Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  “Reginald, you’re probably not the one to be asking, but what do I do for Sam, to make amends? How do I make up for that?”

  “Make up for what?”

  Sloan stared. “She didn’t tell you?”

  Reginald frowned. “A lot of things have happened to her, all hard. The jobs especially. You weren’t a part of any of the troubles she told me about. Curious, in a twisted way. Her trials began in earnest after she came to the Lord, and yours multiplied before you yielded to Him.” He shrugged. “Just an observation.”

  Here sat the man Sam was considering marrying. Why didn’t she tell this Reginald everything on her heart; why wasn’t she open with him? Hope stirred anew, hope absolutely unmerited.

  “You talked about confession and restitution, Reginald. You’re saying it’s necessary for me to correct the effects of my sins as much as possible.”

  “Correct the effects of sin. Good concept. Yes.”

  “Those commissioners have got tickets on themselves, but they aren’t stupid. If they don’t know Drummond’s a dill, they’ll soon figure the fool out. I’ll go to them directly. Tell them I lied for personal reasons. Give them the drum. Whether or not it gets her job back for her, at least I can wash some of the mud off her reputation.”

  Reginald was staring at him oddly.

  “Now what do I do about Beckerstaff?”

  “Who?”

  “A man who has done me great wrong and threatens to ruin me.”

  “Nothing illegal or extra-legal. Let God and the law handle him. Also, restitution for your transgressions against others should take precedence over your actions against him, if it comes down to priorities.”

  “I see what you’re saying. I filed a statement and complaint with the constable. He said he’d send it on, but I doubt anything will come of it. He’s Victorian police and Beckerstaff’s in New South Wales.” Sloan snapped forward and propped both elbows on his knees. He stared a while at the fire as it danced its lazy saraband, and he stared at the light patterns it cast upon his clasped hands. What could he be thinking of, exalting himself? He learned to treat the commoner horse problems, like that infected pastern, from Clyde Armbruster. If as a boy he hadn’t spent all that time behind the track…

  Clyde Armbruster. Somehow, he must buy Clyde another horse, a good horse; ideally, the colt he covets. And John Butts…

  “Some sins can’t be corrected. Dead is dead.”

  “You mentioned once that Samantha thinks you killed a man on purpose. I asked, ‘Did you?’ and you didn’t answer. So, did you?”

  “Yes.” An anchor of weight lifted from him. Another anchor of weight remained. His hands began vibrating subtly as the enormity of that moment crashed down upon him. Yes. God forgive me, yes. When two hours ago Sloan asked forgiveness for all his sins, and professed his faith in Jesus Christ, did that include the death of John Butts? Reason said yes, but his heart could not squirm out from under the guilt. He would need much advice and guidance for that one.

  He sat up straight. “I’d like to catch a downstream boat as early as possible tomorrow. I have things to do. And for once, they’re not things to further Cole Sloan’s dreams of empire.”

  ****

  “This is kinda fun.” Marty Frobel leaned back against a crate of melons and stretched his legs out along Echuca Charlene’s deck. “And here I always thought that if you couldn’t get there on a horse, it wasn’t worth going.”

  Samantha plopped down cross-legged beside him. “Sure’n I’ve fallen in love with these crotchety things. With rail freight so cheap, and the railways being built all over the Riverina, I fear the old boat days are numbered. A sad day indeed when the last of them be beached on some mud bank.”

  The trees lining the riverbank stood several feet in water. Clumps of dry yellow weeds in their branches told Marty that this flood was nothing compared to some past deluge that swept flotsam along that high up.

  Practically overhead, the steam whistle blared.

  Marty jumped. “What does that mean?”

  Samantha hadn’t moved a muscle. “Either we be ten minutes away from Albury or Captain Runyan is greeting someone he knows along the shore.”

  “What are you going to do next, Sam? Know yet?”

  “Nae. I thought of waiting about a bit, to see if they might offer me old position, but chances be slim to nil. I be nae deferential enough to men, so I’ve been told.”

  “Neither is Pearl. It’s one of the nicest things about her.” Pearl. Soon. At Albury he would take the train into Sydney and join Pearl. In a way he wished the Murray flowed to Sydney. These noisy, dirty, vibrating boats were a lot more enjoyable than the noisy, dirty, vibrating trains.

  Sam tucked her long black skirt around her ankles as she drew her knees up. Marty was not an ankle-ogler, as were some, but he did notice there was not a thing wrong with hers. She crossed her arms across her knees and rested her chin on them. “If ye be torn betwixt the head and the heart, Marty, which wins?”

  He considered the question a moment, not to frame an answer but to nut out why she should ask it. “My heart’s clever enough to make my head think it does.”

  She smiled and lapsed into thought.

  Marty had it figured out, he was pretty sure. “I got a telegram from Pearl as I was checking out of the hotel. She arranged another deal with one of the contacts Sloan gave us. That’s three now. He’ll have some bonzer brokerage commissions waiting for him when he gets back to town. Big sales. That doesn’t make him an endearing marriage prospect, I know, but it shows he has his good points.” He glanced at her. “That it?”

  “I would nae have guessed I be so transparent.” She shook her lovely head. “Why did ye come to Echuca?”

  “To see Sloan and get his help with our problems. I guess it’s because he grew up in Sydney’s high society that he knows so many people. And he has new ideas. Also, to check out the competition; the Riverina is Australia’s biggest wool-and-mutton producer, and we’d like to sell a little wool and mutton ourselves. And then, just to look at the place. I’ve never seen a river this big before, let alone floated on it.”

  Somewhere back there the firedoor clanked. Thunks and crackles suggested more wood was being tossed into the boiler. Train locomotives were just as noisy when being fired, but passengers were considerably more removed from the action. Here you almost sat right on top of the boiler. It provided a sense of immediacy lacking on trains.

  Sam stared pensively at the passing scene. Did she see its beauty at all? “Through the Looking Glass. The queen makes Alice run ever so hard just to stay in one place. I feel like that.”

  “Yair. Still, it’s better’n being bored.” He pondered the original question. “Head or heart. Why does it have to be either/or? Why can’t it be both? Most either/or choices turn out to be some third thing anyway.” He shrugged. “Go with both.”

  She twisted around to study him. “Aye, of course! I believe ’tis somewhere in the gospel of St. John, Jesus promises abundance. I’ve aught but to accept it!”

  The whistle hooted again, and the paddles changed their rhythm. Pearl. Pearl and home—that was abundance!

  Marty smiled. “Does that mean Sloan has a chance with you?”

  “Nae.” Her face darkened. “He cannae be trusted.”

  “Who can?”

  “Ye know what I mean.”

  “But you’re missing what I mean. Nobody’s perfect. You work with imperfection. You don’t wait for the perfect hand, you play the hand you’re dealt.”

  “Ye dinnae ken the sin he’s done!”

  “We all have, one way or another. That’s what the gospel’s all about. What if he were forgiven?”

  “Eh, if only he were!”

  ****

  Another hair lost. Horace Beckerstaff scowled at the loose hair on his lapel and plucked it away. He paused at his reflection in a shop window and smoothed the few hairs left on his balding pate. Hair loss had to be related to genius—how many bald dereli
cts did one run across? But he rued his fate anyway. In a bad mood he continued his walk to work.

  A small man with a bushy mustache was polishing the brass handrail as Beckerstaff approached the steps to his building foyer. The man looked Italian. The very thought of “Italian” set his anger to boiling all over again. Ship the Kanakas out of north Queensland, ship the Italians in, all at Beckerstaff’s expense.

  Sugarlea. What had looked like such an eagle of a deal turned out to be an albatross around his neck.

  The moment he stepped inside he could feel it—a tension in the air, almost a danger. What was this? He paused beside his secretary’s desk.

  “Your mail, sir.” Richard Thomas had served as a clerk for three years and as his personal secretary for seven. The man stood up, as he always did when Beckerstaff approached, and passed across a sheaf of letters. His voice today was tight, guarded.

  Beckerstaff took the sheaf without looking at it. “Anything from Vernon Bower?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I haven’t heard a pip from that lout in nearly a month. I’d better not receive word he lost him.”

  “Sir…” The man closed his mouth again. “Nothing, sir.” He sat down.

  Beckerstaff strode on down the marbled hall to his office. He swung the doors open and stopped. “Who the blazes are you?”

  The neatly dressed gentleman displayed a badge. “Detective Inspector Marsh, New South Wales Police. Horace Beckerstaff?”

  Behind him another man entered, in the tunic and helmet of the rank-and-file policeman. The man laid a hand on Beckerstaff’s shoulder.

  The inspector’s voice purred the litany; he’d done this a thousand times. “We’ve reason to believe, Mr. Beckerstaff, you are involved in a conspiracy to inflict harassment and bodily harm. We’re authorized to examine your files. Specifically, we are seeking correspondence to and from a Vernon Bower and associates regarding a Cole Sloan. Symonds, begin with the B’s.”

  Beckerstaff glanced involuntarily at his near cabinet. He didn’t mean to do that. “Bower? Don’t believe anything that crook told you! It’s nonsense!”

  Marsh’s voice didn’t change a bit. “Be advised we shall be writing down everything you say, Mr. Beckerstaff. Be advised also, this is a joint investigation with the Victorian Police and the security officials at the racetrack here in town.” The man held up a packet of papers. “Interesting connections with an unprovoked attack occurring at the track. Unsolved. We don’t like unsolved cases, sir, and the Victorian officers don’t appreciate Sydney’s problems being exported to their jurisdiction. You’d best make contact with your solicitor.”

  ****

  Samantha braced herself in the doorway of the wheelhouse. Echuca Charlene seemed so stable when one sat on her deck, but she tended to sway a bit up here in the second story, so to speak. She watched the river ahead, felt its surging power. She enjoyed the river nearly as much on a dull, moody, overcast day as in sparkling sun.

  Captain Runyan worked his wheel this morning as his steersman fired the boiler below them. “Insurance carriers run the rivers now, lass, and that’s the truth of it. A prime example: A skipper is enjoined from leaving the established channel. Now peer about you. Just how does one recognize the established channel in a section of the countryside such as this?”

  “I see y’r point, sir. Nae trees to mark the banks, and the water spread out across the plain. How do ye find the channel?”

  “Magic,” the whiskered captain whispered hoarsely. “Another example: You recall we had to tie up come true darkness, and could not enter again into our journey westward until first light this morning.”

  “Ye be a one-watch boat. Meself assumed that to be the reason.”

  “No. Insurance carriers. We are forbidden to navigate downstream at night. The sad fate of any downstream-bound vessel is to tie up and sit idle, watching the play of sulphur light upon the trees and banks as her luckier counterparts forge their way upstream. We may navigate upstream by headlamp, as we ourselves did on the run to Albury, but not downstream.”

  “Ye’ll nae gull me into thinking there be nae reason for such a rule.”

  He chuckled. “It’s far harder, keeping to the channel and staying ahead of the current, while moving downstream. You see, we must without fail and at all times move faster than the current, or we lose steerage. There are few fates dreaded more than riding a current helplessly.”

  “Y’re towing a loaded wool barge. Might that make it all the more difficult?”

  “Quick lass! Clever lass. Dragging the beast down from Albury has been easy so far; once we pass the narrows, the game will move into a new level of play.”

  “New water moves downstream about thirty miles a day. That be nae much more than a mile each hour.”

  He nodded. “That’s the usual speed, with allowance for variation on different stretches at different times, and depending upon the volume flow already in the channel. Yes. To maintain control of this noble craft, I must surpass in speed the normal current, plus the press of any new water coming down. And as you can so easily surmise, the river is rising still.”

  “So the insurance carriers be nae so willy, after all.”

  He snorted. “I prefer to look upon them as the scum of the earth, since I’ve been paying the piper for years, although I have never possessed the want or need to make a claim. Charlene, bless her bollards, has had nary a sick day in her life.”

  They cruised in silence—if Charlene’s huffing and puffing and clanging and creaking could be called silence. The bare, open land closed in, and the familiar trees appeared. Soon the shores below the water were marked with wattle, red gum and box. Along most stretches the shore itself still protruded above the flood.

  Samantha looked out the back window at their wool barge. It loomed as big as a building off their stern. Five tiers of huge bales, massive bales, made her taller than wide. Her steersman perched on top of the load, three-fourths of the way toward the back. Her wheel, as Samantha understood it, was mounted on loose boards. As a tier was added the wheel was set on top of the load and the steering cables lengthened appropriately. Samantha was not the least certain she’d like to be plopped out on top of a monster like that, exposed like a shag on a rock.

  The captain reached for the cord and blasted his whistle.

  Samantha happened to glance back. “Hold, sir! Ye’ve lost y’r barge! ’Tis adrift!”

  The hirsute skipper snickered. “My steersman just turned her loose, like a retired old cab horse sent to pasture. She’ll drift along down the way and we’ll catch up to her after we’ve called at the mission slip. It would never do to try to drag her through the trees here out of channel. Certainly we wouldn’t want to displease the high and mighty moguls in the insurance industry, aye?”

  “If ye cannae steer Echuca Charlene when adrift, how can y’r barge steersman?”

  “Magic.”

  The hulking barge drifted silently, surely, down the channel and around a bend.

  Charlene scuffed past low-hanging box trees. Leafy branches slashed at Samantha. Although the boat reversed her paddles early, Samantha was absolutely convinced they would overshoot the Barmah Mission wharf. At the last possible moment, Captain Runyan wrenched his wheel around, then wrenched it back again. The little boat slipped sideways out of the current and eased, churning mightily, into the trees to the right. Samantha had learned that rivermen did not use nautical terms like port or starboard, bow and stern. If it was off to the right, they said so.

  “Ah, the pain and shame of it! I am about to be castigated for an error of judgment voiced not two weeks ago when I told your Sydneyside businessman friend that this would be a low-water year. My spotless reputation for prognostication will be sullied the moment he opens his cavernous mouth.” Captain Runyan pointed toward the bank beyond the floating slip.

  Samantha’s businessman friend stood on the shore beside the slip with his cavernous mouth gaping open. Apparently he did not expect her here. B
ut then, he was the last person she would expect on the mission wharf. Beside him stood Reginald and Ellen, very close together. Ellen looked happy, even triumphant, and Reginald absolutely glowed. Samantha was not certain she wanted to see them. She was positive she did not want to see Cole.

  He shook hands warmly with Reginald, nodding and smiling. He and Ellen hugged, albeit with propriety. She handed him the mailbag.

  The backwash from Charlene’s paddles set the floating wharf to lunging. Cole jogged the length of it like a drunken man. Charlene’s paddle wheel housing skimmed past the wharf, her tail dipped toward the slip, and he came aboard with a wild, theatrical leap. Charlene headed back out into channel.

  Cole came up the tight little ladder to the wheelhouse immediately. Samantha stepped inside, and he braced himself in the door.

  “G’day, Sam,” he smiled broadly. As he reached across her to shake Captain Runyan’s hand, he was still smiling. And that smile was different. Cole was different. Samantha did not know how, but he was different, not the same man who did—did that to her.

  He must have heard about the fat commissions awaiting him in Sydney. But that wasn’t likely. How could he? Marty had been unable to reach him, and news of the latest deal came just as Marty was leaving.

  His breath lingered right by her ear. “Sam, I’ve been looking for you. I’d like to speak to you privately.”

  Why put off the inevitable? “As ye wish.”

  He backed down the little ladder and held her hand as she descended. She folded her legs and settled down on the deck next to the paddle wheel housing. He took the cue and hunkered down beside her.

  “I looked everywhere for you,” he began. “Finally, I figured you must’ve gone out to Barmah. When you weren’t there I didn’t know where to look. Reginald said, ‘Pray to find her.’ I did, and there you were in the wheelhouse.”

  “Pray to…?” She gaped at him. Pray? Cole?

  He was looking out across the water. “Gus in a hurry?”

  “He be catching up to a wool barge he took on at Albury.”

  “It doesn’t feel right—or is that just my imagination?”