There might be patrols in the streets. At the very least there would be eyes watching. If they arrested him, how could he explain what he’d been up to?
Carry on the way he’d been going and the whole town would see him. He thought about it, then headed off to his right, circling around the clustered buildings. An hour later he came to the river.
There were plenty of trees here and billabongs where the sultry air glittered with insects. Always on the lookout for patrols, he followed the bank, wading through puddles and pools of mud. Mosquitoes descended in clouds; branches half-buried in mud tripped him; the saw-like edges of swamp grasses lacerated his arms and legs.
None of that mattered, as long as no-one saw him. As long as he got safely back on board Brenda.
The river drew a long bow through the trees; beyond, he saw the buildings of the town, the line of the wharf. He studied the scene but saw no movement. Brenda was lying peacefully to her anchor in midstream. There, too, he could detect no movement. Get aboard and all might still be well. He could see the dinghy riding to its painter behind Brenda’s stern.
He knew he dare not call out to Sarah from the wharf; do that and everyone in the town would know he’d been ashore and the authorities would want to know what he’d been doing. The only guarantee of safety lay in convincing them that he had never gone ashore at all.
He had no choice; he would have to swim for it. He didn’t fancy the prospect. It was no more than half a mile but in this river, with its currents and whirlpools, its hidden snags and sudden upwellings of bitterly cold water from uncharted depths, half a mile could be a very long way. He swam every day, but this was different. If he got trapped in an undertow it could kill him.
He put it off as long as he could, wading along the edge of the river, each step raising clouds of mud in the shallows. At last he came to a place where the trees ceased; from here on there was no cover. Now he had no choice but to swim and trust no-one saw him.
He took off his boots and pants and tied them around his neck. He waded deeper and the mud clutched at his feet. The bottom shelved steeply.
Soon he had to swim. At once the current wrapped itself about him. It whispered death in his ear. He was frightened. To have come so far … The river would drown him if it could. It was not only the current; the cold was dangerous too. He had to swim against the stream, his teeth already chattering in his head, and with every stroke the water drew him closer into its embrace. To say nothing of the eyes that might be watching from the bank.
His shoulders and arms were aching, every inch of his body was shaking with fatigue, yet he was making progress. The trees were gone, and the river’s deserted banks. Now there were only the town’s buildings, with the danger of being seen greater than ever.
So far he had kept close to the bank but now he had to push out into the middle of the river, where Brenda was anchored, and there the current would be much stronger.
So it proved. His shoulder muscles felt close to bursting as his weary arms pulled him into midstream. The river, flowing from the Dividing Range fifteen hundred miles away, pressed against him with all its force. He thought of that great distance and the lands through which it had passed, gathering strength all the way. No man could hope to swim against the river. The water told him so, chuckling in his ear, sliding into his mouth as he opened it to breathe. He gasped, took in another mouthful and stopped in mid-stroke to cough the water out. At once he was ten yards back from where he had been.
For years he had lived upon the river, had fought and outwitted it a hundred times, and the river had not minded, because he had floated lightly upon its surface. He had never before invaded its depths, and now the river would punish him because of it.
Yet Brenda was not far away. When he raised his head he could see her, fancied he could hear the voice of the stream against her anchor chain. His body, shaking with cold, blazed with pain as he pressed his arms back against the water, gaining an inch, a foot, a yard.
Another stroke. And another. Heave back. And again. Spluttering, the water lapping his lips and spilling into his mouth with every breath.
His body was getting lower, he was sinking as the weight of his limbs dragged him down.
The image of Sarah came to him. Sarah and the children. Never mind himself. He had to make it for their sake, so that they could be a family again. The paddle steamer was very close now, the dinghy even closer. He reached out to take hold but it was not yet within reach; it was there only in his imagination, the whole world bobbing and blurring with the water in his eyes. In his mouth.
Sinking …
Again he grabbed feebly at the image. This time his fingers touched wood. His eyes sprang open. He was there. Or nearly there. So nearly. But a thousand miles away. His fingernails were clinging to Brenda’s hull but the deck was out of reach above him; in his present state it would be impossible to haul himself out. He could drown in Brenda’s shadow.
He tried to call out but could manage only a croak. Somehow he had swum past the dinghy. Now it was behind him. He daren’t let go and drift back to it; if the current swept him past he would never have the strength to swim back again. Yet his fingers would not hold him where he was much longer. He could neither stay nor climb nor go back. He had to go on. To do what? To hang on to the anchor chain, if he could reach it, to muster enough strength to shout for help, to hope that Sarah or Alex or Elsie heard him.
He managed it, just, while the current, angry now, tried to sweep him away. He clung to the chain with both hands, waiting for his strength to come back. Somehow, during the swim, he’d managed to lose his boots and pants. No matter. He would survive. If the cold did not kill him first.
CHAPTER 50
Alex and Sarah were sitting in Brenda’s saloon. Alex was reading a book; Sarah was going through the motions of doing the same, while all the time her mind was far away. The words floated meaninglessly on the page as she imagined the dangers Charlie might be facing. Charlie fighting the scabs. Charlie beaten to the ground beneath a weight of blows. Charlie under arrest. Charlie shot. Charlie dead …
Despite herself, a faint moan escaped her lips. Alex looked up.
Sarah reached out and took her daughter’s hand. She squeezed it. ‘All right?’
Alex did not answer. How could anything be right? Her eyes returned to her book. She too was pretending. Hanging on.
Charlie, be safe for us! Sarah implored silently. Charlie, please be safe! Tension thrummed in her blood. She had expected him back long before this. What could have happened?
She opened the saloon door and went out on deck. Somewhere a bird uttered a faint, breathless cry and was still.
She could see no-one moving on shore. It might have been a town of the dead.
Charlie, where are you?
Again she looked towards the shore as a movement caught her eye. Two policemen were shouldering their way through the morning as though it too deserved a beating. They were heading towards
the wharf.
The bird called again.
The morning air had revived her. Yet waiting, and not knowing, was so hard.
The two policemen had reached the wharf. She watched as they hauled on a line that secured a dinghy to a bollard. They drew it towards them.
Her heart dived sickeningly as she realised what they were doing. They were coming to pay Brenda a visit. To see her husband. To ask her questions when they discovered he was not here.
Charlie …
The bird called. Suddenly she thought: A bird? The sound, she now realised, had come from Brenda’s bow.
At once she was running. She reached the stemhead and looked over.
‘My God …!’
She shrieked for Elsie to come and help her. Elsie came in a rush, as did Alex.
Sarah looked towards the wharf. The policeman at the oars was pulling awkwardly, a man unused to the river, and was deluging himself and his colleague with spray. Yet already they had covered a third of the journey from the shore.
Thank God Charlie was on the other side of the steamer and therefore invisible to them. Sarah lowered a rope to him, but he was too far gone to take it.
‘I’ll get him,’ Sarah said.
She took the rope, knotted a bowline in the end and went down with it.
The officers were halfway now.
‘Quick!’ She wrestled the loop over Charlie’s head and shoulders and tugged to make sure the knot was secure. Up she went again. ‘Haul him in! Quick as we can!’
With three of them hauling on the rope, Charlie came up as though a crane had lifted him. They dragged him onto the deck, where he lay like a beached whale, half dead.
‘Help me get him into the cabin! Alex, get that rope out of the way!’
With Elsie holding Charlie’s legs, Sarah manoeuvred him up the steps and into the cabin. They laid him on the bunk.
The policemen were no more than thirty yards away now.
‘Get his clothes off!’
Elsie looked put out, but this was no time for modesty and Charlie was unable to help himself. She and Sarah dragged off his clothes, drew his nightshirt over his head and down his body — much to Elsie’s relief — and threw a blanket over him. He was cold and wet; if the policemen touched him they would know at once that something was up, but with any luck they would not.
They went out and closed the cabin door behind them. Sarah drew the air deeply into her lungs as she tried to calm her nerves. She turned to Elsie and Alex. ‘Remember,’ she said fiercely, ‘he hasn’t been off the boat. Not once.’
Their faces were white with shock but she thought they would be all right when the moment came.
The policemen had succeeded in bringing the dinghy clumsily alongside Brenda. Sarah went to greet them as they began to clamber on board.
‘Pass me the painter first,’ she called. Otherwise the dinghy would have been carried downriver.
They handed it to her. She secured it to a cleat then gave the men a hand to help them. When they were safely on deck she smiled warmly at them. ‘What can I do for you?’
They were men who responded well to the smile of an attractive woman. Both smiled back.
‘Your husband on board, missus?’ the older officer asked.
‘He is, but he’s sleepin’ in. Is there a message?’
The man frowned. ‘Sleepin’ in? Bit late for that, innit?’
‘He was up all night,’ Sarah explained. ‘We heard there was troublemakers on the loose. He was afraid they might cause problems. That’s why we’re moored out here, away from the wharf. But he still weren’t happy about it. He sat up all night, poor man, with the shotgun, in case any of those wretches tried to git aboard. He got a real sense of responsibility to ’is family,’ she said, and was instantly afraid she’d overdone it. ‘Now he’s catchin’ up on his sleep.’ She smiled prettily at the two men, confident they would understand.
‘Your husband bin ashore at all?’
‘Not since the day before yesterday. We all went together.’
‘Why was that?’
‘To get off the boat, stretch our legs. We took our daughter for a walk but there was a meetin’, with a lotta talk. We didn’ like what we was hearin’ and Charlie thought there might be trouble so we come back as quick as we could. We spoke to one of your fellers, I recall. He’ll remember us, I expect.’
‘You mentioned your daughter,’ the policeman said. ‘Still aboard, is she?’
‘She’s thirteen years old. Where else would she be?’
‘Mebbe we could have a word with her, all the same. Anyone else?’
‘Only Elsie. She helps me on the boat,’ Sarah explained.
‘With ’er, too, if you don’ mind.’
Sarah went and fetched them. Both Elsie and Alex confirmed that Charlie had not gone ashore and was now asleep in the cabin.
‘We’ll need to ’ave a look at ’im,’ the older man decided. ‘Just so’s we know he really is on board. Not that we don’ believe you, unnerstand, but we gotta be sure.’
‘You got your duty to do,’ Sarah agreed. And she led the way to the upper deck. Finger on lips, she inched open the door.
The men looked inside. Charlie was deeply, genuinely asleep. They nodded and stepped back as she shut the door.
‘Happy?’ she asked them, giving them her best smile.
‘That’s fine, missus.’
Relief made Sarah dizzy. They went back down to the saloon.
‘What’s it all about, anyway?’ she asked.
‘There was trouble up the river last night,’ the older man said. ‘A paddle steamer was burnt. A man’s dead —’
‘Dead?’ She couldn’t help herself.
‘Only one of the strikers. All the same, it could mean hangin’.’
The younger officer had not opened his mouth before. Now he spoke as though he relished the prospect of hanging a few men. ‘We got some of ’em already. Have the rest soon enough, I reckon. When they start talkin’.’
‘Will they talk?’ Sarah did her best to sound casual.
‘You can depend on it,’ the older man said. ‘Scum like that, they can’t wait to dob each other in.’ He shook his head, as though saddened by human nature. Then he looked at Sarah with keen, assessing eyes. ‘Weren’t thinkin’ of leavin’ for a day or two, were you?’
‘We got a livin’ to make.’
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he said, ‘but you’d best hang on a bit. In case the sergeant wants to have a word with your husband.’
They clambered down into the dinghy and rowed back to the wharf.
Two hours later, with Charlie still sleeping, they were back.
No smiles now.
The older policeman’s big belly was threateningly close to Sarah, and his black scowl showed exactly what he thought of attractive sheilas who tried to make a monkey out of him. His colleague’s teeth promised rough stuff for anyone foolish enough to try anything on him.
‘So yer old man never went ashore, eh?’ said the older officer.
‘I told you!’
‘Then how come there’s a dozen blokes at the lockup willin’ to swear he was with ’em up the river?’
‘Some blokes’ll say anythin’!’ Sarah was willing to take on the pair of them — with a boathook, if needs be.
But they were no longer interested in what she had to say. Charlie was the one they wanted, and now.
‘He’s asleep! You saw him yourselves!’
‘Then we’ll have to wake him up, won’t we?’
And they did, no messing. Charlie was dragged out of the cabin, swearing he didn’t know what they were on about.
‘Shut it!’ the younger officer said.
Eyes round, face white, Alex flung herself at her father, but the senior policeman intercepted her and pushed her towards Sarah.
‘Best look after ’er, missus.’
‘Or we’ll be takin’ in the pair o’ yer,’ the younger man said.
But Charlie s
till managed to toss Sarah a few words as they hustled him down the steps to the lower deck. ‘These dingbats dunno what they’re on about. I’ll be back, soon as I sort it out.’
Even for a man who lived on boats it wasn’t easy to clamber into a rowing boat in handcuffs, but he managed it, sitting with expressionless face as he was rowed ashore.
Sarah stood with her arms around her daughter, watching as the wallopers marched Charlie along the wharf and out of sight.
A dozen blokes at the lockup willin’ to swear he was with ’em up the river …
Will will come, she thought. He will help us.
But what if Will had been taken as well? If only Charlie had had the time to tell her what had happened …
A paddle steamer burnt, a man dead. The thoughts hammered at her brain. If the man had been murdered, it was a hanging offence. She saw herself claiming her husband’s body, her children starving, and hysteria rose in her. Stop it! Stop it!
Alex turned to look up at her. ‘Mummy …?’
Willpower stilled Sarah’s quaking nerves. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘Daddy will be all right?’
‘Daddy will be fine.’
I pray to God.
‘When will he be back?’
‘As soon as he’s sorted out this mistake they’ve made.’
Then we’ll leave, she told herself. We’ll travel up the green and winding river between the towering red gums. All will be peaceful and I shall not be afraid any more.
Sarah remembered sitting in the rowing boat and watching the fishermen hauling their nets, all those years ago. If only we could be like that again, she thought. But that night of peace and pleasure was now very far away.
CHAPTER 51
Later that evening a horseman clattered up the driveway to Eagle on the Hill. He had been riding fast and the horse was winded. Almost before his mount had come to a halt he was out of the saddle and knocking on the door of the big house. He was admitted at once.
Rufus Grenville came from his supper table, wiping his mouth on a linen napkin. Frowning, he listened to what the messenger had to say, then cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand.