Catherine looked at Roger for help but saw he was as much in the dark as she. ‘Angular? Is that supposed to mean something to me, Mr Jones?’ She was still tasting the nature of the man. Was he a rogue? More and more she didn’t think so. But did he know his subject? Maybe, but maybe was not enough.
‘The particles are washed down by the creek. If they’d travelled any distance the water would have smoothed off the sharp edges but it hadn’t. It meant they couldn’t have travelled far. What I’d found had to be close to the matrix.’
Again Catherine was in the dark.
‘The mother lode,’ Jones explained. ‘It had to be upstream, of course, and not far away.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I kept looking.’
‘And?’
‘All the next day I worked higher and higher up the creek. I was almost out of tucker so didn’t have no time to waste but I found nothing. I was up near the headwaters of the creek by then so I knew it couldn’t be no higher. But there were inlets further down so I thought I’d give them a look over. It was my last shot. If I found nothing that day I’d have to call it off. I was close on starving, see. And once I left I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find the place again. It’s heavy bush there, as heavy as I seen in all my life.’
Catherine could sense Theophilus Jones’s excitement and had no doubt he was telling the truth.
‘I began to work up one of the inlets. Within a few minutes my dish was black with crystals. I’d never seen anything like it. I climbed until I reached the source and there it was.’
‘Tin?’
‘My oath. I washed one whole kilo in under an hour! I’d found the mother lode.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t do anything. I was on the slope of a mountain and I had a feeling there was a whole heap more tin up there. What I should have done was climb to the top, see how far the lode ran, but I’d hardly eaten for days and I was that weak I couldn’t do it. So I worked out as well as I could where I was and came out. Several times I thought I would leave my bones there but I made it in the end.’
‘And here you are.’
‘As you say, ma’am, here I am. I was fair flummoxed what to do, you want the truth, but a mate of mine he said, “If it’s as big as you’re saying, you ought to write to the governor about it.” So that’s what I did.’
‘And he has asked me to talk to you. But I am not sure what you want from me, Mr Jones. It is a fascinating story but I am not a miner. I know nothing about mining or tin or prospecting. So how can I help you?’
‘There’s a heap of tin there, ma’am. Maybe a whole mountain of it. But it needs capital to develop it. That’s what it needs, ma’am. Capital.’
‘Let me understand you clearly. You are asking me to put money into developing a mine I have never seen, under a mountain that may or may not be solid tin, in an area of dense bush, when I don’t know you or mining or anything about what needs to be done. Is that what you are saying?’
It was the final test. If he lied about it she would know. If he had overstated his find she would know. She watched his massive fists clench and relax. And his shoulders were square.
‘That’s about the size of it, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Where is this place?’
‘On the west coast. Up north.’
‘That’s the closest you can get, is it?’
Silence for a full minute and she saw the pride in his face. ‘You have to understand. I’ve spent forty years looking. This is my life’s work, ma’am. There’s no claim registered, nothing, nor can be until I can plot the limits of the tin-bearing ground. It’s finding it that matters to me, not so much the money. If I tell you where it is it’ll be like giving you the credit.’
‘Yet you expect me to trust you.’
He did not answer. She had not expected him to. He had been prospecting for tin; she had been prospecting also, trying to test the degree of his integrity. The fact that he was prepared to lose the finance he needed rather than reveal the location of his find told her volumes about him and his faith in the value of his discovery. It was the proof she had been looking for.
‘Mr Jones, I am willing to offer you a deal,’ she said. ‘Take me to this place. Show it to me and explain so I understand what I am looking at. Then I shall put up the money.’
Jones’s face was a conflict of emotions: perplexity first of all, then hope, doubt and finally rejection.
‘That’s not possible, ma’am. You wouldn’t be able to do it. No lady could. It’s heavy bush there. You’d never be able to get through.’
‘I think he’s right,’ said Roger Mortimer.
She looked at Roger and her eyes were sharp. ‘I shall be the judge of that. It is my money and my decision. And I am saying that I need to see the pig before I pay for the bacon.’ She turned to Theophilus Jones. ‘I came out here on the St Vincent. As a convict, Mr Jones. I survived and, as you see, prospered. I don’t doubt the bush will present a hard challenge but I believe I am tough enough to handle it. Anyway, that is my condition. Show me and I shall help you. Refuse and I shall refuse also.’
It was an extraordinary feeling to have the power to lay down conditions not only to Theophilus Jones but to the governor’s secretary. It exhilarated her yet set her heart beating up a storm that she could have the effrontery to do such a thing. It was the business of Antares that had done it, she thought. It had shown her what she was capable of doing. This mining venture was another challenge. Only the future would show whether or not she was able to meet it successfully but she was determined to try.
‘Take it or leave it, Mr Jones,’ she said.
‘Do you really intend to hold him to it?’ Roger Mortimer said after the prospector had left them.
‘I do.’
‘You shouldn’t go alone.’
‘I won’t be alone.’
‘What will Mr Jackson have to say about this?’
‘It is my money and my decision. If I make a bad investment and lose my money or die on the track there will be no one to blame but me.’
For the moment Roger said no more. Catherine studied his face, the eyes heavily lidded, the sharp features alert. Despite his damaged leg he held himself well. He looked every inch a man and there was a glint in his eyes whenever he looked at her. As he did now.
‘More and more, Miss Haggard, I find you a remarkable woman.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Mortimer. But I assure you there is nothing remarkable about me at all. I believe we women are more capable than most men believe.’
‘Perhaps Mr Jackson could go with you?’
No doubt he could but she would not hide behind Mr Jackson or any man. Of course Theophilus Jones might refuse her offer but she thought his faith in his discovery would not let him do that.
The following morning he came to see her and said he was willing to take her with him.
‘It will be an adventure,’ she said.
‘I hope you won’t regret it,’ he said.
‘You need have no fear,’ she told him. ‘I shall never do that.’
FIFTY-FIVE
They had taken the coach from Hobart to Launceston and, after a day’s delay, another that serviced the tiny settlements scattered along the north coast. After five days on the road they walked into the bush.
Jones set a cracking pace and Catherine knew he was testing her. She could see no sign of a path but he stepped out as though he knew exactly where he was going. After an hour he was still setting a brisk pace but less so than at the start and she had no problem keeping up with him. As they climbed higher into the hills the gradient grew.
She had expected it to be hard going but had not anticipated the darkness. The trees grew ever closer to one another, their canopies stealing the light. Theophilus Jones forced their way upwards in an endless gloom that affected Catherine more than the steepness of the climb. She had experienced the tropical forests of the north but th
is was different. It was much colder, for a start, also wetter, and the texture of the light was different. Back in Dr Morgan’s library she had read the ancient myths of northern Europe, the trolls and monsters inhabiting the deep woods, the legend of Grendel and her death fight with the hero Beowulf. This country reminded Catherine of that. It had no apparent effect on her companion but her neck was prickling as they forced their way through the myrtle forest. Further and further uphill they climbed, the haunted gloom unrelenting, until they came out on a knife-edge ridge. The sunlight was watery through cloud and for the first time she had an inkling of the country ahead of them. It was not a cheerful prospect. The hills extended southwest in a series of ridges rising like breakers out of a dark sea, but here no glittering foam alleviated the drabness, just the endless forested hills, olive green and menacing, that extended unbroken to the distant horizon. And the land, everywhere she looked, was still.
‘How far do we have to go?’ she said.
‘Two, three hours, maybe. No more.’
She nodded. She would not mention her aching legs or the apprehension she felt in the midst of forests that epitomised loneliness. You wanted to prove yourself, she thought. So get on with it.
There were steep climbs, even steeper descents. They clambered over spongy fallen trees and through thorn-covered vines. Every descent ended in a bog and she feared that every bog could swallow her whole. She said so to her companion.
‘You and St Paul’s Cathedral both,’ said Theophilus Jones. ‘Step wrong in them places and you’re a goner.’
Catherine was praying for it to end when she heard the roar of water: muted by the trees it still seemed to shake the air.
‘Not far now,’ Jones said.
Ten minutes later they reached the summit of a basalt cliff where a river flung itself in clouds of spray into a forested valley far below.
‘At least we won’t die of thirst,’ Jones said.
‘Which way now?’ she asked.
He pointed a gnarled finger. ‘Straight ahead,’ he said. ‘We’ve done the hard part. All downhill now,’ he said and was cheerful, more at home in the wilderness than Catherine would ever be.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ she said.
She shouldered her pack, waiting for Jones to show the way. For he was still in charge; she knew that whatever her contribution the mine would remain his until he moved on. Which he would; Theophilus Jones would always be looking for treasure beyond the horizon – she recognised the light in his eye. In that way he was very like Mungo Jackson who, as predicted, had not been pleased by Catherine’s determination to embark on what he called her lunacy.
‘Aren’t you rich enough?’ he had said. ‘Why risk life and limb for something you don’t need?’
‘To prove I can,’ she said. ‘You should know that. You do it all the time.’
Ten minutes after leaving the waterfall Jones stopped. The forest had thinned and it was possible to see more of the country ahead of them.
‘There she is,’ he said.
The ground fell away steeply in front of them and she could see the silver course of a creek running down the valley floor. Beyond the creek the ground rose to a conical peak that towered over the valley, its slopes criss-crossed by threads of rivulets that shone in the intermittent sunlight.
‘Tin Mountain,’ Jones said, his voice like a peal of trumpets.
‘I can’t wait,’ she said.
The light was fading as they reached the creek. The air had grown cold and Theophilus Jones built a fire. Its flames licked the darkness, their light enclosing them like a room.
They had brought meat and eggs and a pan. Catherine fried the meat and broke eggs into the pan and cooked them over the flame.
The ground here was level and comfortably grassed. When they had eaten they spread blankets on either side of the fire. The creek was not far away and Catherine saw the red glint of flame reflected in the hurrying water as the fire raised itself in one final effort before collapsing into a quietness of grey ash.
Theophilus Jones was soon asleep and snoring but Catherine lay and looked up at the stars. She felt gratified that she had done what she had. She was there and the morning would show whether there was tin to be farmed from the earth. Assuming there was she would need to talk to people who knew about mines and mining and transportation and construction and finance and all the other things she knew nothing about. After she’d done that she would decide whether to back the venture or walk away.
She turned her mind to other things. She thought how it would be to have Mungo with her, Mungo laughing with her, Mungo loving her with the light of the flames warm on his white skin and shining in the darkness of his eyes. The stars flared in the cold air. She watched them grow brighter and brighter until without warning they were quenched by sleep.
In the morning, frost glittering on the rounded stones, she made tea over the resurrected fire. The tea tasted hot and smoky and they both drank it thick with sugar.
‘If we had flour I could have made damper,’ she said, but Theophilus Jones, wise in the ways of the bush, believed in travelling light.
He finished his tea, washed his mug in the creek and put it back in his pack. He took out the dish he used for panning and picked up his pickaxe. The fire was almost out but Catherine poured the dregs of her tea over the embers before following Jones up the side of the creek.
He turned up a side stream and began to climb. The rocks were slippery with spray but he climbed easily, hands and feet finding holds without hesitation. He came to a place where the creek issued from the rock face. He waded up to his knees and began to pan, swirling the water with practised hands. After a few minutes he straightened and waded back to her. He held out the dish for her to see. It was heavy with black particles.
‘Tin?’ she said.
‘As rich as I’ve ever seen. Richer.’
‘Where does it come from?’
He pointed to the mountain looming above them. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘That mountain’s solid tin through and through.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can smell it.’
It took the rest of the day, working their way by degrees up the steep slope. At intervals Jones stopped and hacked away at the ground with his pickaxe, peering at what he had discovered before pouring the fragments into one of the small canvas sacks he had brought with him. When they finally reached the summit he straightened from his final hole and put away his precious samples. He nodded at her. ‘Solid tin. Just like I said.’
Catherine was uncertain whether to dance or cry. The samples would have to be confirmed in a laboratory and the site was so remote and the forest so dense that she wondered how they would ever get the tin out. It would mean clearing a tram way through the forest. It would mean building many bridges. It would mean finding a way to deal with the problem of falling trees. They would need vessels to transport the ore, a smelter, housing for the miners…
They would need capital, far more than she could provide. Most of all she would need expert advice and people she could trust. They might be the rarest and most valuable commodity of all.
‘It’s certainly given me something to think about,’ she said when they were back at the campsite.
The next morning Catherine set out on the return journey. Theophilus Jones stayed behind to peg the claims.
‘We don’ want some other bastard sneakin’ in, do we?’
‘You know what to do?’
‘Ma’am, I done it fifty times. An’ filled in the government’s bloody forms, beggin’ your pardon.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘A few days.’ His smile revealed broken teeth. ‘Don’ worry, ma’am. I shan’t get lost. I’ll bring the forms to you when I’ve done. Reckon you can find your way out?’
‘I do.’
She spoke more confidently than she felt but she was right. Ten days later she was back at Aberystwyth. She soaked for an hour in a bath filled with almost b
oiling water. She dried herself, fell into bed and slept and slept. The next day she woke, body wonderfully refreshed, mind teeming with plans and doubts and the determination to do all the things that must be done to realise the potential of what she and Jones had discovered.
So much to do, she thought. So much to learn. But one thing above all took priority.
It was a light, kindling beauty in the body. In the mind also, she thought. In the body and mind and air and the smiling day with the shadows of the trees long across the paddocks and the sound of the creek coming through the open window of the room in which she lay in glory with Mungo Jackson at her side.
They had made love and it was like coming home, the union passionate and tender and fierce and gentle and all things combined into the one act, the one splendour and climax that lifted her and filled her and drained her and left her floating in a country of peace far from the reality of torturing trees and bogs that would suck you down.
‘A hard journey,’ Mungo said.
She was drowsy and could have slept but he had taught her fearlessness without being aware of it as she had taught him the heights and depths of love which, despite all his experience, he had not previously known.
‘The worst. There were times I thought we’d never get there. But we did. And back again, thank God.’
‘Is there tin?’
‘A mountain of it.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Tell the governor, I suppose.’
‘No!’ he said with unexpected harshness.
She turned to stare at the dark eyes now fierce with purpose. ‘No?’ she asked.
‘Tell anyone what you’ve found and you’ve lost control of it. The next thing you know, someone else may have lodged a claim. It should be yours and Jones’s: no one else’s.’
‘I don’t see the governor doing anything like that.’
‘How much tin is there?’
‘Jones says there’s a mountain of it.’
‘So the find is worth millions.’ Mungo grinned sardonically. ‘I wouldn’t trust the queen of England with that.’
The Governor's House Page 33