by Darry Fraser
‘It’s a damned broken foot, Rosie,’ Elsa said dismissively, tiredly. ‘It has no need of being modest.’
‘And that’s the second time you have resorted to swearing in the last couple of hours,’ Rosie said, rubbing her hands over and over. She twisted her wedding ring, stopped. Twisted it again.
‘And why not? Oh, for goodness sake.’ The dead baby’s little face appeared in her mind again and she closed her eyes. They had both just been a part of something sad and terrible. ‘What is a glimpse of a female foot to anyone here in the light of such a tragedy?’
‘I know, I know, but …’ Rosie glanced at the canvas again.
Distraught, Rosie had been all for removing the baby from its mother and as soon as possible. Custom says it’s best, she’d whispered urgently. Elsa had almost barked at her to leave Sal and the baby alone. There was no pressing matter once the afterbirth had been delivered. Wally had taken that away and buried it before returning to sit with Sal who cradled their tiny child. Elsa was sure they’d know the right time to let the baby go, and to bury her.
Because the infant was born dead, there was no requirement to register her, even if they’d wanted to. Elsa asked if they’d name her, but Sal had only looked blank.
Rosie’s hands kept moving. ‘Still, it is not proper to show your bare legs or feet—’
‘Things have not been proper since before we left home, Rosie,’ Elsa said hoarsely. The hurried burial of their father. Rosie insisting she was leaving Frank. The drugging of Pete Southie.
‘The poor mother,’ Rosie breathed. ‘Surely it must deeply pain her to hold that little body. I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine.’ She looked to be close to tears again.
Elsa had no experience of these things but when she thought back to her animals, their sometimes difficult deliveries, and their reactions to a dead baby, it made sense what Sal was doing. ‘She’ll let her go when she can, I suppose,’ she said. ‘She must, at some point.’ The sight of Sal holding the baby and rocking her, crooning softly, and Wally, sitting with his back turned, would stay with Elsa for a long time.
‘I don’t think I could bear it,’ Rosie said softly, her voice breaking to a sob. She sat beside Elsa and covered her face with her hands. ‘Losing a child. All that time inside you, all the hope …’
Elsa put her arm around Rosie’s shoulder. For a few moments, they sat in the quiet of the afternoon. There was barely a rustle of breeze in the trees, and flies buzzed past, ignorant of the heartbreak. ‘It is a tragedy,’ she said, and thought of their parents, of what they’d had to endure.
Rosie sat up straight, wiping her eyes clean of tears. ‘I know I never will go through that and I hope you never suffer what just happened. But so many things are changing, Elsa. There are so many things I feel now, and things I didn’t know I could feel—’ She stopped then. ‘I’ll sponge off those spots of blood from your dress, Elsa. I hope the stains come out.’
Elsa’s dress hadn’t suffered much from the birth of the baby, but Sal would have to have clean clothes. Rosie had seen to rinsing the poor woman’s chemise—it would have to do for the time being—and it was drying in the sunshine at the back of Sal and Wally’s tent. Elsa had helped Sal remove the soiled undergarment and then assisted clothing her in her day dress as best she could. Sal had not wanted to relinquish her child to do either.
The blanket on which she’d lain to give birth would have to be burned.
Tillie wandered over with two tin cups of tea and once they were in the sisters’ hands, she pulled out a flask of something from her pocket.
‘Might dull the pain in your foot a bit, miss,’ she said to Elsa with a lift of her chin.
Elsa took a sniff only of the contents of the flask and thought that was pain relief enough. Rosie dropped a splash in her tea then nodded at Nebo Jones. He looked as if he’d been waiting to approach.
‘I’m grateful to you,’ he said to Elsa, and glanced furtively at Rosie, who kept her head down, her chin still puckered. ‘So is Wally, although he can’t speak it.’
Elsa nodded, her ire rising. She hadn’t helped Sal; she’d just sat there and caught a dead infant—what help was that? Here they were in this stranger’s camp, with the poorest of people. She crippled by a broken foot at a coach hold-up. Her sister starry-eyed over some scruffy bush man and now deeply distressed by the death of this poor babe. Their brother dead and buried somewhere in this region with a tin of gold sovereigns and their father gone to his own grave, a sad and lonely sick old man.
A woman rider shot into the camp on a sturdy roan. Fred dropped the draught poles of the cart and ran to grab the reins of her horse. As she swung down, hanging onto Fred, she looked about, and stared at Elsa and Rosie. Then she found Nebo. ‘I couldn’t get the doctor.’
‘No matter now, Alice,’ Fred said, steadying her. ‘The baby was dead before bein’ born.’
‘Oh no,’ she said and shook his arms. Her glance darted to the canvas drape. ‘Jesus, poor Sal.’ She took a moment then she looked at Nebo. ‘I couldn’t get the doctor because he’d gone off with your nephew. Your brother’s been knifed by a madman.’
Nebo stared at her dumbfounded.
Glen strode over from Elsa’s cart. ‘Which brother?’ he barked.
‘Not Ezekiel. The other one. The one what’s just come back to his farm.’
‘Judah.’ Nebo turned and seized the reins of Alice’s horse from Fred.
Glen grabbed his arm. ‘Nebo, wait. You can’t go. The coach hold-up. Billy Watson screamed it was you. Soon as the troopers know Jude’s in trouble, they’ll be waitin’ for you to show up. They’ll trap you, for sure.’
Elsa stared. Alice’s words—‘not Ezekiel’—rang in her ears. She snatched the sturdy stick and hauled herself to her feet. Rosie helped her stand. ‘You have a brother named Ezekiel?’ Elsa asked of Nebo as he shook off Glen’s arm.
‘Two brothers. Judah’s older, Ezekiel’s younger.’ He seemed to be deciding what to do, his face creased in a frown, his cheeks hollow. Then he looked at her. ‘Why?’
‘Ezekiel Jones wrote to our father about our brother, George, who died and is buried on his property.’
Nebo made no move towards the horse. ‘You said your name was Conroy, not—George’s name was Goody.’ His gaze flicked over the sisters but his eyes narrowed at Elsa.
‘Uh, Nebo,’ Rosie said, straightening, and catching his attention.
Elsa briefly closed her eyes. Oh yes, oldest of friends now.
‘We feared we would’ve been followed and thought not to let our real names be known,’ Rosie went on, her forthright stare fixed on him. ‘We are Rosie and Elsa. Our family name is Goody.’
Rosie had omitted her married name and had conveniently removed her thin wedding band at some point, too. But that was certainly not Elsa’s worry now. ‘I have Mr Ezekiel Jones’s letter with me. It’s in my satchel,’ she said.
Nebo tilted his head at Fred who loped to the cart. He retrieved the bag and brought it back to Elsa. She rummaged amongst her underclothes for the envelope and pulled out the letter, holding it out to Nebo.
He didn’t reach for it. ‘It’s his handwriting, I recognise it.’ He frowned as if he was about to say something else to her. Instead he turned back to Glen. ‘I have to go see Jude.’
Glen shook his head. ‘They’ll haul you away. The troopers won’t believe it wasn’t you. Or the rest of us.’
Nebo thumbed at Elsa and Rosie. ‘They are witnesses to say it wasn’t me.’
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘The coach driver thought Elsa and I were the robber’s accomplices.’ She pointed at Elsa. ‘He said that she’d not be able to hide. Her wild head of hair is unmistakable, and Lord knows,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘there’s no taming it, never has been.’
‘Her hair?’ he barked.
‘Well, just look at it.’
All eyes stared at Elsa’s head as if she’d grown another one. Trying to tidy her hair, she picked a twig out of
it out. There was dust there too, and dirt. A leaf. She flicked it clear.
Rosie threw her hands in the air. ‘We were driving along and suddenly the Cobb & Co was coming fast behind us without realising we were ahead. When it rounded the bend, poor Peppin took fright and we ended up halfway across the road.’ She slapped one hand on her hip and waved the other. ‘It must have looked as if we’d stopped there deliberately once the bushrangers came out and so the coach driver accused us of being—strumpets—and that he’d recognise her anywhere because of her hair.’
Fred chortled but with a glare from Alice he stopped. She then said to Nebo, ‘Send her, the young one, to find out about Judah. I can fix her hair so it looks different. If she has a letter from Ezekiel, no one will think different than she’s had to see him about her brother. Send her on Tillie’s horse Salty, he’s rested.’
Rosie gaped. ‘That means she’ll be on her own.’
Elsa was thinking hard as she tucked the letter back into her satchel.
‘That’s right, alone,’ Alice said. ‘There’s another way to get to Ezekiel’s house, away from the main road. Real easy with good directions. People ain’t dangerous around here, she’ll be all right.’
‘How can you say that?’ Rosie cried. ‘You’ve just told us there’s a madman out there who’s attacked someone, and … bushrangers held up that coach.’
Alice blurted a laugh. ‘Bushrangers, bah. What cods. If it was that Billy Watson, he couldn’t hit his own foot, even if he could see it. His big fat belly would get in ’is way.’
Rosie whipped around and stared at Elsa. ‘You’re not to go. George lost his life here in this lawless country to thugs, to—bushrangers. Remember that.’
Everyone looked away.
Clutching the satchel with one arm, her foot throbbing, Elsa shifted her weight. ‘I do. It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? It’s about George, Rosie. About his—things,’ she finished firmly, hoping to convey a message to her frightened sister.
‘Do you mean a locket he carried?’ Nebo asked.
Elsa turned to Nebo. ‘You know of that?’
‘Zeke has it,’ he said, his attention lingering on Rosie a moment before returning to Elsa. ‘You said things. Was there something else your brother had?’
‘How do you know of the locket?’ Elsa insisted. ‘Did you know George to speak with him? Were you anywhere near where he was attacked?’
Nebo sighed. ‘I found him. Bad injured on Jude’s place.’
Rosie clapped a hand to her mouth.
‘Bad injured how?’ Elsa asked as a fierce burn shot through her chest.
Nebo looked as if he was deciding whether to go on. Then he said, ‘Shot. I don’t know how long he’d been lyin’ there. He didn’t know either, but he’d been left for dead.’
Elsa felt her tears sting, and a lump bobbed in her throat.
‘I picked him up, put him over my horse. Grabbed up what was strewn around him and set off for Zeke’s. I knew he’d look after him.’ At their silence, he continued. ‘Zeke had him maybe three days. Doc said it was only a matter of time, nothin’ could be done.’ He took in a deep breath. ‘He’s buried on Zeke’s.’
Nodding, Elsa hesitated before saying, ‘I know, so I just want to get there, see where George is and then go.’ She decided not to ask any more, she couldn’t trust her voice. She hoped that wherever the locket was, the tin of coins would not be far away. But the chances of that looked slim. Poor George had probably been murdered for it.
Thankfully, Rosie didn’t look as if she’d ask any more either. She still had her hand over her mouth.
Nebo pointed at Elsa. ‘You’re going to Zeke’s, alone, on Salty.’ He held his finger higher in the air when Rosie protested. ‘And Rosie, you’re staying. So when your sister returns with news of Jude, you can then decide to do what you will.’ He turned to Fred. ‘Get what Elsa might need from the cart for a short ride and an overnight stay.’ He didn’t wait for Rosie to respond before he turned to Alice. ‘Get her hair fixed.’
Elsa had to repeat the directions back to Nebo. When he was satisfied, Rosie elbowed in and took both her hands. ‘I’m worried.’
‘You’re always worried,’ Elsa said, glancing at Nebo who’d stepped away, waiting to help her mount Tillie’s horse. She whispered to Rosie, ‘But you’re not staying here against your will, are you? You want to stay. With him.’ She saw the flush creep over her sister’s cheeks. ‘I’m sure I’ll find this other Mr Jones, bring back the locket and any other information about George, and about Nebo’s older brother. And then we can go.’
‘Look, I … should come with you.’
Elsa looked at her. ‘They won’t let you. And you don’t really want to. I can tell.’
Rosie, flustered, tried to explain. ‘Well, because you’re much better at this than me—’
‘Besides,’ Elsa said. ‘Your Mr Jones here is right.’
Rosie bent towards her, eyes flashing under a quick frown. ‘He’s not my Mr Jones.’
‘No point hissing at me,’ Elsa said. ‘He is right. Two women in a cart especially after the hold-up will just bring attention. One woman—’
‘Will definitely attract attention,’ Rosie said loudly.
‘Not if I’m smart.’ Elsa smoothed her hand over the pinned-up plait that Alice had fashioned for her and tried to make it feel more comfortable. It was tight and her scalp hurt but she’d get used to it. She was glad she didn’t have bright red hair like the bushranger’s, or that pale coppery glow of Tillie’s. She put on her hat. ‘Don’t worry. He says I’m only two hours’ ride from Ezekiel Jones and I’ve memorised the directions.’
‘Elsa, it’ll be near dark then.’
‘So you need to get going,’ Nebo cut in. He walked Elsa to the cart and helped her climb aboard. Then he walked Salty over and held the reins as Elsa clambered from the cart into the saddle.
It was awkward using her right foot in the stirrup to mount, but she managed, thanks to the patient horse. She settled her skirt and slipped her left foot gingerly into the stirrup. She looked across to the canvas drape. No sound, no sight. There was nothing anyone could do for Sal and Wally except leave them to their grief.
Fred and Alice watched her from their own tent, while Glen and Tillie sat at the campfire. Tillie raised her hand in a wave. ‘You bring my Salty back. He’s a good horse,’ she called.
Elsa nodded. ‘I will.’ Then she looked back at Rosie. ‘When I come back, then we can go,’ she said. If you want to go, she thought, when Rosie gave her a tentative nod. Elsa already knew, as she was turning Salty’s head, that when she did return, she could well be leaving without her sister.
Twenty-Five
Zeke had re-harnessed Mrs Hartman’s horse, Cricket. Once the doc had stitched Jude and declared him wrapped up tight enough to endure a careful cart ride, they got him into the back. They packed him in with his own swag and Mrs Hartman’s gardening sacks full of weeds and set off. Zeke wasn’t leaving Jude to fare alone in his own house tonight; he feared that bastard Goody might return to finish him off.
Gifford rode Milo alongside the cart. Doctor Smith rode with them until the turn-off to the town. He declared he’d go to the police station and report the stabbing then waved goodbye as he headed down the road.
No difference to Zeke that the doc would report to the police. I’ll find the bastard before them, that’s for sure. What exactly Zeke would do with him, he didn’t know. Not until the time came, anyhow. He’d had a couple of hours or so to cool off since watching Jude slip into a deep sleep. The doctor had arrived with a red-faced Gifford, who’d been riding hard. Jude did have a deep cut in him, but nothing major had been nicked, the doc said. He’d be sore, and tired after all the blood loss—as soon as he got to Jude’s he’d first asked Zeke if the blood had been black and was very satisfied to learn it was not—but if the wound was kept clean and the man well-watered, he should be good as gold in no time. Twenty good stitches and a swab of medicinal alcoh
ol would do the job nicely.
A relief for Zeke, but that didn’t mean his rage was any less, just best cold. That way he’d have a clear head when he hunted down ‘Curtis Goody’.
And now, early evening, they were only a half-hour or so out. Dark soon, but enough light to be able to get Jude inside and settled. Would have to be in Zeke’s bed, but that would be fine. Was nothing to find another cot, or something makeshift, and some blankets for himself.
He wondered how Mrs Hartman had managed. He shied away from thinking that Goody might have gone to his house, and there being only a woman and two young children, defenceless. He couldn’t think of that. She might have asked his kids for his rifle. Might have decided to keep it ready. Or would she have taken the two children to her own place?
Not likely. They’d have had to walk. No. It would’ve been a better plan for her to stay put. He hoped that’s what she’d done.
As the sky darkened over the setting sun and the cart crawled over the undulating terrain, he could see lights twinkling in the distance. His place. And if the lanterns were lit, chances were Mrs Hartman was still there.
‘I’ll go ahead, Pa,’ Giff said.
‘No,’ Zeke ordered sharply. ‘Stay with me.’ If something had happened, or if something was wrong, he didn’t want Giff in danger too.
The lad sucked in a breath and edged Milo closer to the cart. ‘Will Uncle Jude be all right, Pa?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’ll be fine, lad,’ Jude wheezed. ‘Just damned uncomfortable right at the minute.’
‘You’re awake?’ Zeke asked. ‘Good. I don’t have to lug you inside. You can walk.’
‘I like my chances of that,’ Jude said, a breath rushing out.
‘I’ll help,’ Giff said. ‘We can do it.’
About thirty yards out from the house by Zeke’s reckoning, he pulled up the cart. Giff stopped. Cricket stomped and shied, eager to get closer to a feed bucket, no doubt. It was hard to see in the dim light, but what Zeke could see were candles burning in all the windows. He could hear his dogs in the distance, barking in a frenzy. Good sign. If there was no noise from them he’d be more worried. And the place lit up? He reckoned they were both good signs.