Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  Samantha used both hands to push her waterlogged hair out of her face. Here she was, absolutely drenched again with the filthiest water on the continent.

  Still sporting a fiendish grin, Cole offered her a hand. “Is this your holiday bath, Sam?”

  She was going to cry. She could feel it coming. She would not be able to stop the tears shed for home, for lost simplicity, for life’s cruel twists. And there the nong stood, grinning.

  She accepted his hand, planted a foot firmly on the gunwale and yanked. In wide-eyed shock he flew past her. She heard the splash behind as she pulled herself onto the deck. New South Wales was the closest shore. She’d walk home on the north side and cross the bridge into Echuca. Eight miles. Three hours, at least, for she would not make good time weeping as she went.

  She shot one final glance at the bedraggled Mr. Sloan before beginning her trek. “Merry Christmas, mate.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Air on a Shoestring

  In like a lion, out like a lamb. Beware the ides of March. Mad as a March hare. Creators of bromides did not live in this topsy-turvy world. MARCH—TIME TO SEE TO YOUR AUTUMN WARDROBE proclaimed the advertising sign in the window. Linnet stood before a charming little draper’s shop in Divett Street across from the National Bank. Although full of warehouses and chandleries and such, Port Adelaide had few shops, for bustling Adelaide proper lay not much more than half an hour to the south by railway. Ah, but the shops it did have! Just look at that lovely fashion in black crepe silk!

  Chris came across the street, dodging carts and wagons. He charged up and halted beside her, giving the shopwindow the barest of glances. “Don’t go spending money before you’ve made it, Linn girl. Our trunk’s aboard, and it’s nearing time to sail.”

  “’Tis a fine deal ye wrought, Chris, exchanging dinner music for our fare and meals, but what’ll we do when we reach Melbourne? We’ve nae money to live on and ye said y’rself, the concert in Melbourne will likely not pay well, for I still be unknown. It frightens me, traveling with nae money.”

  He smiled gently, warmly. “You still don’t trust the gifts God gave you. This tour to Sydney is laying the groundwork.” He draped his arm across her shoulders and directed her down the street. “We’ll be getting people to hear your name. Familiarity. After Sydney, and your appearance with Giambone, you’ll return in victory! You’ll be celebrated, Linn.”

  She snorted. “So be Guy Fawkes. That dinnae make it lovely.”

  They walked out into Commercial Road and down to Queen’s Wharf. Rustbucket, Chris called their little steamer, and if you looked at it with a cold, uncaring eye, it probably was. As the son of a well-traveled diplomat, Chris no doubt knew lovely ships from ugly ones. But Linnet had sailed from Cork on a steamer not much bigger than this, and far dirtier. She preferred to see the good of it, its sleek lines and jaunty tilted prow. As they stepped aboard, a steward called, “All ashore who’s going ashore.” Five minutes later the little steamer cast off and slipped out into the channel.

  She leaned hard against the forerail to watch green water boil around the little steamer’s cutwater. She banished to the nether corners of her mind the worrisome fact they were traveling without funds. Her adventure had begun.

  ****

  Samantha unlocked the office door and threw it open to the breezes of dawn, not to mention the flow of commerce. These March winds were a delightful change from the heat of summer. She welcomed them. Commerce didn’t flow much yet, but any week now the Murray’s waters would begin to rise. She looked forward with anticipation to her first busy season as assistant to the wharfmaster and welcomed that flow as well.

  She had barely completed the morning’s correspondence when her son came bounding through the open door.

  “G’day, luv!” She rubbed his head. “Off to school, eh?”

  He grinned wide enough to admit his pencil sideways. “This fall we commence long division and advanced story problems.” He sobered. “Do you know, mum, by winter, I shall know more arithmetic than my father. That doesn’t seem right.”

  “Sure’n ’tis perfectly right! Y’r father wants a better life for ye than he has; all parents dream that. He’ll be immensely proud of ye.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what he says. Still…”

  “Knowing how to cipher and possessing wisdom be two very different things, lad. Ye’ll never surpass y’r father for wisdom.”

  The grin returned. “I’ll be in at noon with the postings.”

  “Good lad! Off ye go now.”

  He was scarcely out the door before his piercing soprano bade Mr. Drummond good day. The man’s bulk filled the doorway.

  Jovial in the morning brightness, he crossed to her desk. “G’day, Samantha.”

  “Top of the morning, sir. Your schedule.” She handed him her prepared list of his day’s activities.

  He scanned it, squinting. The man really ought to consider reading glasses. “Who is this Dr. Stoney I’m to meet at ten?”

  “He runs the consumptive house out on the Campaspe. Let’s see; ‘Echuca Private Sanitorium for Open-air Treatment of Consumption.’ According to the note he sent round last week, he’s seeking a special excursion rate for passengers residing in his sanitorium. As an inducement, I presume.”

  “How much is he charging for that palace?”

  “Four guineas a week, sir.”

  “If they can pay that, they can afford a boat ride. Anything else I should know?”

  “He claims the consumptive house barely pays its way, being that several others, newly opened, are cutting into his business. The barber in Hare Street tells me that Dr. Stoney’s been boasting of the grand new house he just bought in Melbourne.”

  Mr. Drummond smiled. “Thank you very much, Samantha. I believe I’ll use the time until ten getting my hair trimmed. See what else I can learn prior to our appointment.”

  “Time well spent, I trow. G’day, sir.”

  The poor man ought to walk more, too, for he was growing ever heavier. Samantha noted as he passed through the open door that he had no lateral clearance to speak of.

  By the time the train whistle hooted in the distance, she had completed the few papers needing Mr. Drummond’s signature. She had arranged on his desk the papers and proceedings he ought to read. Her duties for the day lay behind her. She adjusted her broad-brimmed hat on the way out the door to meet the train.

  Because Echuca’s trade had dwindled so drastically, even in good times, the wharfmaster was also the stationmaster. It would behoove Samantha, when things got busy, to know all the engineers and conductors on the Melbourne-Echuca run personally. Therefore she met most of the arriving trains.

  They were running Engine 137. That meant Mr. Dumont was probably at the throttle. There he was, waving; she smiled and waved in return.

  Half a dozen passengers were detraining, in no apparent hurry. The stevedores began loading and unloading the few cars behind. Short train today.

  As she paused to pass the time of day with Mr. Dumont, they were joined by Mr. Casper, the conductor. There is a close camaraderie among railroad men, and Samantha enjoyed listening to the banter. Rivermen—officers and common laborers alike—shared a similar comradeship. Railroad men, though, possessed a certain formality and finesse the rivermen lacked entirely. Samantha never felt this same ease when she moved among the river runners.

  “G’day, Sam.”

  She wheeled.

  His face looked normal again; the cut above his eye had left only the slightest trace of a scar. To the indiscriminate eye, Cole Sloan looked healthy and fit. But in that first brief moment, Samantha saw desperation and despair hiding behind his somber eyes.

  Was she imagining things? No. “G’day, Cole. I’m surprised and most pleased to see ye.”

  “I’m nearly as surprised as you that I’m here. But I’m in a bit of a bind, and I need your help.”

  “Of course!” She took leave of the railroad men and led the way back to the office.
They stepped from bright morning sun into stuffy gloom, both literally and figuratively.

  Cole flopped into the straight-backed chair as Samantha sat down at her desk. “Sam…” He sighed and his voice dropped. “Sam, I was operating on a shoestring when I left Sugarlea. The string just broke. I have to get something moving. Now. I mean, right now. My get-started fund is gone, and Beckerstaff tied up the last of the Sugarlea payments in court actions. It’s been one thing after another. Weird things. I have nothing to make money with, and it’s getting worse. I don’t even have an office anymore.”

  She studied his face and saw utter defeat. He was giving up. She could see it.

  “Why come to meself, Cole? I be but a humble assistant, an office drone. I have nae power.”

  “You have all the power here, Sam. Drummond’s a figurehead. You do his thinking for him, his planning for him, and you cut his deals and hand them to him. I looked into the wharf a bit during the holiday. Talked to people about things besides business, the rivermen in particular. They know you’re bunging on this turn, you’re the power in this office.”

  “Eh, sure ’n ye be overst—”

  “There’s not a boatman on the river who wouldn’t do anything you asked of him,” he interrupted. “And there’s not a riverman who will pass the time of day with Drummond. They see him as a spineless political appointee and not worth spit. You can help me, Sam. No one else can.”

  She sat back and stared at her desk top a few minutes. “Ye made certain contacts with foresters and others while ye were here over the holiday. What might be available to transport right now?”

  “Not wool. Not timber until the water rises. A little wine that would come through Mannum.”

  Just then Ah Loo came whisking in the door. He stopped cold and changed instantly from a vivacious little boy into a sedate young man. He bowed slightly to Samantha.

  “Ah Loo.” Ah Loo! Perhaps…“Have ye the latest?”

  “Yes, mum!” He plopped a student’s tablet on her desk. “I checked the post office and all the agents.”

  “Good.” She ran her eyes down the page of neat handwriting. Ah Loo was, if nothing else, precise. She smiled. “Bring me the river map.” She raised her eyes to Cole. “The sales agents, wholesalers, and the post office all post news of upstream water levels on their doors, by means of which local rivermen may judge the water level here in advance. One of me son’s chores is to bring me the postings that I might know when traffic will begin to move.”

  “You see something?” Cole frowned slightly, but it could not be called a spark of interest.

  “Aye! Ah Loo, ye seek expertise in arithmetic. Meself has been told it takes a week for rising water to travel thus far,” she said, pointing to the map. “If that be so, how long will it take for a rise in the Darling here below Bourke—as the post office posting promises—to reach our river?”

  Ah Loo shook his head. “No good, mum. The Darling enters the river west of Mildura. Way downstream of us. Won’t do us no good at all.”

  “Mr. Sloan here wants to bring up cargo from Mannum.”

  The snapping black eyes held hers for a long moment. His mobile little face shaped itself into bright sunshine. He snatched up the tablet and pointed. “Look! Here’s rain with water rising above Albury! By the time the river rises from above us, the Darling water should have reached beyond Mannum. That is, if it keeps raining.”

  “Calculate it out more precisely, lad. We must know the earliest a boat could have Mr. Sloan’s wine on the way, but not a moment before it.”

  The lad bent low over the map and table. He set hard at work, the tip of his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth as he penciled figures, most of them hash marks, and carefully measured map points with his thumbnails.

  Samantha glanced at Cole. He was watching the boy with nothing short of wonder on his face. He looked at her and the hope was back; his face had softened.

  She smiled. “Telegraph y’r vintner, aye? Meself shall telegraph the skipper of the Mayflower. Methinks she was in Swan Hill when the water ran out from under her. She can ride the crest down to Mannum, pick up y’r goods and bring them here, if the current be nae too strong for her. She’s small but plucky.”

  Ah Loo snapped erect, triumphant as a knight victorious. “The water will reach Mannum a day before ours reaches us.” He held his figures before her. “Six and a half days. Does that look right?”

  “If y’r ciphers be correct, meself shall write a letter to y’r teacher describing y’r exploits and demanding ye receive a perfect score in math.”

  He grinned. The grin fled. “And if I’m wrong?”

  “Why sure’n I’ll throw ye back in the river. ’Twas where I found ye, aye? Now I’ve an errand for ye; then ye must hie y’rself back to class. Run down to the Bridge Hotel and ask the desk to send over any skipper they come across. Especially Captains Runyan or Sykes.”

  Ah Loo bowed slightly to Cole and like a flash was gone.

  Samantha stood up. “And now, Mr. Sloan, we shall apply the balm that we seem always to apply: tea at the garden.”

  He smiled wanly. “I can’t even afford that.”

  “Is that nae what friends be for?” She knew she had at least four shillings in her little change purse. She dug it out and dumped it uncounted into his hand. She stepped back and extended her elbow and waited. Escort me.

  He stood. He smiled. He kissed her hand and offered her his arm. Ever the gentleman, he saw her to the door. But his shoulders, sagging with all that weight, remained bowed.

  ****

  Reginald remembered reading about the conversation somewhere but he could not recall which evangelist had been quoted. The incident itself, though, was so emblazoned in his memory he could recite it word for word. A young preacher approached the noted evangelist and said, “Sir, I preach the same message you do verbatim. I even use the same gestures. Yet hundreds come to your call and I get few or none.”

  The evangelist studied the young man intently. “Well, you certainly don’t expect to win souls every single time you preach, do you?”

  “Oh. Well, uh, I guess not.”

  “And that, young man, is exactly why you fail.”

  Reginald possessed that hunger for evangelizing. He expected to reach souls with every message. Why had he no success? Ellen, faithful Ellen, remained. She tried to keep the garden and the books and the school. Half a dozen elderly blacks, men and women too infirm to travel, still hung about Barmah. Three half-caste fellows kept showing up for meals; Reginald knew they’d be gone as soon as the waters rose and the boats, their seasonal livelihood, ran again. Everyone else had disappeared. Even Toby and Polly were gone. “No doubt honeymooning,” Ellen had said. No doubt.

  Apparently the home office was ignoring him. That wasn’t bad. Whenever they sent some word from their position of ignorance half a world away, it created crisis. But then, neither were funds forthcoming.

  Funds. This was God’s work. Why did He not provide funds? Or was this God’s work? Reginald had been assuming to this point that he operated in God’s will, following prayerful consideration. Was this Barmah Mission project actually as that Sloan fellow painted it—a reach for glory? An attempt to big-note Reginald Otis on a grand scale?

  Assailed by both doubt and an acute lack of operating capital, Reginald Otis tipped his head out the open window of his railway car to see the first of the river red gums in the distance. Ahead lay Echuca and the one bright spot in his life. Dear God, you know what a matchless team Samantha and I would make for your service. She’s sensible, efficient and wise. We worked together so well at the first. I perceive we were literally made for each other. God, guide me in approaching her effectively, at just the right moment, regarding marriage.

  ****

  Marty Frobel watched the flatness zip past his window. The mallee down here looked a lot like the brigelow on his own place in Queensland—a lot, but not exactly. He’d be in Echuca in another two hours. Victoria and New Sou
th Wales could take some lessons from Queensland when it came to laying railways. He had crossed the Murray at Albury. It was ridiculous that he had to ride south practically to Melbourne before heading north again to the river.

  Was Sloan there? He couldn’t be found in Sydney. By the time Marty made contact with Margaret’s sister, either by telegraph or by mail, he could be in Echuca. But then, Marty had always wanted to see this part of the country. The richness of its grazing land was legendary, especially up in central Queensland, the land of fat-or-famine. Right now his cattle wandered belly deep in Mitchell grass; this country, just coming off the summer dry, didn’t look half so good.

  “Bulldog,” Marty’s pop called Sloan. “Don’t trust him any further than you can throw a bullock. But he’s tough.”

  All right. Pop knew. Marty wouldn’t trust Sloan. But he did need the bloke. Meatworks in his Mitchell District perched on the brink of collapse, even the boomer companies that had been around for twenty years, in Lakes Creek and Gladstone. Markets. They had to have new markets. The old, established brokers wagged their heads sadly at Queensland’s plight and politely suggested that those banana benders up there would be wise to move south with their sheep and cattle.

  Sloan, though, was new blood. He possessed no ties to the old school, the inner ring of mates and old men in the brokerages. More so than the Sydney silvertails, he knew Queensland; he’d lived there for years. He just might find new markets, new ways to market. Frozen beef transported by freezer ships wasn’t economical. Maybe Sloan could find some new angle on that.

  He had to. Things could not continue this way for long.

  ****

  Linnet stepped forward and bowed politely in response to the polite applause. Thirteen persons does not make an enthusiastic audience. The modest hall echoed, essentially empty.