Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  He cleared his throat and glanced again. ‘I would.’

  ‘Right. I shall send him in.’ She swept to the chair beside his bed, stepping over a swag on the floor. She retrieved his discarded, torn shirt, caked with blood. ‘Ezekiel and I are going to my home now so that I might change out of these clothes,’ she said and gestured at her own blood-stained apparel. His blood, she was reminding him.

  Judah moved a little uncomfortably under her stare. ‘Aye. Very good.’

  Aye, very good. He can be uneasy all he likes. ‘I presume one of your brother’s shirts would fit you,’ she went on, ‘as I don’t believe we will be visiting your house on this particular trip to bring anything of your own.’

  It seemed he had nothing to say to that. He nodded. At least this time, his gaze, moody and dark, connected with hers for a few moments before he looked away again.

  ‘Good day, Mr Jones.’ She headed for the door.

  ‘Mrs Hartman.’

  Lily stopped. His voice was hoarse, but his tone was firm. She feared her dreams of getting to know Mr Judah Jones were about to be dashed. All the same, she tried not to allow any such feeling to show as she turned to face him.

  Thirty-One

  Elsa had stepped into her crushed but clean knickers and pulled on her rumpled camisole. She’d hardly waited for the damp patches on the fabric to dry before she’d shrugged into her sponged-off day dress. She was comfortable enough, and the dress was not really smelly, but she knew it would have to be washed properly soon. She adjusted the bodice to sit comfortably without her chemise underneath and was reasonably satisfied as she patted herself down.

  Oh, to be back in Robe, on the farm, and not bothered about what clothes I’m wearing. And that wasn’t a good thought—she still had to learn more about what had happened here to poor George. Trouble was, she and Rosie seemed to have stepped into a mess, and all because of George.

  Now she had met the brothers Jones, there seemed a monumental task ahead—glean information about George and find out what else might be left of his possessions; get back to Nebo Jones (and his band of sorry followers in the bush camp) with information about Judah Jones; ensure (somehow) that the man with the knife was no danger to her; keep away from Ezekiel Jones.

  She’d have to make sure she could do all of that and get back to South Australia in time to vote, even if it did mean tackling Frank on a number of levels. Rosie, for one. Administering her father’s property for another. Having to see that awful Pete Southie person.

  In the light of day, the tasks seemed monumental. Not nearly as monumental as some that others might be facing. Sal, for instance, the poor woman. How would Sal be faring?

  Elsa closed her eyes. She tested the toes on her bad foot. Pain seared through. Damn. How was she to get back, at least to Nebo Jones’s camp if her foot was still bad?

  She took the dusted-off roll of bandage and began to wind it over her foot, the support of it relieving some of the niggling pain. A nuisance, all in all. At least she had her boot on the other foot. How else was she going to be able to—

  ‘Elsa, it’s a good thing you’re dressed.’ Mrs Hartman had thrust open the kitchen door and swept inside. ‘Mr Jones—Ezekiel—will escort me to my house in order for me to change. He’ll bring me straight back. You’re not to worry.’ She seemed harried, flustered. Bright spots of colour stained her cheeks.

  Elsa stared over her shoulder as Ezekiel Jones filled the doorway. So no visit to George’s resting place any time soon. ‘I’m not worried, Mrs Hartman.’ She tucked in the end of the bandage, knowing it wouldn’t hold for long. ‘If you’d be so kind as to bring me a pin of some sort to fasten this off?’ She nodded at Ezekiel, who nodded back. ‘If you leave me instructions—’

  ‘My children are very capable, Miss Goody, and will attend to any chores you might see fit. I’ll have Gracie bring a pin for you. Now, should you find yourself at all uneasy if someone uninvited were to appear, there is a rifle in my room.’

  There’s a houseful of children to look after. ‘Yes, all right.’

  ‘You know how to use a rifle?’ he asked, his dark gaze on her.

  A slither of fear crept over Elsa. ‘I do.’

  ‘Giff will bring it to you if there’s a problem.’ He turned to Lily. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but the man in question is nuggety in his build, nondescript except for his front teeth.’

  Mrs Hartman nodded, glancing at Elsa. ‘They’re capped in gold, quite distinct,’ she explained and clasped a hand on Elsa’s shoulder. ‘We’ll return very quickly, well before midafternoon, you can be sure.’

  Elsa looked up at Ezekiel Jones. ‘When you return, would you then take me to my brother’s grave?’

  ‘My dear, your foot needs rest,’ Mrs Hartman said.

  ‘It does, but—’

  ‘I’ll take you, Miss Goody,’ Ezekiel said. ‘I’ll ask Giff to hitch up the cart to be ready for when we get back.’ He tipped his hat, and then held out his hand indicating Mrs Hartman should leave ahead of him. He glanced at Elsa. ‘We’ll have time before sundown when it’s a little cooler,’ he said and turned in the doorway before striding away.

  When the two were outside, Elsa heard Mrs Hartman say, ‘I’m very worried about the other Mr Jones. I should’ve made him some breakfast.’

  Ezekiel Jones’s voice drifted back. ‘Gracie can do that if he wants any. I don’t think you need to be worried and …’ Out of earshot, the rest of his assurance was lost to Elsa.

  Not long after she’d heard horses leaving, Gracie appeared in the kitchen room. She had a safety pin, about the size of Elsa’s little finger. ‘I have this for your bandage, Miss Goody,’ she said, her soft voice sounding very grown up. She set about fixing it to the bandage.

  Elsa gazed down at the little head as Gracie bent over her task. ‘Thank you. It will help make it much easier for me to walk.’

  ‘Oh no, you mustn’t walk yet,’ Gracie said. ‘Uncle Judah is showing Gifford how to make crutches for you. My brother has already found long sturdy sticks, and he’s smoothing them off with his hunting knife. Jonty has to plait some rawhide, so they’re very busy in Pa’s room. That’s where Uncle Jude is.’

  ‘I see.’

  Gracie patted the bandage gently. ‘It’s all done.’

  ‘What do you suppose I should do, then?’ Elsa asked her. Gracie shrugged. In the silence, Elsa tested some weight on her foot. ‘You’re right. Not ready to walk on yet.’ Nor ready for a boot. At least she had one good foot.

  The girl’s gaze was openly on her face. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, my horse, Peppin, he took a fright and stomped on my foot. I wasn’t able to get away in time.’

  Gracie considered that, then, ‘Where is Peppin?’

  ‘He’s at your uncle Nebo’s camp. And that’s where my sister is, too.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘You have a sister?’

  A pang of something hit Elsa deep inside. ‘Yes. Rosie is her name.’

  A frown. ‘And where is your mam?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Gracie’s hand snuck into Elsa’s. ‘But we have our pa. Do you have a pa?’

  ‘Not anymore. He died, too, not many days past. He was very worried about my brother, George. So that’s why we came.’ Elsa felt herself calm. ‘Did you meet my brother?’

  Gracie nodded. ‘He was sick when he was here. He talked a lot, some I could understand, but not all. And he couldn’t get off the bed or walk or anything.’

  Elsa’s breath caught. ‘Did you look after him?’

  Gracie shook her head. ‘Not really. Just to wash his face at times. He was very hot, mostly. Pa looked after him, feeding him, giving him water. When Uncle Nebo brought him over from Uncle Jude’s place, he was very bad.’ The girl squeezed Elsa’s hand. ‘Then he died.’

  Elsa panted a sob. ‘Thank you for looking after him until then.’ The little girl squeezed he
r hand again. ‘Do you know if he had anything with him, like a bag?’ Elsa asked, waiting half a beat. ‘Or a box, a tin box?’

  Gracie frowned in thought, then shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  Elsa sat back, withdrawing her hand from Gracie’s. She’d have to wait for Ezekiel Jones to return and ask him, then thought better of it. Best to wait a bit longer. She sighed and dragged her fingers through her hair, well dried and now its usual unruly self.

  Gracie’s eyes lit up again. ‘Can I do your hair, Miss Goody?’

  ‘Oh, well, if you’d like to, I suppose while we wait for the magical crutches. But it is a bit hard to handle, and there’s so much of it.’

  ‘We have a big hairbrush and I know how to do a plait. I do my own, you see. Pa taught me.’ And she turned her head for Elsa to admire the neat braid.

  Before Elsa could comment, Gracie fled.

  Elsa thought of Ezekiel Jones’s big hands, those hard knuckled, gnarly fingers of his nimbly turning a little girl’s tendrils into a neat plait. She couldn’t imagine her own father would have done such a thing. And certainly not with her head of hair. With Rosie’s, perhaps—her hair was straight and easy to manage, usually tied back, neat and contained. But still, Elsa couldn’t see her father attempting to fix a daughter’s hair.

  Rosie would have had their mother’s help. Elsa could recall Kitty, but not all that well. When George was alive, she could see glimpses of her mother in him, but otherwise there was very little to remember her by. Except for the locket. And George had taken the locket when he left the farm but now she—

  ‘Here it is,’ Gracie said, rushing back into the kitchen and brandishing a beautiful brush, silver plate with a gold trim.

  A very old piece already, Elsa thought. Perhaps it had belonged to Ezekiel’s wife, young Gracie’s departed mother, or her grandmother.

  Standing behind Elsa, Gracie began pulling the brush firmly through the mop of hair. ‘It’s very strong hair,’ she said.

  ‘It is,’ Elsa agreed, delighting in the luxury of having someone do her hair. ‘Now tell me what else you remember about my brother.’

  There hadn’t been a lot more to glean from Gracie. Once definitely established that any possessions of George’s had not been secreted anywhere, there didn’t seem a lot more to ask. Elsa sat back and let Gracie play with her hair.

  Jonty wandered in. ‘Is there bread and jam?’ He brought with him a cloud of little flies.

  Gracie pointed to the loaf on the bench. He tore off a chunk and took a bite, then dipped another chunk in a pot of thick jam. ‘Giff says they nearly done one stick,’ he said, his mouth full.

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ Elsa said. She might soon be able to hobble about unaided. She hadn’t yet met Giff, but it seemed he was a capable lad.

  ‘Uncle Jude says ye’re George’s mam,’ Jonty said, still chewing. ‘He’s lucky to have a mam.’

  Elsa’s heart lurched for him. ‘I’m his sister,’ she corrected softly. ‘Like Gracie is your sister, I am George’s sister.’

  ‘George told me he had a mam,’ Jonty insisted.

  Elsa nodded. ‘He did.’ The brush dragged a bit more and she felt strong nimble fingers divide hanks of her hair and begin to wind what would become a thick plait.

  ‘He told me stuff. And Giff.’

  ‘Jonty,’ Grace chided. She whispered in Elsa’s ear, ‘No one could make out what George was proper saying, miss.’

  Elsa thought that might have been the case. Delirium made a person ramble. She would never truly learn George’s last words, if there’d been any.

  Jonty was eye to eye with her. ‘Me an’ Giff know where Pa buried him.’

  ‘Is it far from here?’ Elsa asked.

  ‘Up that hill a bit,’ he said, tearing off another hunk of bread. ‘He’s buried near our other mam and our little brother.’

  Gracious me, more sorrow. ‘Thank you, Jonty.’

  ‘Jonty, go away,’ Gracie said, and the plait pulled a little tighter.

  ‘I’ll take you there when we get you them sticks from Giff.’

  Gracie was having trouble managing Elsa’s thick locks. She tugged again. ‘You will not, Jonty Jones. Pa will take Miss Goody.’

  A lanky boy appeared in the doorway. He had a crutch under his armpit, and he limped inside, as if testing it. ‘Uncle Jude wanted to see if this would suit ye, miss,’ he said without looking at her. He handed over the crutch.

  ‘Are you Giff?’ Elsa asked, taking it from him.

  ‘Gifford.’ The serious boy still had not made eye contact with her.

  ‘Gifford, I’m pleased to meet you,’ Elsa said. He was also his father’s son, but there was a lot more of someone else in this boy.

  ‘Giff’s pleased t’meet ye, too, Miss Goody. He don’t talk much.’

  ‘Shut up, Jonty,’ Gifford muttered, and a bright red flush bloomed on his cheeks.

  Elsa spoke to Gracie. ‘Let me stand up, now, so I can test out this very handsome stick.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished your hair. Half of it’s hanging out.’

  ‘I’ll only be a moment.’ Elsa slid the crutch under her arm and using the hand grip, a tapered piece of timber wedged into a hole neatly bored into the larger stick and bound by leather straps, she took a couple of hops. ‘It’s very fine, Gifford, thank—’

  A rifle shot boomed into the air.

  Jonty shrieked and dived for Elsa’s legs. She rocked against the stick and managed to keep her balance. Gracie stood stock-still, but Gifford raced out the door. ‘It was Uncle Jude,’ he yelled.

  Picking himself off the floor at Elsa’s feet, Jonty stood for a moment, undecided. Elsa grabbed him by his shirt collar before he could think to run after his brother.

  ‘Gracie, take hold of Jonty and don’t let him go. Come on, we have to go and see your Uncle Jude.’ Elsa handed Jonty over and under Gracie’s grip, the boy gave a little whimper of fear. ‘It’s all right, we’ll go see him,’ Elsa said, hopping to get comfortable again on the new crutch.

  Outside the kitchen room, she couldn’t hear any yelling. It was quiet, strangely so. Not even the dogs were barking. Eerie. The rifle would have been fired for good reason and that was enough to have her shake with apprehension. She shuffled forward with the two children close by. Gracie was clutching Jonty.

  ‘Can you be very quiet going inside, Jonty?’ Elsa whispered as they got to the back door. He nodded. His eyes were wide, but there were no tears, no cries. ‘Gracie?’ she asked.

  ‘We can creep along the hall. Pa has another rifle in that parlour room you were in. I can get that,’ Gracie whispered, taking Elsa’s free hand.

  Elsa wasn’t sure about that idea. As they stepped into the darkened house, she stopped and listened. Still no noise, only the loud thrum of her own heartbeat. Gracie’s hand tightened. She squeezed back. How was she going to manage to walk quietly down the hallway on the crutch? She leaned heavily on it and tested her foot with her weight. Pain shot up her leg. No good.

  ‘Gracie,’ Elsa said softly as she bent down. ‘We need to crawl to that room. Jonty, you must be very quiet and do exactly as I say.’ He nodded. ‘Leave my stick here,’ she said, handing it to Gracie and then slid down the wall to the floor. On all fours she crawled into the old parlour room, the children behind her. There was murmuring in the next room, but nothing like what she expected to hear.

  ‘I know where the bullets are,’ Jonty said, his little voice ragged as he tried to keep it low.

  ‘You’re not supposed to know,’ Gracie growled at him.

  He tugged away from her and scrambled to the trunk where he picked out a box nestled inside. He took out three bullets and solemnly handed them to Elsa. She didn’t want to think about a child handling ammunition, nor about having to load a rifle, but she slipped them into her dress pocket. If she had to use it, she would.

  ‘Where’s the gun?’ she asked Gracie. The girl darted over to where the commode had stood and pulled the rif
le from behind. It was wrapped in rawhide and slid easily along the floor to Elsa. Unwrapping it, she felt the dust thick on her fingers. She couldn’t use it even if she wanted to; the bolt was missing, perhaps insurance against young master Jonty’s bravado. Besides, it was clear it hadn’t been cleaned for some time. She rewrapped it and said, ‘We’ll leave it here for the moment. We won’t need it, I’m sure.’ Jonty looked crestfallen. ‘And these bullets might be just the thing for Uncle Jude’s gun.’ He gave her a grin. ‘Gracie, can you crawl along and see if Uncle Jude and Gifford are alone? You’ll have to peek.’

  Gracie’s breath came in little puffs as she nodded and crept back into the hallway. Elsa followed on her hands and knees. ‘Jonty,’ she beckoned—then pressed a finger to her mouth to let him know he had to be very quiet. He scurried along beside her.

  Jude’s door was open but an inch. Gracie put her eye to the crack and then looked back at Elsa. ‘No one else is in there,’ she said so quietly that Elsa thought she might have lip-read and not actually heard her. Gracie pushed the door a little wider.

  Elsa held her breath. There was Jude, the rifle at his shoulder and aimed outside. And Gifford, standing beside him, away from the window.

  Then Jude tried to shout, his breath failing him. ‘Didn’t realise it was you, young constable. Sorry for the warning shot,’ he called, his voice scratchy. He let his rifle slide to the floor.

  Elsa heard a reply, but couldn’t make out the words. ‘Gracie,’ she whispered. ‘Call out to Gifford. Tell him we’re coming in.’

  When he heard Gracie, Gifford turned. ‘Hurry up,’ he mouthed, waving his arm.

  Gracie pushed open the door and crawled in. Elsa followed closely behind with Jonty on all fours beside her.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Jones?’ Elsa asked quietly.

  ‘Bloody troopers. I couldn’t see ’em properly so I fired off a shot. Prob’ly get done for it.’ He leaned against the wall, barely glanced her way. ‘Damn thing’s not loaded now.’ He cocked his head at the weapon beside him on the floor.