Samantha dipped her head. “G’day, sir. Me name is Samantha Connolly. I work for Reginald Otis’s aboriginal mission near the Barmah.”
“Of course. I know well whereof you speak. August Runyan. And what might this humble boat captain do for the good and esteemed reverend, guardian of men’s souls? And you, bewitching beauty?”
“A large and heavy cargo is due in on the train, and it must be transported upriver. I’m given to understand not all boats can make the trip these days. I trust, perhaps, yours can.”
His eyes narrowed. “Mmm hmm. I smell in this proposed enterprise the sweet aroma of charity.”
“Eh, if ye wish to make it so, Captain Runyan, we accept and gladly. Every farthing saved is a coin to be used elsewhere. But we’re prepared to pay, however modestly.”
Somewhere deep in that whiskered face, the narrowed eyes twinkled. “Modestly. You realize, young lady, the danger in the river this time of year, the dark and lurking shadows of misfortune poised awaiting in the wings. Shoals, shallows, stumps, snags around every bend. My lowly little boat here draws shallow indeed, but that is no guarantor of safe passage.”
“By which I interpret that ye would prefer being paid extra because of the hazards involved.”
The brutish head wagged. “So quickly do you cut to the core of it.”
“The core of it, sir, is: Are ye willing to undertake the job, and if so, what would ye expect in payment?”
The verbose riverman laughed suddenly, loud and long. “Return at noon, sweet Irish rose, and I’ll see what I can have lined up. What is your cargo specifically, do you know?”
“Bedsteads, parts, roofing tin and a donkey engine.”
“Mmm hmm. You’ll need more tonnage than my humble scow here will afford. I’ll make inquiry round about and see who, among the smaller of us, might be willing to tender an offer. I’ll check the schedule for the Etona’s whereabouts as well. She’s small—twenty-five feet—but she carries her weight and then some.”
“Etona. The little mission boat I hear about?”
“The very same. Paid for by students at Eton, far away in merrie England, and used by the Adelaide diocese for services, baptisms, burials and marriages all up and down the noble Murray. And”—he waved a hand—“she’ll take an occasional cargo for a worthy cause such as yourself.”
“Y’r help is much appreciated, sir, since I know nothing at all about the trade here, and Mr. Drummond seemed at a loss.”
“Drummond! The man himself is a loss! Political appointee. The bane of solid working men everywhere, political appointees. You’ll return betimes, aye?”
“With pleasure, and thank ye, sir.”
Samantha excused herself and walked up the steep staircase. As she topped out at street level, the train arrived. Huffing and snorting it came, radiating heat and noise. Just what this torrid summer day needed: more heat. Already the oppressive warmth sapped Samantha’s energy. From the shade of a galvanized iron shed she watched unloading commence.
An hour later they carried from the third boxcar what Samantha took to be Mr. Otis’s pump parts and donkey engine. Both crates stood waist high. Disassembled, the ten iron bedsteads still occupied an inordinate amount of space. Roofing tin. There ought to be roofing tin yet. From the next car back came bound pallets that shook the decking when they were set down. Samantha gasped and sighed. Here was Mr. Otis’s roofing tin, and ten boats the size of Echuca Charlene could not hope to transport it! Perhaps Mr. Drummond’s pessimism was well served. A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped.
Captain Runyan stood beside her; Samantha had no idea why she had not smelled him coming. He patted her shoulder. “The look of distress furrowing that lovely brow tells me you doubt the wisdom of transporting heavy cargo during this season of trial and hazard.”
“Meself had no idea the size of it all. The tin especially.”
“Fear not, fair Celtic flower. ’Tis been arranged. Though I be no man of God, I perceive the eternal folly of failing to serve that supreme deity’s appointed ministers, so I took it upon myself to line up the transport for your master’s enterprise. The Etona is due in any moment, and I’ve engaged the Cobar, a lackluster though serviceable barge; for the Tarella runs too deep to be using it in this season.”
“And the cost, sir?”
“Modest. Modest.”
“Ye understand meself can make no deal until the price be agreed upon.”
“And wise you are to proceed cautiously.” He babbled on, but the verbose flowers of his speech dropped their petals far short of her ears. Should she pay to have all this carted away from the loading dock to the commandeered warehouse? Then she would have to pay to have it all brought back here for shipping. Would she save money in the long run by leaving it here until the various boats were arranged for and in place? Pay fairly but pay minimum were her standing orders. What in heaven’s name was she going to do with all this? And how long did she have to decide before costs began to mount?
“There you are!” A cheerful voice interrupted her thoughts. The trim, slim gray-haired little man approaching seemed not the least discomfited by the heat. He wore a small, neat tie with his white shirt and trousers, and he seemed to be marching through life at a constant, rapid double-step. He paused beside them and nodded graciously to Samantha. “Gus, they said you need me.”
“Ah! Captain Albert Sykes. Here is the fair lass in true and utter need. Samantha Connolly, the master of the Etona.”
Samantha shook hands and felt decidedly odd about being considered an equal by these boat captains. Captain Runyan explained her need in his peculiarly florid way. She kept casting an eye toward the huge mound of goods that was now her responsibility. Life weighed nearly as heavy as that roofing tin just now. “That it over there?” Captain Sykes waved a finger toward the mountain.
“Aye,” she nodded. “I believe so.” She almost had to break into a trot to keep up with him. He led the way to the mountain of cargo and walked around it a couple times, nodding.
“Gus? You can make the run up and back for ten pounds, I’m sure. That’s what you agreed, wasn’t it?”
“Eh, now, Bert, you must realize I’ve engaged the Cobar, being that Tarella is already beached for the season, and that right there is more than—”
“Nonsense. With Tarella beached, the Cobar should be available for nothing. I’ll speak to her owner. You’re right that we’ll need her, though. If we spread the load across three vessels we ought to make it up there. That satisfactory with you, Miss Connolly?”
“Meself trusts y’r judgment far more than me own, Captain Sykes. But I—”
Sykes bobbed his head. “Now. Crane fees are high, because they employ seven men on one crane. So you only want to transfer your goods once, if possible. I suggest storing everything aboard the Cobar, then transferring some to the other two vessels. Most of it to the Echuca Charlene. If we can keep Etona high, we can use her to rescue us when we get stuck.”
“Concerning costs, sir, we’ve not yet—”
The wiry little captain beamed. “Gus cracks hardy, but he’ll come through with a reasonable rate. And the Etona is free.”
Should she trust these men, or was she—and by extension Mr. Otis—about to be taken for a ride? Her instinct said trust Sykes; beware Runyan. She would act upon that instinct.
She engaged a boy with a team and dray to take the disassembled bedsteads over to the warehouse. There Mr. Otis’s crew could make their beds tonight in the most fundamental sense.
She invited the captains to lunch at the tea garden, and Captain Sykes, bless him, insisted upon picking up the check. She returned to the wharf to watch the roofing tin be lifted by crane onto the flatness of a low barge. Everywhere she looked, there were probably expenses involved. The boats. This barge. The crane. The stevedores. In the past, shipments had been confined to a few manageable crates. But this…
The Kyabram arrived just before dark. His head wagging, its captain mumbled and complai
ned about the obstacles to travel in this low water and vowed to beach his boat next morning.
Mr. Otis bounced ashore as always, with a motley, fascinating bevy of black and half-caste people crowding close behind him. It occurred to Samantha that this was probably these folks’ first visit to town. They would likely go away thinking every white man’s town possessed a Great Echuca Wharf, the Marvel of the Age.
Mr. Otis was even bringing a horse to ride. The ugly roan with the hulking blaze face stood patiently in the stern, as if riding these noisy monstrosities were the most natural thing in the world.
Although she stood afar off to the side, Reginald Otis’s darting eyes found her almost immediately. The most wondrous grin divided his round face in two. His pace quickened.
He hurried over and clasped her hands in his. “Samantha! You’re looking lovely! Your letters have all sounded so very cheerful. They make me ashamed that I don’t write oftener. I’ve no excuse.”
“Delighted to see ye, sir.” And indeed she was. He introduced everyone, pronouncing names Samantha would never in a million years recall. One girl, though, she would surely remember. The young woman, with skin the color of tea with cream, looked bright and sparkly, and her name was Ellen. Samantha could surely remember “Ellen.”
They stood about as bags and parcels were being unloaded, and Reginald Otis spilled over with happy descriptions of his work. She listened and laughed and asked questions. But she also listened with that inner ear that hears beyond the words spoken.
Did that ear hear correctly? If so, if Samantha were reading accurately the face and the nuances, Mr. Otis was in love.
With her.
Chapter Six
Barmah
Absolute heat. Torrid brilliance bounced off the barren ground and poured from the cloudless sky. Heavy, silent air shimmered in place. Never had Samantha experienced such searing, penetrating, exquisite heat. She sat in the lacy half shade of a gangly gum tree and waved a feather fan languidly before her face. Perhaps if she could somehow move a little of this oppressive air, she would not feel so constantly suffocated.
Samantha felt miserably weak and drained simply sitting in this shade. Just look at Reginald Otis walking around out in that hell! she thought. He had shed his coat and tie and rolled his sleeves above the elbow. His white shirt glared bright. Beside him jogged Ellen in a loose, modest cotton dress, apparently not the least uncomfortable. They were strolling out and about through the sparse scrub.
The roan and its partner, along with a yoke of bullocks, had transported the load to the mission site here from the river wharf a quarter mile away. Now workers, both black and white, were nailing crackly sheets of tin to the roof girders of the chapel and main house. Samantha had always thought carpenters made a lot of racket, but wood carpentry is silence compared to a half dozen aboriginals with hammers, putting on tin roofs.
The new tin reflected sunlight so brilliantly that the buildings seemed roofed with a second sun. Those men up there were getting broiled like meat, yet they seemed not to mind in the least. Unacceptable, that one human being might suffer so in conditions others found not the least unpleasant!
Samantha also found it difficult to accept the extraordinary flatness of the land. Except for some slightly rolling rises near the river, the landscape stretched in all directions as level and smooth as a marble palace floor.
Reginald was standing beside a sheep brake constructed of stacked and woven brush. He waved his hand about as Ellen nodded, writing hastily upon a child’s school tablet of some sort. At length they turned and started back toward where Samantha sat.
Reginald was looking at her. His broad smile reversed itself to a worried frown and he broke into a lumbering run. He shouldn’t exert himself so strenuously in this heat. It can’t be good for his health.
When he reached Samantha, he dropped to one knee beside her chair. “Samantha, you look terrible! Your face is very red. I should never have brought you out here. I’m extremely sorry.”
She forced a smile she certainly did not feel. “Nonsense. By visiting the site of y’r mission here and knowing the situation, I can operate much more intelligently and responsibly at the other end. I was rather working in the dark before.”
“Don’t try to sugar-coat the fact that I was a fool to subject you to this. I of all people am aware you do not take heat well.”
“I’m doing nothing of the sort. I mean it. Ye didnae force me, ye invited me, and I jumped at the chance to see the place. Besides, y’r crew is hard at work putting on the new tin roofs. I’ll have satisfactory shade now very shortly. I look forward to sipping water on y’r brand-new verandah.”
He patted her hand and hauled himself erect. “And you shall, very soon.” He hastened off.
Samantha wasn’t being altogether devious; she really did profit from seeing this place. On the flatness amid the sparse, ragged little trees, Reginald was planting civilization, and she had to see it to believe it. Half a dozen modest cabins, built of crooked little logs, sported roofs that looked like bark. Surely they couldn’t be rainproof—but then, when did it rain? Not lately. A roofless stone chapel stood waiting for its tin lid. The simple square mud schoolhouse beside it already served seven children, Ellen said.
And Reginald’s home, just now receiving its roof as well, could hardly be called sumptuous. Constructed of rough slabbed planks, it had neither paint, indoor facilities, nor any modern comfort. The kitchen, a separate building, connected to the house by a brush-roofed breezeway. The house sat squarely in the center of things, and yet no building actually stood near it. A part and yet apart. Yes, that was Reginald.
They named the mission “Barmah,” apparently because of its proximity to a great and famous forest nearby. Reginald had explained the importance of the Barmah Forest, and its renown for its versatile red gum lumber. Samantha had seen the many timber barges on the wharf. Her head understood the economic significance of red gum, but in her heart, she rather felt all the many kinds of wood—gum, acacia, box—to be pretty much the same.
Ellen came by presently with a big gourd dipper of tepid water. She handed it to Samantha and sat down in the dust with her long legs stretched out straight before her. She seemed so comfortably a part of this milieu. It made Samantha feel all the more the outsider.
Ellen smiled. Her teeth were beautiful. “I grew up in Ebenezer Mission, on the Wimmera near Lake Hindmarsh. It’s Moravian, and the home office would send these missionary people over from Europe. They would turn red just like you. It would take them two or three years to get used to the climate.”
“Eh, lass. Y’rself is saying that in another year I’ll feel much better.”
Ellen laughed. “Something to look forward to!” The smile faded. “There were a few who never did get used to it. Our schoolteachers would only last a couple of years, and then they’d leave. Except Miss Tyre. She was there five years. Dear old Miss Tyre. I had no idea who Queen Victoria was, but I knew she had to be someone very important because her death was the only time Miss Tyre ever shed tears.”
“Do ye ever wish to go back? To the mission, I mean.”
“Can’t. It’s gone now. Everything’s gone. Rev. Bogisch—he’s the man who was the mission, like Mr. Otis is Barmah here—died three years ago. And the mission itself was made available for selection a year and some later.”
“What does that mean?”
“Selectors are small farmers who squat on an assigned piece of government land—their selection—and develop it. They receive some government help getting started. If they’re successful, the land becomes theirs. Farmers and squatters took over the mission lands. All but the cemetery. The Moravians have arranged to keep the cemetery the way it is.”
“Where Rev. Bogisch is.”
“Where everybody is.” The sorrow in her voice made a startling contrast to her youth. She sat quietly a few moments. “My cousin Charles was buried there the beginning of winter two years ago. He was nine years old. There
was such hope in him. And a year later his grandfather was dead. ‘Of course he died,’ everyone said. ‘He was eighty-four.’ I think he would have lived to be a hundred, but he died of a broken heart. Charles was everything to him.”
“Why did Ebenezer Mission fail? Because Rev. Bogisch died?”
“No, not really. It was already being dismantled. The reverend may have died of a broken heart himself. He put so many years into it. You’re new, so you may not know about the Act. The government decreed that adult half-castes could not receive public money anymore. They had to make their place in the white man’s world, you might say.”
“I’d hardly call Moravian church funds public money.”
“Exactly. And Rev. Bogisch fought it. He tried all sorts of ways to get around it. He finally had to give in. The half-castes were the ones who really took to gardening, and they didn’t mind the yard work. They had no real place in the black world, you see. They were his workers. They kept the place going. Without them…” She waved her hands helplessly.
Politics. Government. Samantha understood the frustration as well as anyone. The politics of the Irish unrest had killed her brother Edan in the full flower of his youth. Now here was politics extending its ugly fingers into the farthest reaches of outback Victoria. Apparently no corner of the earth was safe from politicians.
Samantha thought a moment about the rainbow of skin hues here. “Reginald seems to be untrammeled by the Act.”
“Paid labor, so far. If the money gets low or support is reduced…” She shook her head. “At Ebenezer, the younger blacks would leave their old people at the mission to be taken care of and go off on walkabout. Rev. Bogisch was forced to reduce the mission lands several years before the end because he had no one able-bodied to keep them up. Ebenezer was grand in its day. But then it just sort of trickled to an end.”
Taste of Victory Page 6