Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  “Sam! Over here!” Cole’s white shirt shone in the distance, a beacon in the gray-green-brown vastness. She hastened to him, not caring that dry, scratchy bits of leaves were working down into her shoes.

  Cole was smiling, and that old elan was back. It was the first time she’d seen the spark since he returned from Adelaide. He shook hands vigorously with an unkempt, grizzled, weather-worn gentleman. The men exchanged parting pleasantries. Cole took her arm and led her off in what seemed a random direction.

  “Next time stay by the boat,” he said.

  “Thank ye for coming,” she replied.

  As they passed a group of trees, he slapped a tree trunk. “Do you realize how many board feet are in one of these? And what price it would bring in Sydney? I’ve just cut a bonzer deal with that bloke with the beard. He looks a little rough, and acts a little snaky, but he’s the chief timber harvester in this section.”

  “May I take it, then, that your business trip is a success?”

  “You may.” He squeezed her arm. “And you helped make it so. Loaning me money until I could send for a bank draft from Sydney was part, of course. But bringing me down to meet riverboat skippers was the biggest help. I had no idea what rocks to look under. I’d never have found the men I needed to deal with.”

  She laughed. “Apparently nearly all of them simply run their boats up on the bank during this low water and wait for the river to rise again. Temporary abandonment. Sure’n I’ve just begun to learn their off-season haunts meself. Quite a motley assortment, aye? I’ve new appreciation for the word ‘roughhewn.’”

  “Good businessmen, though, it seems. Sensible. Certainly know their trade.” He took a deep breath that almost came back out as a sigh. “I’ve suffered several setbacks recently, not to mention some highly peculiar incidents. I have to succeed quickly in order to stay afloat, but I’m the newcomer in this business. Amenities the established brokers take for granted, I must earn. I need an edge, and I think that edge will be transportation. The doors you’re opening for me are vital to me. And I thank you.”

  That wonderful boat whistle hooted again just ahead. They were walking in the right direction. Cole chuckled. “Gus is anxious to get going.”

  Samantha buried herself in thought. Was it divine providence that the boat whistle led her out of the forest? Or was it happenstance, a result of Captain Runyan’s impatience? Perhaps both? Neither? Her new-found awareness of God was no black-and-white thing!

  Echuca Charlene vibrated impatiently at her temporary wharf as wood smoke boiled out of the smokestacks. Her side-wheel paddles began churning even before Cole stepped aboard. Like all the other little paddle steamers on this river, Echuca Charlene was essentially a self-propelled raft, for she possessed no deck furniture beyond the bare necessities. Between her two side-wheels, an on-deck shed provided storage for firewood. On the shed’s roof perched the wheelhouse. A few feet below her inches-high gunwales, the muddy Murray coursed past at a whisper. No rails, no protection. Samantha missed a forward rail upon which to lean.

  So low and narrow was the river that several times on the brief voyage from the forest wharf to the Barmah Mission dock, one wheelhousing or the other would brush the shore. When the paddle blades hit bottom, the little boat jumped up and down violently enough to throw Samantha to her knees. Low water turned this most innocent of trips into a nerve-wracking adventure.

  Cole and Samantha were simply standing near the bow, waiting for the Barmah Mission wharf to appear around some bend, when Captain Runyan came down out of his wheelhouse.

  Ragged as a sheepdog with summer mange, he stood beside them and rolled himself a cigarette. “Now I wish to employ the charitable services of the both of you in the next ten minutes. We dock at Barmah Mission inside the quarter hour, barring any catastrophe. You, fair Irish lass, are well known to Toby already. Your task, and a task you fulfill admirably under any circumstance, I might add, will be to stand about looking beautiful. You will represent the corporate interests of Echuca, the largest town known to these locals, should the need arise, though I doubt it will. I would also be well pleased if you would clap and cheer or otherwise express approval when the moment requires.”

  The rough-cut captain dug about in his pockets, seeking a match. “You, Sloan, possess the three requisites for our business here: impressive physical stature, an apparent flair for the dramatic, and a visage, however battered it may be, unknown to the principals of our unfolding melodrama.”

  Cole’s eyebrow rose, a gesture of bemusement Samantha rarely saw in him. “One of us here isn’t speaking English.”

  “Ah. Permit me to elaborate. Miss Connolly, fair rose of Erin, you well know Toby, the overzealous factotum of our devoted Mr. Otis. Toby, I am pleased to report, has been pierced by cupid’s arrows. Absolutely smitten.” He found a match.

  “Eh, Captain Runyan, I be very happy for him.”

  “As would I under the dictates of normal circumstance. However, it seems he recently learned that the heathen totems of his clan and the bride elect’s are not compatible. Details of the embroglio escape me, but the end of it is, their romance is all at crossed tracks, lying in tatters beneath the evil feet of pagan practice.”

  Cole frowned. “In other words, they can’t get married.”

  “So it would seem.” The captain turned his back to the bow to light up. “In recent correspondence with Ellen Fenton, in whose capable hands Barmah Mission rests during Otis’s absence, I was apprised of the situation and requested to possibly offer some recourse. The scheme I have promulgated should ease the situation to the point of smoothing the course of true love right up to the altar. Sloan, I shall rehearse you as to your part in this sweet and gentle deceit. You shall play the role of seneschal, dispensing justice for none other than King Edward himself, before whom petition was made on Toby and Polly’s behalf.” His rather lumpy cigarette dangling dangerously near his beard, he jogged over to blow his steam whistle.

  When Echuca Charlene docked at the mission wharf ten minutes later, Samantha was greeted by a Toby she did not know. Here slouched a despondent man, beaten, defeated by the unseen forces of his ancestry. The verve had disappeared.

  Nearly a dozen blacks, all but three of them aged, sat about on the riverbank. Some had brought large baskets. Samantha recognized most of the faces and could recall at most two names. Ellen Fenton came running down the path to shore as Toby threw Echuca Charlene’s hawses over the pier posts. She stopped cold to look at Samantha, at Cole, and back at Samantha.

  Captain Runyan pointed a burly finger at Toby. “You. Come aboard. Where’s Polly? You, too, lass.”

  Samantha could easily tell which girl was Polly; it was the pretty young lady with the sudden fear on her face. Cautiously, even reluctantly, she climbed to her feet, threaded her way among her companions on the riverbank, and ventured aboard.

  Cole stepped forward, magnificent in his power, and unrolled the large foolscap scroll Captain Runyan had provided. He read from it in stentorian tones. “A proclamation. Whereas, Toby loves Polly and Polly loves Toby; and whereas, this situation has come to the attention of his Royal Highness; Edward King of England, protector of the faith, hereby decrees that Toby and Polly should be instantly married. His Highness further declares that laws about totems and such are all null and void.”

  Cole glared at the skipper. “Are you, Captain August Runyan, empowered by the state of New South Wales to perform weddings?”

  “I am,” boasted the captain in tones equally stentorian. He whipped out a book of common prayer, his finger already holding the appropriate place. As the steersman pumped out “God Save the King” on a battered concertina, the wedding rite commenced on the spot.

  His part completed, Cole moved back to Samantha’s side and smugly, casually folded his arms.

  She murmured above the din of concertina and celebrant. “Sure ’n ye look dazzlingly pleased with y’rself for a man who just lied about the king. ’Tis treason, ye know. And be
this wedding nae but a mockery before God himself?”

  He shook his vainglorious head. “It’s legal.”

  Ellen had come aboard. She stood by the gangplank looking totally delighted. Her eyes flicked to Samantha, and her brown face hardened instantly. What was this?

  The ceremony completed, Samantha joined in the clapping and cheering. Cole, the king’s emissary, limited himself to sedate applause. The wedding party came scrambling aboard with their baskets, and amid laughter and gay banter, they commenced unloading.

  Ellen had arranged her face to a softer, more pleasant expression. As Samantha greeted her and introduced Cole, she watched for some hint, for the slightest indication, of what might be bothering the slim girl. Nothing.

  Ellen smiled at Cole. “Thank you very much for your part. They do so care about each other. It was a lovely device, and it’s working perfectly.”

  “Unless someone notices that the royal proclamation is written out in pencil. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Fenton.”

  Samantha nodded toward the parade of porters hauling large sacks and boxes from the stern. “Seems an interesting reversal, aye? Previously Reginald worked here while I arranged supplies in town. Now he’s in town sending supplies out to y’rself, and ye be filling his shoes here.”

  “He sent word this would be coming, the flour and shortening especially, but he didn’t mention that you would be along.”

  Samantha smiled in a vain effort to melt the iceberg that stood between Ellen and her. “Mr. Sloan here wanted to meet certain rivermen, as well as some primary suppliers. Since Echuca Charlene was bound this way, we came along. We’ve nae association with the mission shipment.”

  Ellen studied her oddly, as if weighing her words against some secret knowledge. Quietly she turned and led the way ashore.

  Cole stepped aside to make way for the line of porters with their burdens. “I should think you’d have bullock carts or wagons for this sort of thing.”

  Ellen shook her head. “The bullocks are working the back section putting in fence. We’ve a team of horses, but one is lame.”

  “Which one?” Samantha frowned. She still vividly remembered the first time she saw Reginald’s horses on that infamous southbound track. So long ago, it seemed.

  “The roan.”

  Cole echoed Samantha’s thoughts: “I’d like to see him, if I may.”

  “Certainly, as you wish.”

  Like Reginald, Cole seemed inured to this heat. When they arrived at the mission station, he still had not removed his jacket. Ellen led them straightway to the stables. When first she visited here, Samantha had seen buildings without roofs. Now the roan stood listlessly beneath a roof without walls; four poles supported a few sheets of that ubiquitous tin roofing.

  One ragged ear flicked toward them, but the roan hardly raised its head. It stood with one hind leg cocked, its backside tilted and sagging. The near front foot was the injured one, however—just above the hoof. The exact nature of the injury Samantha could not tell, for a solid black mass of flies covered it.

  Without hesitation Cole slipped between the loose strands of barbed wire fencing. He spoke to the horse, stroked its neck, patted its shoulder, and casually picked up the foot. The fly swarm lifted away quickly. A jagged rip zigzagged across the pastern, oozing black oiliness down the hoof. Yellow pus and swollen flesh had wedged the wound open. An odor somewhat akin to dirty, sweaty feet pervaded the hot and torpid little shelter. What a hideous, seeping mess!

  Cole poked about with his thumbs a few moments, brushing at the persistent flies as the roan jerked and tossed its head. He let the foot down and stood erect.

  Ellen licked her lips. “He cut himself on roofing tin. No one here knows quite what to do. Neither does Reginald.”

  Cole stood erect. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  With Samantha’s help, Cole cleaned the injury thoroughly until the raw flesh oozed clear pink and red. He called for disinfectant. Carbolic? No. Alcohol? No. Peroxide? No. Whiskey? Silence. Sly-grog perhaps? Toby’s friends, as affectionate toward horses as they were toward Toby, provided a bottle of wedding libation to be used medicinally on the roan’s foot.

  Cole demonstrated how to bind the roan’s foot as protection from the dirt and flies. He talked Ellen through what would be the daily regimen of unwrapping, clearing out the wound, disinfecting, and rewrapping. Finally, on behalf of King Edward, he wished Toby all the best and sent the joy-filled groom on his way.

  During that hour, Samantha felt a prickling wall growing between her and Ellen. Ellen had once treated her so warmly. Why the change? Sometimes the best way to approach something is directly, she thought. Face to face.

  The porters were returning with another load. As lightly as they were laden, that was probably the last of it. Time to go. Captain Runyan no doubt would be snorting impatiently soon. Samantha must seize the bull by the horns now or never.

  “Miss Fenton, might I speak with ye privately a moment?”

  Ellen eyed her guardedly, as a postal carrier might watch a belligerent dog. “As you wish, Miss Connolly.”

  Samantha fell in beside the girl and started for the track to the river. “Meself desires to know if I’ve given offense or in some way hurt y’r feelings.”

  Ellen drew in a deep breath of hot, dry air. “I’m sorry, Miss Connolly. This is not a Christian attitude, and it’s not Christian behavior. No. It’s nothing you’ve done.”

  “Eh, then what is it, might I ask?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “As ye wish. I’ve learned, though, that such things fester—nae less than that poor roan’s foot—when left in the dark to themselves.”

  Ellen nodded. Her lovely black eyes looked on the verge of tears. “You’re aware of Reginald’s feelings toward you, I trust.”

  “Aye. He’s voiced them.”

  “They’re the same feelings I have for him. You see—” Her voice nearly broke. “You see, at Ebenezer we celebrated Christmas. It was the one time of year that was truly festive and bright. Gifts, lights. Roast fowl, even if it was bustard.”

  “Eh, so in Erin, too.”

  “He won’t be here. He’ll be in Echuca, with you. I—I’m sorry. I look at you and see you with everything I yearn for. And that includes being white—being the same race he is, so I’d be more desirable. This jealousy is wrong. I know it’s wrong and I can’t rid myself of it. I pray, I fast…nothing. I’m so sorry. But I can’t look at you without this jealousy and hatred leaping into my heart.”

  “Do ye ken how much he cares for ye?”

  “You mean ‘Dear, practical Ellen! I couldn’t handle this place without you’? Wonderful. I’m first in his head. You’re first in his heart.”

  They were slipping in among the scattered trees now, from splotchy bits of shade, to sun, to shade.

  “I dinnae know what to say to ease y’r mind. Perhaps there be nae answer.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  They walked in heavy silence through the stifling woods. Samantha suddenly felt the old homesickness she thought had been vanquished months ago. Christmas means family and friends, warm toasts, a Yule log, roast goose, holly and church bells, and cold, absolutely miserable weather that you love to complain about. Christmas is dark winter solstice with its unspoken promise of renewal three months hence. None of the things in this hot, brilliant alien summer—not a single thing—was Christmas. Samantha was being robbed of the one holiday that truly sings to the heart.

  Echuca Charlene hooted somewhere ahead.

  Samantha stopped and turned to the unhappy girl beside her. “God bless ye, Ellen Fenton. Goodbye.”

  Ellen could not meet her eyes. “God bless you,” she mumbled. She hastened back up the track toward the mission.

  Cole hurried aboard less than a minute after Samantha arrived at the boat. Captain Runyan’s steersman came aboard lugging what was no doubt the last of a load of firewood. With a hoot and a shudder, Echuca C
harlene eased out into the narrow channel and commenced her run home.

  Samantha yearned more than ever for a rail to lean against, for leaning on a boat’s rail invites clear thinking. For lack of a rail she simply stood about idly on the foredeck and watched the flaccid water disappear under Echuca Charlene’s prow. So many wayward thoughts clamored for attention. Jealousy. True love. Cole Sloan. Head versus heart. Christmas. The poor roan. Cole Sloan. Reginald. Answers to prayer and the complexities of divine providence. Ellen’s anguish. The handsome man with the beat-up face who had just spread his coat across a rank of firewood and was stretching out upon it. He yawned mightily, settled himself to repose, and closed his eyes.

  The boat’s paddle-wheel housing brushed the shore on an outside curve; the whole craft lurched and shook. Samantha heard ungentlemanly comments from the wheelhouse. In florid prose, Captain Runyan upbraided himself for venturing out upon such low water. He cursed the filthy lucre this trip was earning him. His steersman yelled something.

  With a rasping roar, the boat jerked to an instantaneous halt. Samantha cried out as she flew forward. She grabbed at a mooring post and missed. For an endless moment she stared at the tired, dirty water; then it sucked her under.

  She surfaced coughing. Inches from her face a paddle wheel flogged the river helplessly. In her own flailing, she kicked bottom. Cole must have heard her cry, for he started toward her. No rescue heroics were needed, though. She gained her feet and stood erect in the mud; the water was less than a yard deep.

  Echuca Charlene’s engine strained and screamed. Sooty steam billowed from the stack. The paddles surged; they backed. She sat immovable, high-centered on some sort of bar or snag beneath the surface.

  Cole Sloan stood all clean and dry on the deck, arms akimbo, and laughed. He laughed!

  Captain Runyan, swearing like—well, like a riverman—came boiling down onto the deck. He glared at Cole, who was quite obviously the source of all his troubles. “We’re a mile from the Goulburn mouth, and that’s seven miles east of town. You can walk to town if you want to get there by Christmas, or you can sit on this bleeping boat until the water comes. Have your choice. I’m shutting the engine down and going home.” He stared at Samantha. “Next time sit down when the boat’s moving.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the wheelhouse.