“Of course it was. I ought to have been taking better care of her.”
He turned to face her. “I’m sorry about your girl, Grace. Truly. I’m sorry.”
She lurched suddenly and threw her arms around him. He froze for a moment, taken aback. Then he wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her into him.
“Once, Nora, she got out of bed in the night and tried to go out into the street.” Her voice was muffled against his neck. “Sleepwalking, you see. I thought, maybe that’s what Violet done. Maybe she were sleepwalking and got herself lost.”
“Aye. Perhaps.”
“She’s gone, isn’t she.”
Alexander nodded.
Grace sat back and wiped her eyes. “I wanted to believe it was her. I wanted to believe so badly.”
Alexander glanced at the pile of coins.
“Six shillings,” she said bitterly. “I worked myself to the ground and all I got is six shillings. I’ll never get back to London without Harris. I never realised how much I relied on him. He stopped paying me when we come here. Said we were as good as man and wife now. ‘We share everything,’ he told me. Took all my money and put it in his bank account. A hundred pounds I saved, working for him and the girls. And he took every bit of it back. I thought I’d have everything once we were together. I thought I’d never go hungry or cold or wanting again.” She swung a hand at the piles and sent silver skimming across the room. “I gave up everything I knew to come out here. Because I were such a fool to think he and I could make a life together.” She laughed coldly. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because there’s no one else.”
“You’re right,” said Grace. “There ain’t no one else.”
Alexander nudged one of the coins with his toe. “What I said about going back to London,” he mumbled. “I meant it.”
“London?” she repeated. “You? Alexander, I can see how hard this place is for you. How will you survive in a place like London?”
“It’s here I can’t survive,” he said. “Not for much longer.” He shifted suddenly and faced her. His grey eyes glowed with determination. “I can’t live in this haunted forest. I can’t live carrying the dead. Carrying the guilt. And neither can you.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “We’ve got to leave this place. It’s the only way I can forget who I am and what I’ve done. I was a man once, Grace. I want to be again.”
She had never heard so many words come out of his mouth at once before. She reached down and ran her fingers over the tasselled ends of his belt.
“Aye,” she said. “You were once, weren’t you.”
She had been the one to plant these ideas of escape in his head. How could she deny him a chance to start again?
She began to gather the coins. “Six shillings,” she said. “That’s three shillings more than I had a week ago. Six shillings more than I had last month. We work hard. Harder than we ever worked before. Get Porter to put us up to full wages.” She sat up on her knees, her heart speeding with fresh enthusiasm. “This is possible, Alexander. It is.” She pressed a coin into his palm. “Are you afraid?” she asked. “To go?”
He pocketed the coin. “Aye. But I’m more afraid to stay.”
XX
Dalton trudged to the top of the hill with Edward and Howell to rebuild the fences on the western side of the farm. He walked in silence, buzzing with nervous energy. He kept one hand in his pocket, wrapped around Grace’s coin.
They needed money. Grace might have convinced herself they could earn enough to get back to London, but he had no such illusions. They had to get away from this place as quickly as possible. Before Howell sought to turn him in. Before Grace was strangled by her grief.
Bronze candlesticks on the back of the Porters’ mantle. How much would such a thing fetch?
He looked out across the plains. At the bottom of the hill, he could see the tiny figures of Annie and Jack in their vegetable garden. Far behind, the twisted tree he'd buried their weapons beneath.
“Bog-trotter,” called Edward. “You listening to me? I said, you take this corner.”
Dalton nodded.
“Yes sir,” said Edward. “Open your mouth, you useless bastard.” He followed Dalton’s gaze. Narrowed his eyes at Annie and Jack. “Bloody unnatural. That savage living like one of us.” He raised an imaginary rifle and pulled the trigger. “Only his pa’s white blood saving him from what we all want to do.” He lowered his hands and began to pace, watching the men work.
Dalton clenched his teeth. He focused on the sound his hammer made as he drove the stakes into the earth. Thud, thud. He imagined sailing out of this place and leaving Edward Porter to fix his own damn fences.
“What the fuck is this, Howell?” Edward snorted. He kicked at the stake Howell was hammering. “Crooked as shit. Do it again.”
Howell grimaced. He yanked out the stake and re-hammered it. Again, Edward kicked it to the ground. A light flickered behind Howell’s eyes. He swung the hammer, narrowly missing Edward’s stomach. Edward charged, head down, into Howell’s middle.
Dalton felt his blood heat. An urge to hold Edward’s arms and let Howell punch the life out of him. Instead, he grabbed Howell by the hair and pulled him away.
“He’s not worth it,” he hissed.
Howell whirled around and grabbed a fistful of Dalton’s coat. It slid from his shoulders, his shirt tearing with a screech. Edward climbed to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He looked at Dalton and laughed throatily.
“Free settler, you say? Only the worst of the worst got scars like that.”
Dalton tugged the torn shirt back up towards his neck. “Your da got scars like that then?”
Edward stepped towards him. Flushed cheeks with that miserable fluff on his chin. All up in Dalton’s face, youthful fuck. “Where’s your paperwork? Show me your pardon. How we to know you ain’t just a bolter?”
“Because bolters don’t survive out here.”
Edward took a step back, like he’d seen madness in Dalton’s eyes. “That’s right.” A little of the cockiness gone from his voice. “They made it that way. All sea and mountains. The scum that get sent to Macquarie Harbour don’t got no chance of ever getting out.”
“Aye,” said Dalton. “So I’m no bolter then, am I.”
Edward wiped his nose again, leaving a smear of blood across one cheek. Finally he turned away from Dalton and glared at Howell.
“You,” he said. “If you were dreaming of a pardon, you’d better bloody think again.”
They carted Daniel Howell out for a good flogging that afternoon, lining the rest of the household up to watch. A bank of clouds had blown in and fine drizzle was falling.
Edward stood in front of the barn, bullwhip in hand.
Bill Porter marched Howell out from his quarters, a thick hand at the top of the convict’s arm. Howell wore nothing but frayed blue trousers and a look of hatred.
“You got not right to flog your own workers, Porter,” he spat. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll have the governor onto you.”
Porter laughed. “The governor ain’t listening to piece of shit like you, Howell.” He nodded at Edward. “Come on, son. Show this animal who’s in charge.”
Howell stepped close to his overseer. “You look at me like I ain’t worth the time of day. But you got convict blood same as I do. The hated stain they call it. The scourge of this colony. You heard that before, I’ll warrant. Sure you’ve come across some gentry who won’t come near you. They’ll see your criminal blood a mile off. Wouldn’t share a shit bucket with an emancipist and his family.”
Porter tensed his jaw. Chose silence.
Howell grinned. “I’m right, aren’t I.”
Porter shoved him against the wall of the barn. He glared at Edward, colour rising in his cheeks. “Do it, boy.”
Edward brought the whip down with a loud crack. A line of crimson appeared on Howell’s back. Dalton glanced at Grace
. She stared at her feet, wincing with each snap of the lash.
He realised Edward was watching him. His eyes were cold, looking past Howell as he brought down the whip. Bolter, said those unblinking eyes. You’ll be next.
Dalton saw his reflection as he walked into the parlour. A cursed thing, he thought, to look into your own eyes at the very moment the crime is committed. For how could you ever hope to pin the blame on another?
He took the candlesticks. Two of them; long and thin. Angels were woven around the bases, their tiny bronze hands reaching skyward.
Dalton shoved them into his pockets. He hurried through the dark house and out into the barn. He placed the candlesticks in the pack with his old clothes.
He’d wake Grace, dig up the weapons. And by dawn this place would be nothing but a bad memory.
“What have you there, silent man?”
He turned. Howell stood in the doorway, a grin plastered across his face.
“Go to hell,” said Dalton.
Howell snatched the pack and pulled out the candlesticks. He chuckled. “Funding an escape?”
Dalton said nothing. Howell tossed the pack back in the hay, keeping the candlesticks in his fist.
“You’re right to do it. Edward Porter knows what you are. You really think a rat like that’s going to keep quiet? The little prick’s probably rounding up the police as we speak.”
Dalton made a grab for the candlesticks. Howell darted out of reach. Spiderwebs of blood darkened the back of his shirt.
“Edward knows too much,” he said. “But then again, so do I.”
Dalton clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”
Howell smiled. “Here’s how it is. I’m going to run. And you’re going to come with me. You know the bush. You know how to survive out there.”
Dalton snorted.
“You think I’m joking?”
“A gun,” said Dalton blackly. “Smoking pot. Rope for traps. Take those things from Porter and leave me the hell alone. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Traps? Do I look like a hunter? No mate, I ain’t going into that forest on my own. Heard some real awful shit can happen when the food runs out.” He looked at Dalton pointedly.
“All the more reason to go alone.”
Howell waved the candlesticks in front of Dalton’s face. “I could open my mouth right now and have Porter out here. Not sure he’d take it too well to discover you’ve pinched these. Plenty more I could tell him about you too.” Howell glanced over his shoulder at the black plains. “Even you couldn’t make it far enough in this darkness without the police finding you.”
Dalton stood, breathing heavily through his nose. “Grace comes with us.”
“No. She’ll slow us down.”
“I’ll not go without her.”
Howell chuckled. “A man like you should know better than to grow attached to someone. A life on the run will always be a lonely one. You’ll go. Because if you don’t, you’ll swing.”
Dalton clenched his jaw. “I told you, I’ll not go without her.”
“Then you’ll die with a rope around your neck.”
Dalton paced across the barn with his hands behind his head. It wasn’t the thought of death he cared about. He’d already lived far longer than he was supposed to. Death would come to everyone. But to stand upon the gallows and have the world know his crimes? To have Grace know his crimes? It was this he couldn’t bear.
He rubbed his eyes. “When?” he asked finally.
“What do we need?”
“I told you. Pots and knives. Rope. Gun.”
Howell grinned. “You can get us them things, can’t you? You’re a resourceful man.”
Dalton thought of the rifle buried beneath the tree. He hated the thought of leaving Grace here without it. Hated more the idea of going back into the bush with no way to hunt.
Howell clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get them tonight or I’ll tell the world your whole grisly story. We leave at dawn.”
XXI
Hobart Town Gazette
Friday 6th August 1824
‘It was insisted upon that everyone should partake of Bodenham’s remains, lest, in the event of their ultimate success to obtain their liberty, any of them might consider himself innocent of his death and give evidence against the rest.’
“We go north,” said Howell. They trudged out of Porter’s back paddock with the first threads of sunlight. “I got means out of this place.” He jangled the pouch of coins in his pocket. “Tobacco money. You get me the hell off this island, Dalton. But we go up through the wilds, you hear. Disappear into the bush like you and your mates done. Don’t want no-one seeing us.”
“Aye,” said Dalton. “Through the wilds.” He began to walk northwest, away from the settled districts. Through the wilds and north would lead them to snow drenched mountains, impenetrable forests. Over the bones of murdered bolters.
Starting again, it was all an illusion. How could he build a new life when he’d ruined this one so completely?
Perhaps it was best this way. Even if he and Grace ever made it to London, Violet’s ghost would always haunt the space between them.
They stopped at the edge of the river. Mist hung over the water. Howell looked up at the snow-flecked peaks that rose above the cloud. “The rest of your gang still out there somewhere? Living off the land like savages?”
“No,” said Dalton. “They’re dead.”
“It’s really true then. What Alexander Pearce said you done.”
“Aye,” Dalton said finally. “It’s true.” He took off his clothes and tied them to the end of the rifle, his palm tight around Grace’s coin. He stepped into the water. His chest tightened at the cold.
“They hanged him, you know,” said Howell from the bank. “Pearce. Years ago.”
Dalton turned in surprise. “Pearce? Hanged?”
“Aye. He escaped the harbour again. Killed the man he bolted with. They found him on the edge of the King River with his mate’s liver in his pockets.”
Dalton let his feet sink into the muck on the bottom of the river. So he was the last survivor.
You hear that, Greenhill?
It had been Daniel Howell who had relayed the story to him so many years ago, Dalton realised, grimacing at the irony. Pearce had made it to Hobart Town and news of the bolters was travelling into the highlands. Howell leaned close to the fire, his red hair brightened by the flames, a bottle of stolen whisky in his fist.
“Heard the story of what these men done? Can’t bring myself to believe a word of it.” He’d waved the bottle at Dalton, who was lying on his side, too weak from hunger to lift his head. “What d’you reckon, silent man? This Pearce fellow talking shit?”
Dalton had smiled into the darkness that night, glad to hear Pearce had taken the axe to Greenhill. The terror had been paralysing when there had still been eight of them left. How black those final nights must have been for the last two survivors.
Alone in a lightless forest, each wanting the other dead. Each afraid to close his eyes.
Greenhill had succumbed to sleep first. One swing of the axe and he had become a victim of his own depraved plan. Dalton was satisfied. Pearce would be back in Macquarie Harbour with his back in ribbons, but Robert Greenhill would forever haunt that cursed forest.
Howell stepped into the water and swore at the cold. “And you, Mr Dalton, Pearce told them in Hobart they’d killed you first. At Macquarie Harbour, he claimed you’d gotten lost in the bush. Either way, no one knows you’re alive.” He grinned. “Except me.”
*
The alleyway was still in the early morning. The windows of the tavern were dark; stray cannikins lying half-buried in the mud. And there was Emma, crouched beside a puddle, floating leaves across its murky surface. She wore a short-sleeved tunic, her pantalettes sodden with mud. Gooseflesh dappled her arms. Close up, she looked nothing like Violet. Emma’s face was much wider, her hair darker. She couldn’t have been more
than three or four. What tricks the desperate mind could play, Grace thought dully.
“Emma? Is your mama about?”
The girl looked up. She moved her lips from side to side, as though debating whether to trust Grace. “She’s sleeping.”
Wind tunnelled through the alley. Grace slid off her shawl and bundled it around the girl’s shoulders. She held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s go and see her.” Emma’s fingers were cold and muddy. Grace squeezed them tightly. How she’d missed the feel of a child’s hand in hers. She’d been with Violet and Nora since they were born. Had lifted them from Charlotte’s chest when her arms grew limp and her eyes glassy. Grace had been both mother and father to the girls until Harris could bring himself to look at them. Another child’s hand in hers felt like a betrayal.
She let Emma lead her down the narrow lane at the side of the tavern and into the hallway of the lodging rooms. Grace knocked softly.
Maryann opened the door. Her blonde hair hung tangled down her back; grey threads at her temples. Her eyes were underlined with shadow. She tugged a tatty pink shawl over her nightshift. “I see you’re still hunting down my daughter.”
Emma slipped past them and ran into the room. She plucked the rag doll from her sleeping pallet and sat up on her knees, eying the women curiously.
“Emma’s father,” said Grace. “Howell. Is he here?”
A baby in a crib by the door let out a sudden wail. Maryann ushered Grace inside and grunted as she fished the baby from the cradle. “Daniel? You think he’d come here? Give me a scrap of help? Only time I see him is when he sneaks out for a drink. The children don’t even know who he is.”
“He’s gone,” said Grace. “I work at the Porters’ with him. He ran away in the night.”
Maryann pursed her lips. She snatched a glass from the table and flung it across the room. It exploded against the wall and made the baby screech harder. Emma looked up with wide eyes. “Bastard,” hissed Maryann.
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