by Rachel Leary
Tolerably well. What did that mean? he wondered again now.
He read another document, put it down on the table in front of him, sat back. Eight of them had left Macquarie Harbour, it said, stole the ship they had been building, sailed her around the south-west coast and then up the east coast, where they were reportedly caught in bad weather and abandoned her. Three of the eight men were apprehended at Cartwright’s property after they had robbed him; one had been shot dead, and the other two, Beasley and McGuinley, had since been tried and hanged for bushranging. The body of another, a Brian Ruthers, was found by a farmer months later in a gully near Crooked Hat Hill. The rest of the document outlined who the remaining four had robbed, on what date, what they had taken, how much it was worth, who had been hurt and how—the house of a Mr Raynor was robbed and he was shot in the shoulder; one soldier was killed.
He was already acquainted with these events. Nine months ago the bushrangers had robbed his cousin at his property at Elizabeth River. His cousin’s wife, Sally, had been most shaken by the experience and had been unwell for a time after it, his cousin set back quite a few pounds. Marshall had consequentially taken an interest in the hunt for the gang. He had read over the document again, he realised now, looking for something in it that would help to explain why Bridget Crack was now in their company. These were the men she had taken up with. He still found it inconceivable.
Marshall tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair then picked up a letter from Jane at Macquarie Plains. He reread one of the paragraphs.
Time does not heal all wounds. Kindness and beauty are the only real healers and they are like butterflies—brief visitors whom you may see or not; sometimes it depends on which way you are facing. Then again, if they don’t fly your way—well, you may have to run for them. Who knows how far?
Marshall put the letter down. He looked up at the portrait of his father that his mother had insisted he bring. Then he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
The flames were as tall as Bridget, the front of her body hot. A man threw another log onto the fire and she stepped back. Sparks raced off into the night sky. The men cheered, held their cups in the air. They had arrived at this hut in the late afternoon after three days on the move since Sully’s, had come back down out of the mountains again, apparently—from what she’d overheard—towards a place called Jacob’s Sugar Loaf.
There had been four men here when they arrived. One of them, Cole, had said there were others coming later: sawyers who were working nearby. Four of them had turned up and then a man and a woman on a cart after that. Matt had watched the cart coming along the track. Cole walked over to him. ‘Connor, the shepherd from a new land grant over the way, and his wife Essie, bringing supplies. They’re alright, nothing to worry about.’ Matt had nodded but continued to stare at the approaching cart, frowning.
Matt had gone inside the hut a while ago, someone laughing loudly in there now. One of the sawyers came around the fire to where Bridget stood. ‘Alright there, darling?’
She nodded, sipped ale.
‘Bloke left ya on your own has he?’
‘I’m fine on my own.’ She’d heard Henry talking to Cole before. ‘Told him he should of left her at Sully’s. But he won’t bloody listen.’
‘Are ya?’ the sawyer said. ‘I’m not. Get pretty bloody lonely sometimes, can tell ya that.’
Bridget looked up at the hut. People laughing then someone singing.
‘Hey, where you going? I was just chatting.’
The small hut was cramped with nine bodies in it, full of the smell of stale sweat, smoke, bullock fat and damp from the dirt floor, made to feel even more cramped by the shouting and carousing going on. Light came from the fire and from two candles on the table, the shadows of Essie and the boy Nimble, who were sitting at the table, appearing huge and ghoulish on the timber wall behind them.
Matt, Henry and Cole were by the fire, cups raised. Nimble called out one, two, three, go! The three men threw their heads back and poured the rum into their throats, Henry the first one to raise his cup in the air declaring it empty, the other two holding their own cups up with one hand, patting Henry on the back with the other. The woman, Essie, caught Bridget’s eye, gave her a small tight-lipped smile.
Matt passed Bridget without acknowledging her, disappeared out the door.
‘Come on, Sam.’ Henry looked over to a log in the corner where Sam sat gazing into his cup. ‘I’ll give ya a go.’
Sam shook his head.
‘Come on,’ Henry said, motioning for Sam to get up.
Sam reached out for the bottle on the table in front him, filled his cup.
‘What’s eating him?’ Henry said to no one, to himself. ‘Something always bloody eating him,’ he mumbled. ‘Misses his bloody mummy.’
‘Yeah,’ Budders said. ‘Misses her tit.’
Bridget saw Essie dip her head, look down into her lap over the belly that protruded in front of her.
Bridget wondered where Matt had gone. Cole produced more tobacco and she went over to the table, helped herself to some and repacked her pipe. The man Connor poured her rum, handed it to her. ‘Drink up there, girl. Come on.’
Connor and another man picked up fiddles, started to play. Essie slapped her thigh. One of the sawyers got her up on her feet then to dance with him. Still no sign of Matt. Sam was still sitting on the log, fiddling with the handle of his cup. Cole grabbed Bridget’s hand. ‘Come on, dance with me.’ She shook her head, but he reached for her hand again, grabbed it. Just as he did, Matt came in, strode towards him. The man dropped Bridget’s hand, took a step back, put both his hands up.
Matt grabbed her arm, dragged her to the door and outside. ‘Let me go!’ She ripped her arm from his grip.
He turned to her. ‘What were you doing in there? Huh? I leave you alone for, what, ten minutes…’
‘It wasn’t ten minutes.’
‘Like him, do you?’
He was drunk. Glaring at her. She wasn’t answering his stupid questions. She turned around to go back in. He grabbed her arm again, then squeezed her chin in one hand, pushed her head back. He stood there holding her head like that, looking at her like he was going to say something, then he let go, stalked off. Bridget watched him, her face hot where his thumb and finger had been. What the hell? Bloody cur. Something wrong with him. Something the hell wrong with him. She went back inside, downed an ale. Everyone silent.
‘What?’ She turned around to face the middle of the room. ‘What are you all staring at?’ She looked over at Connor. ‘Are you going to play that thing? Play it!’
Connor surprised, started to play.
Bridget pushed past Henry to where Sam sat. ‘Get up. Dance.’
His soft face creased into a frown.
‘Get up and dance!’
‘Alright, alright.’
He got soggily to his feet. She took hold of his sweaty hands, all of him limp. Useless. She let go of him, stormed back out.
Around the side she stood fuming, staring into the dark hole that was a track going into trees behind the hut.
It wasn’t planned. Matt saw the boy through the telescope from the top of a hill, said it looked like his cartwheel was broken. They went down into the valley, watched him from the trees. Matt went out into the clearing to talk to him and then called to the others. When the boy saw them his eyes widened with alarm. ‘I know who you are. I know who you are—you’re bushrangers and you’re going to kill us, you’re going to kill my mother and my father and my brothers and kill me too. I know who you are.’ His young freckled face streamed with tears.
Henry sighed and Matt stepped closer to him. ‘Stop your bloody blubbering.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Henry said, ‘he’s a bloody girl.’ He pushed past Matt and grabbed the boy’s arm. ‘Get going.’
The man was in a fenced garden in front of the stone house when they approached, Henry walking with one hand on the boy’s shoulder, his gun loosely by his s
ide in the other hand. The man was still, frowning, watching them come.
Henry stood outside the fence, a few yards from it, his hand still on the boy.
Matt stepped in front of them. ‘Andrew here said you might be so good as to let us in for a chat, a bit of a feed maybe.’
‘What do you want from us?’
‘Just what I said.’
The door of the house opened now and a woman looked out. When she saw the boy with Henry her hand went up to her mouth. She came forward. ‘Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt my son.’
‘Stay there, Martha,’ the man said.
She stopped, her hand over her mouth again.
‘I’m alright, Mama.’
‘Let him go and you can have what you want.’
Matt regarded the man. ‘Take her inside. Then Andrew’ll come in.’
He turned to Budders. ‘Go with them’.
‘Do what he says, Robert,’ the woman said. ‘Please, let’s just do what he says.’
The man opened the gate and walked to his wife, who put her hand on his shoulder blade, pushed him ahead of her, looked back at the boy as they went into the cottage. Budders went in behind them.
‘Stay there,’ Matt said, looking at Bridget.
She stood near the fence while they all went into the house. A few minutes later he came back out, dragged her in and down a dark hall. He pushed her into a bedroom where the woman was standing uncomfortably at the end of the bed. ‘Get her a dress,’ he said to the woman.
The woman glanced at Bridget. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Matt pushed past her then, pulled open a cupboard. ‘Are you deaf? Get her a dress.’
The woman looked at Matt, confused.
‘Do it!’ His voice like a gunshot.
The startled woman grabbed at a dress.
He went out, shut the door.
The woman put her hands to the side of her head. ‘I…I didn’t realise…Here,’ she said. ‘Take them off.’
Bridget had put trousers on under her dress up at the camp, had left the petticoat behind. Her stockings had been destroyed and the trousers were warmer anyway. After Jacobson’s she’d convinced Matt to give her his spare shirt and then she’d taken the dress off and left it in the bushes, sick of it snagging. Matt didn’t like it; but he didn’t like her being slow either and she was faster in the trousers. And who was going to see her out there anyway?
Bridget took the blue dress the woman held out to her and pulled it on. It was big on her in the front, the woman bigger-busted than her. The woman did the back of it up.
The door opened and Matt was standing in the doorway wearing a silk vest and black hat, a gold watch hanging from the pocket of the vest. ‘Out here.’
Andrew and another two boys, younger, were standing against the wall in the dining room. Matt sat at the head of the table and made Bridget sit next to him. There were two servants at the table, as well as Henry and Sam. The missus came in with hot potatoes and more bread, the master with whiskey. The food was eaten in silence while the master and missus and the boys stood by the wall.
When they’d eaten Matt told the others to go around the house, see what they could get. He watched Bridget as she went out of the room.
The clothes she’d taken off were lying on the end of the big bed. She was pulling the trousers back on when Henry came in, yanked drawers open. He went out and then Matt came in, shut the door behind him.
...
As she went out the front door, she heard from down the hall behind her the sound of someone crying.
Matt filled a horn with gunpowder, picked up the gun. He motioned for Bridget to go with him across the river.
They had been on the move for over a week, all day, every day. When they did finally stop they were back at the camp in the mountains. Same river, same lean-to.
Matt stood about forty yards from a tall gum, aimed at the trunk. The shot lodged into the bark. He shot it about ten times then, only missed once, reloaded the gun after each shot. Bridget was leaning against a tree a few yards away from him. What was she supposed to do, stand here all afternoon and watch him shoot the tree? He hadn’t spoken to her, hadn’t looked at her, just told her to stand there.
He shot a few more times and then Budders came running across the clearing.
‘Henry says he wants to sleep, you’re to shut the fuck up.’
Matt ignored him, pushed powder into the gun.
‘He said shut up.’
‘And I said piss off.’
‘Nah, ya didn’t.’
‘Fuck off or I’ll shoot ya.’
‘Henry said to come over and tell ya,’ Budders persisted.
Matt turned to him now. ‘I told you to bugger off, didn’t I?’
Budders stood still where he was. ‘He said to tell ya.’
‘Good, so ya told me. Now, go.’
Budders started to walk off.
‘Wait a minute.’ Matt considered him and a grin crawled over his face. ‘Come here.’
‘What for?’
‘Just come here a minute.’ Matt walked slowly towards Budders.
‘What? Budders took a step back but Matt lunged at him, grabbed both his wrists then, holding them in one hand, pulled at the rope that hung coiled at the side of his trousers. He wrapped it tight around Budders’ wrists.
‘Get off of me! Get off.’
Matt dragged Budders by his wrists to the tree he’d been shooting.
‘What’s wrong? It’s just a little game.’
‘Let me go, I ain’t done nothing—it were Henry what said it.’
Matt pushed Budders roughly against the trunk. He passed the rope around Budders, behind the tree, across Budders’ chest, around the tree again, pinning Budders’ arms to the sides of his body. He tied the rope tight, stood back to survey his work.
Budders’ eyes held the worried, dejected look of a kicked dog.
Matt walked back to the spot where he’d been standing before.
Bridget stood up from where she’d been leaning.
Budders opened his mouth to speak but as he did a shot lodged into the tree above his right shoulder, only inches from his head. ‘I didn’t do nothing. Henry were sleeping is all. I didn’t do nothing.’
Matt shot again on the other side of Budders’ head. Budders began to whimper.
‘Come on, don’t you trust me?’ Matt shot again, this time low, the bullet only narrowly missing Budders’ foot. Budders jerked his foot away. ‘I didn’t do nothing! Henry said you was to stop. I just run across there. I come running across there, ’cause Henry said to. I don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna do it. Lemme go. Lemme go…’
Budders’ screwed-up eyes streamed. The mouth was no longer a mouth but something red and wet and ghastly that had taken hold of the whole face and now a slow-moving, lost creature, morphed from one grotesque shape to another. Saliva-coated protests born from it ran down his chin.
Bridget had had enough, went to leave, but Matt lurched at her, grabbed her arm. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Get off me.’
‘Why, what’s wrong? Feel sorry for him?’
She glanced at Budders then looked away from his streaming face, tried to pull her arm from Matt’s grip.
‘What, you feel sorry for him now, do ya?’
‘You made your point.’ Almost a whisper, but he heard it.
‘Made my point? Made my point?’ The muscles in Matt’s jaw tightened. ‘Is that right? I’ve made my point, have I? And what the fuck would you know about my point, Miss…Miss Fucking Run Away and Play in the Bush? Eh? You want to know about my point? Fine. I’ll tell you about my point. My point is that every single fucking day I wake up and I’m stuck out here with three brainless fucking no-hopers, and every pimple-arsed redcoat in the colony is after my neck, all because…because what? I didn’t want to rot like a frigging dog. You want to know something? I’ll tell you something—I’ve just about had enough. What am I supposed to do, huh? You
tell me: what the fuck am I supposed to do?’
Bridget looked at the ground, could feel Matt’s eyes on her, ruddy fury like a birthmark over his face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I said I don’t know.’
She sensed him relax a little and she looked up.
He said nothing for a moment, only held her gaze before he shook his head and began to walk away. Then he stopped. ‘Anyway, why the fuck have you taken his side all of a sudden? How come you’re looking after him?’ He flicked his arm towards the wilted man on the tree. ‘I saved you from his filthy cock and now you’re his best friend. What, you want him after all, is that it?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I said no!’
She turned to go but he grabbed her elbow and held it hard. ‘Where are you going? You’re not going to just leave him there, are you? You seemed so worried about him and now you’re just going to go?’
‘Let go of me.’
‘Oh, let go of me, don’t hurt me, you’re hurting me. Fuck you and your bullshit complaints. In fact, how about, seeing as you two are so cosy…’
He dragged her to the tree, Bridget kicking and hitting at him. He pushed her against the trunk next to Budders, pulled roughly at the knot near Budders’ left arm. He shoved his hand in behind her back, pulled at the rope. Tied it once around both of them, and then a second time. His movements were efficient, unlaboured. He pulled hard on the knot. ‘Hope you have a nice time there together then. Give you a chance to get a bit more acquainted, won’t it?’ He strode off towards the river without looking back.
Next to her Budders snivelled quietly. The rope dug into her upper arm on one side and the inside of her elbow on the other, her chest felt crushed where she was locked hard against the tree. Her left arm was touching Budders’ arm, making her stomach turn. At least there were two layers of cloth between their skin, but still she could feel him. Could feel the creepy insipidness that was Budders. Could smell the dried stale sweat on his body, the oil in his hair, and something else: the unmistakable smell of human shit.