Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  Chris had expressed his opinion. Sloan took it from that the ocker didn’t want company on his way back to the hotel. He dropped back thirty feet. They walked together apart.

  A shadow in the darkness between two buildings, the merest hint of movement, caught Sloan’s attention. Had he been drinking tonight, he no doubt would not have seen it. He wheeled to face the movement as an arm snaked out and grabbed his sleeve. He only got half a yell out as he was yanked into the blackness, but at least he had seen it coming.

  He folded his legs, ducking low; he felt an arm swing past his head, flailing the air. He leaped up with both arms out stiff before him. He connected fairly, heard the fellow go oof! He ducked again and pivoted. He could see nothing; his adversaries’ eyes were probably better attuned to the dark than his own. How many were there? He couldn’t tell.

  He crab-walked two feet sideways toward the street, his knees bent nearly double. No good! He was now exposed in better light than they. A fist from nowhere knocked him onto his bottom.

  A black cape came flying past, exuding musty odor. Sloan heard the kid connect solidly. Voices cried out. Sloan was back on his feet now. He waded into the melee, boots and all. The exhilaration was there again, the scintillating urge to show these drongos the folly of attacking a simple, peace-loving man like Sloan. His blood had come to life.

  He could see somewhat now, too, as his eyes adjusted better and better. A face not Chris’s loomed before him; he socked it. A set of frantic footsteps beat a retreat down the alley. Someone in the darkness thunked against a wall. The face at Sloan’s feet was starting to rise. He kicked it. He circled around lest he be silhouetted.

  Ten feet away someone grunted. Another set of feet beat their way to safety down the alley. Suddenly a black presence loomed beside him, too near and too advanced in its swing for him to stop it. He was going to get pasted fair with this one. An arm and hand whistled inches past his nose and slammed solidly into the black nemesis, then pulled back in pain. The gent let out a surprised “huh!” on his way down.

  Chris stood beside him and studied the fallen oaf. “Any notion who they are?”

  “I was about to ask you.”

  “You really do think I set some sort of war dogs on you.”

  “You were cheering for the good guys an hour ago. Now here you are defending me.”

  “If these louts would attack you, what of the gentle ladies? Just making the streets safe. Besides, I need something to punch. It’s been frustrating the last few weeks.”

  “That’s a tune I can whistle, mate!” Sloan hauled the blackguard on the ground to his feet. “Let’s get some answers.”

  With the groggy ratbag propped between them, Sloan led Chris out to the wharf. Here the streetlights were most distant. And yet, it was as light here as anywhere, with nothing but open sky overhead. He recognized the clown the moment the light was strong enough; the pencil mustache from Sydney! They walked through the rain to the very edge of the wharf.

  Sloan laid a hand on the man’s throat. “Make a sound any louder than my voice now and we drop you. Understand?” He whipped a leg out and caught the back of the fellow’s knees. The lout went down like a hod of bricks.

  Chris caught on instantly. Together they shoved the fellow backward out over the edge until he hung head down with only his feet and calves touching solid wharf. He struggled a moment and reduced his attempts to a continuous litany of begging and pleading.

  Sloan sat on one shin, and Chris on the other. “Now, fair cow, you can dive head first onto someone’s boat deck, or possibly the river, or you can cooperate. Your name?”

  “Vernon B-B-Bower.”

  “Your occupation?”

  “Thief. Naught but a thief.”

  Sloan lifted his weight slightly. The leg slipped a hair. “I remember you on that bay horse. You and your knife. Your occupation? And why no knife tonight?”

  “We just wanted to f-f-f-frighten ye, Mr. Sloan. I wasn’t going to k-k-k-kill ye with me knife, just mark ye up a bit. I swear it, Mr. Sloan; w-w-we’d never kill ye!”

  Chris twisted around to look Sloan in the face. “Sounds like he’s more your cobber than mine. He doesn’t know my name.” Chris bounced his weight a bit. “Or do you?”

  “We-we-we-we got nothin’ ‘gainst ye, sir. Just Mr. Sloan.”

  “And why Mr. Sloan?”

  “’Tis what we’re paid for, sir.”

  “Paid by whom?”

  Silence.

  Sloan spent a few minutes just watching all around. Apparently this Vernon Bower’s mates were a cowardly lot not about to save their accomplice. Sloan shifted his weight. “Hope you get paid enough to die for it. Your boss lives in comfort while you plunge off the end of the Echuca Wharf. Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

  “W-w-w-will ye promise ye’ll not tell me boss I cracked? And will ye p-p-promise ye’ll not let me fall?”

  “I don’t have to cut a deal, cove. I’m on top.”

  “You don’t want to cut a deal with him anyway,” Chris chimed in. “You can’t trust him worth a brass razoo. He’s been known to dob in his best friend, and recently, too. But my word’s good. I’ll warrant you I won’t let him toss you over the side. If you give us the dinkum oil—the truth, now.”

  “Beckerstaff. Horace Beckerstaff hired us at thirty-five a month plus railway fares.”

  Sloan snorted. “I don’t believe you. He’s got me knocked down in the courts. He doesn’t have to spend money like that to send a couple of pie-faced drongos out into the bush after me. That’s foolish. You really think I’d believe that?”

  “It’s the ch-ch-ch-ch-truth, I swear! His orders were to make your life miserable. He kept saying it over. He seemed to take a delight in it, ye know? Little annoyances and big ones. The more miserable, the better. And we were to write reports.”

  “So did you write reports?”

  “That’s when we got our bonuses. But we were truthful. Didn’t dare lie to Mr. Beckerstaff.”

  “How good are you at arson?”

  “Bit of k-k-kerosene in y’r filing cabinet. We did it by d-d-d-day so’s the bombers would get on it quick. Even left a window open so’s someone would see the s-s-smoke right off.”

  “Clever of you. Follow me around all over?”

  “Follow ye around and cause ye p-p-problems. The bag ye lost in Melbourne? We threw it in the river. And the time in Adelaide, at y’r lady friend’s b-b-b-boardinghouse? Cleaning out your hotel room got us a fat bonus. And at the track in S-S-S-Sydney. That was us. Y’re a hard man to follow. Lost ye—lost ye a couple times. And we was a day behind ye most of the time. Would’ve done a lot more if we coulda caught up. But that’s over now, sir, over and done, I swear. We’ll not b-b-b-bother ye again.”

  “You caused me all this trouble. Now tell me why I shouldn’t just stand up right now.”

  “Ye wanted the dinkum oil, sir, and I bared me soul, sir. Have m-m-m-mercy, sir!”

  Chris was staring at Sloan, bemused. “Sounds as if you have a world class enemy in this Beckerstaff. You never do things by halves, do you, Sloan?”

  “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. Since the constable hasn’t found us, let’s go find the constable. Let our fizzgig here sing for the law and sign a statement.”

  Chris nodded. “And, it will probably pay to muster up the other two before they go running to their boss. It’ll save him the effort of destroying some of his files.”

  “Wouldn’t want to put him to any extra effort on my behalf.”

  Getting Bower out of his predicament was a lot more taxing than putting him into it.

  Beckerstaff. Sloan’s mind gazed with admiration upon the purity of Beckerstaff’s hatred, and of his power to indulge that hatred. Sloan had heard it said that hatred is a more powerful driving force than love. He believed it. If love were such a strong controlling factor, he would not have done what he did to the one true love of his life.

  In the rain on that dark wharf, at just ab
out that moment, the dull numbness Sloan had felt all day began to lift. In its place came pain.

  By the time Vernon Bower was ensconced in the local gaol, Sloan’s pain had grown until its hot fingers probed into every fiber of his existence. Excruciating emotional pain. Look what he had done! He remembered her voice as she had left that council chamber. An honest and upright woman, a noble woman, and he had sullied her. Her honor was important to her. He knew that. And to serve his own interests he had glibly impugned it. By his very silence he had condemned her. On purpose.

  Late, late that night, when the goblins of the mind have their turn at designing one’s dreams, Sloan awoke to a hideous nightmare. He found himself drenched in sweat.

  And he was weeping.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Pursuit of Fame and Fortune

  A white cockatoo lit in the yard outside Samantha’s window. She straightened at her writing desk and paused a moment, admiring it. It flashed its yellow crest and began waddling about in search of breakfast. Samantha finished this latest release. “Here ye go, Linnet. This one will be for the Swan Hill paper. I believe ’tis a weekly.”

  From the dining table, Chris passed Linnet another envelope. “And here’s the envelope addressed to us, so they can send the press clippings.”

  Linnet paused in her envelope stuffing. “Chris, what if the press clippings be bad? The Melbourne papers said naething a tall, and that’s even worse.”

  “Then we excerpt and quote it separately. ‘Miss Connolly is a wondrously lousy singer, adept at wrecking even so great a composer as Handel’ becomes ‘Miss Connolly is wondrously dot adept dot, period.’ It’s done all the time.”

  “How dreadful!” Linnet went back to her work. She looked up again. “We’ll not resort to such flummery, will we?”

  “We won’t have to. You’ll be glorious!”

  Samantha giggled. That pleased her. It was the first time she had felt like giggling since…since…”Your boat will be one of the first on the new water. That is to say, one of the first calling at these towns. These people are starving for entertainment, not to mention flour and salt. You could be a roller-skating goat, and they’d love you.”

  Linnet brightened. “They’ve had roller skating in Adelaide over a year now; we’ve gone a couple of times. And they’re planning to bring it to Sydney this year.” She turned to Chris. “If it be open by the time we get there, perhaps we might go?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we roll over it. Linn, you’ve mastered the non sequitur like no one else I’ve ever known.”

  She smiled demurely. “Thank ye, Chris.”

  Samantha rose and reached for her hat. “I be off to the post office. I’ll send these and the telegrams. Sure’n ye’ll be a celebrity before ever y’r boat arrives, Linnet.”

  “We’re going over to the arts school to practice. They’re renting us a baby grand to use on the tour.” Chris scooped up a batch of papers and rather roughly ushered Linnet toward the door.

  They went their separate ways. Samantha lingered a bit to watch Chris and Linnet as they walked upstreet and turned the corner. He was gesticulating wildly, she nodding vigorously. What a strange, sweet fellow was Linnet’s Chris! But then, so was Linnet, in her own way. Samantha felt very happy for her.

  She consulted her list, making certain she had everything she needed. All here. Away she went.

  Already she had arranged for the Mayflower to charter as Linnet’s showboat. It was a tiny vessel, and sprightly, and would serve nicely on this still-low water. Now she must mail out these news bulletins of Linnet’s appearance to each of the towns along the way. Each packet contained details of the event, background on Linnet for the local editors and reporters, and a return envelope with the request for clippings. If this worked—if even half the towns responded—Linnet would soon have quite a sheaf of recent clippings with which to influence impresarios in the big cities.

  The pain of Cole’s betrayal stabbed as deeply as ever, but Samantha could at least see a reason now that God might not mind that she’d been sacked. She could spend her full energies on setting up Linnet’s tour, and of orchestrating the news items and publicity it would generate.

  She thought only briefly of the staid, regular, unremarkable life she had left behind in Cork, the life her parents still pursued. Whatever would Mum and Papa think of this wild land and of Linnet and Samantha’s constant employment adventures?

  Cole, Cole, Cole. Why?

  Her postal duties completed for the moment, she turned almost by habit toward the wharf. Who had come in this morning? She walked down the steep, endless stairs to the lower level. But the lowest level was under water now. Boats were tying up at the next level.

  The Adelaide was back in the water now. She worked logging barges between the wharf here and Barmah forest. Apparently they were planning to use her, so perhaps water was up in the forest also. At the far end, Samantha could barely make out the Gem. And outboard of her was tied the Pyap.

  This was exciting! That was it exactly. The rebirth of the river trade excited Samantha. She regretted being robbed of the chance to take part in it. Sadly, bitterly, she turned and climbed back up the stairs.

  Her spirits had lifted by the time she reached the top. Late this morning the Mayflower would arrive with Cole’s wine shipment. That shipment would be transferred to the train, and the skipper of the Mayflower would take on the sweet-voiced Adelaide Lark, with her accompanist, Mr. Yorke, for a triumphant musical tour of the Murray drainage. Already, here came Chris and Linnet, and look at that: they had employed Ah Loo’s cousin to move the piano from the church to the wharf.

  “Miss Connolly!”

  She wheeled. “Mr. Wiersby.”

  “I’ve learned you’ve been in contact with the skipper of the Mayflower, Captain Husting. At least one letter, and several telegrams.”

  “Which friends I send letters to, or telegrams, be a private matter and nae longer a concern of y’rs, Mr. Wiersby. Ye’ll nae accuse me of using me position unwisely, for I’ve nae position left to use, thanks to y’r own fine meddling.” She watched his face redden, and it delighted her in a perverse way.

  He puffed up visibly. “Your lack of deference toward your superiors confirms our decision, young woman.”

  “An opinion meself’d expect of ye, sir. However, sir, when ye discover who really kept the wharf’s affairs in order, I may or may nae be interested in being rehired. ’Twill depend upon me sister’s success and the time required in tending to her needs.”

  A familiar and welcome whistle hooted out on the river. Samantha dipped her head. “Enjoy this fine weather, Mr. Wiersby, and g’day.” She hurried off down the wharf and stood at its far end, watching the Echuca Charlene come churning up, her ugly tin smokestack spitting sparks.

  Reginald waved from Charlene’s foredeck, the roan standing stolidly beside him. Samantha waved back. Captain Runyan waved and tooted the whistle again. Samantha waved back. It was very difficult to remain sad and depressed on this river when comical little boats like this, or stately power horses like the Rothbury across the way, churned about with their huffing and hooting. And the men who ran them were no less comical and stately. Samantha loved this whole milieu.

  Cole, Cole, Cole. Why?

  Captain Runyan beckoned with an arm. Samantha descended the stairs hastily and stepped out across the rickety planks.

  “Come aboard!” the captain shouted. “I’m dumping him down by the mill!”

  With a mighty leap, Samantha barely made it onto Charlene’s deck. Reginald’s strong arms steadied her.

  She smiled and Reginald smiled and they shook hands. She was his fiancee? She crossed to greet the captain. “Top of the morning, sir! Good trip?”

  “Didn’t beach her once!” the captain laughed. The season was off and running!

  Samantha realized now that they could not have off-loaded the roan at the wharf without expecting the stodgy horse to negotiate the loose planks like a tightr
ope walker. Echuca Charlene nudged herself against the bank downstream on the New South Wales side, and as Reginald applied encouragement to the roan’s rump, Samantha guided the front end ashore. The horse’s disposition matched its ungainly head quite well.

  With a final wave and a toot, Charlene backpaddled toward the wharf, and Samantha joined Reginald for the walk upstream to the bridge.

  He told her the almost utter lack of news at Barmah Mission. She told him about Linnet and Chris. She told him about Marty Frobel, a man Reginald would enjoy meeting. And she told him, without detail, about the wharf job. She neglected mentioning Cole’s part, and kept on neglecting it. That was foolish. Why protect the beast? And yet, she did.

  He expressed shock at the commission action, properly aghast, and Samantha could see it was genuine. All those critical claims Cole had made against this gentle and caring man said far more about Cole than about Reginald.

  They paused on the New South Wales bank beside the bridge. Of occasionally painted iron, the bridge, another wonder of the modern age, arched high over the river, perched on great paired, braced columns. The railway to Deniliquin took up a part of it. The rest served road traffic.

  Samantha hung on Reginald’s arm and smiled. “Sure’n the bureaucrats I ran afoul of are only keeping up history. Captain Runyan was a boy when this bridge was completed, in ’79. He says the locals were all ready for the big bridge-opening ceremony. But the bureaucrats wouldn’t open it, for they were squabbling among themselves over who would inspect it and what traffic would be allowed and all.”

  “Some things don’t change.”

  “Aye! The locals finally broke through the barricades one night and spent hours parading back and forth across it. The Bridge Riot, ’twas called. From then on, they just sort of used it. The good captain says the bridge never was officially opened.”

  “Life goes on in spite of the bureaucrats.”

  “As shall me own.” She watched the distant shore. It seemed serene, for buildings and trees hid its bustle, and the wharf was not visible from here. From this side, her troubles and responsibilities all seemed to dwell at arms’ length. In moments she would cross the bridge and plunge herself back into them.