Sean was standing at the entrance to the sawmill, talking to Brian Hackett. The stringy form of the man they’d once worked for towered almost a foot above his cousin. Brandon was inclined to head directly to the merchant, Mrs McKenzie, and negotiate a price for their waiting timber upstream, before the buyer she employed, Malcolm Jack, gave his opinion on its worth, however Sean noticed him almost immediately. He lifted a hand in greeting, beckoning him over.
Hackett may have given them a start in the cedar business but nonetheless Brandon was in no rush to see the man again. Hackett worked hard but he also drove his men hard and spent any free time standing about a vat of rum, drinking himself into oblivion. Some could handle the heavy workload he gave them, others couldn’t. There were two unmarked graves Brandon knew of, where exhaustion and alcohol had fuelled pathetic endings. He crossed the road unwillingly, managing an acknowledgment as Sean greeted him with a typically jovial pat on the shoulder. Hackett gave a surly nod.
‘Cousin. You’re here. I wondered when you’d arrive. There’s a meeting tonight behind the sawmill,’ said Sean.
‘So I’ve heard,’ he replied.
‘See, I told you,’ said Sean to Hackett.
The older man stuck a wooden pipe between his lips and chewed on it. ‘Thought you’d be too pearly white for the cause.’
His skin was beyond pale, almost transparent – the result of living a life in murky forests and too much grog. But he was fast and strong enough to do his share of cutting. A feat, considering he must have been close to sixty years of age.
‘And I thought you’d still be drinking and gambling up in the hills,’ said Brandon in response.
Sean gave Brandon a warning frown.
Hackett ignored the comment. ‘You shouldn’t have left the team, Brandon. We made a killing this year. Hundreds of thousands of super feet of timber. Made our fortunes, we have.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and pocketed it.
‘And how many of your men were injured this year?’ replied Brandon. ‘How many maimed?’
Hackett drew in his cheeks until his face hollowed.
‘Brandon, steady on,’ said Sean. ‘You know what it’s like when you’ve just come out of the forest, Mr Hackett. A man gets a bit edgy, what with all the bright light and the people.’
Hackett drew up threateningly close to Brandon. ‘You know nothing about anything, lad. Which is why I don’t take offence when that mouth of yours starts talking foolish and dangerous.’ Hackett’s spittle was hot on Brandon’s face. ‘I gave you a chance, greenhides though you both were. You’ve got yourself your shiny axes and your saws, and a woeful team of bullocks that would be better off running hot and juicy over a fire, but you’re still walking deep into the forest wearing the leather off your shoes. Felling trees in stupid places. You don’t like me because I treat my men hard. But I don’t treat them any different than I do myself. And most of them have been with me for over twenty-five years. In ’41 there were two hundred sawyers working in the great black forests along the Macleay River. And a quarter of them were with me. The land fairly hummed with the song of the blades. That’s what it was like this year for the team. As I said, you made the wrong decision leaving.’
‘Well, it was my decision to make. Besides, we’ve done all right,’ said Brandon.
‘Sure. Chasing a tree that fell off the edge of a cliff.’ Hackett smirked. ‘Only good enough for coffins and houses I hear.’ The man tipped his hat and left.
Brandon turned to his cousin.
Sean was leaning against a stack of timber. ‘What? He asked where we were working so I told him.’
‘He’s not our friend,’ said Brandon.
‘And he’s not my enemy. So don’t make him one. He’s on our side. Hackett’s one of us,’ said Sean. ‘He’s head of the Brotherhood and—’
‘Did you sell the timber you carted into the village?’ Brandon asked.
‘Yes, and I got a good price for the logs that’ll be floated down as well. I had no idea how long you’d be gallivanting around with the bird lady.’ Sean’s hand formed a beak and made a pecking motion. ‘So I went direct to Mrs McKenzie. She’s a tough one, but I figured it was best to tell her the number of logs in case Malcolm Jack decided to rebrand a few of them and make himself a profit.’
‘Good. I was concerned about Jack. You never can tell. There’s a job at Mr Truby’s if we want it. Cutting cedars next to the homestead. He seems like a fair man,’ Brandon told him.
Sean lifted an eyebrow. ‘They always are in the beginning. And what about Maggie? I only saw her briefly yesterday. Have you seen her?’
‘Yes. And she’s seen me,’ said Brandon, the image of a furious Maggie tossing a perfectly good carrot into the river not easy to forget.
‘Went that well, did it? What is it with you two? One minute you’re the best of friends, the next you’re ready to strangle each other,’ said Sean.
‘It’s just the way we are. You know that.’ Brandon sat the axe-head on the ground and twirled the handle, a circle of dirt forming around it.
‘What else can you do with that axe?’ said a deep voice.
Brandon grabbed the handle as it slowed. Arthur Henderson, the lumberyard foreman, was heavyset with a permanently furrowed brow and shoulder-length grey hair, making it difficult to decipher his age.
‘Good to see you again, Brandon O’Riain. Your cousin gave me a time with his haggling for that last load. I can’t promise you the same amount for the next. There’s a few cracks in the wood.’
‘I know. We’ll be pleased with whatever you can give us,’ replied Brandon.
‘Market price. It’s always market price for the quality. Come on,’ said Arthur.
They followed him through the mill, which was twice the length of the longest pieces of timber handled there. Logs were stored along one wall near a gently sloping ramp, down which each length could be rolled onto a carriage running on tramway rails. The tracks led to the large steam-engine-driven saw in an adjoining shed, which puffed and spun its leather belts, driving the circular metal with its sharp teeth. Two boys were sweeping up the sawdust and shovelling it into a barrow to be wheeled to a pit outdoors. They cheekily scrunched up their noses on passing and Sean ruffled one of the children’s hair in return.
Once outside they continued to the rear of the yard, which ran down towards the river. Three men were throwing axes into a log some distance away. The target was marked with a splash of red paint and each man was trying to hit it. The last thrower struck just wide of the spot, and he pulled the blade free of the wood with an irritated groan.
‘I told them it was too far a distance. But there’s a five-pound wager and a bottle of rum on this, and of course the acknowledgement of a good throwing arm and a fine eye,’ said Arthur. ‘And as you’ve brought your axe with you . . .’
One of the men redrew the line in the dirt. ‘Thirty feet, lad,’ he said to Brandon. ‘You must keep one foot behind the line at all times.’
Sean had started exchanging money with Arthur.
‘Hey. That belongs to both of us,’ Brandon reminded his cousin.
‘You’ve a vested interest in the competition then,’ replied Sean with a grin.
Brandon wasn’t interested in the rum or the money, but proving his ability was something else. The three axe-throwers were a grizzled lot. Older than him. More experienced. With meaty forearms and a hankering for free grog. He could tell they doubted his chances to even hit wood, let alone the target. Thirty feet was a length of empty air to tempt any axeman and Brandon was no exception. Far greater distances had been covered by better axemen but today there was only a yard stacked with lumber, some uninterested men and a few feet of air to bridge. Brandon contemplated the size and length of the axe shaft he held and took a step back behind the line. He reckoned on five rotations, six at the most, however there was a slight wind to account for and, with the target on its side, the natural drop of the axe as it fell to earth also had to be considered.
‘Come on,’ urged one of the men.
Brandon gripped the handle with both hands, lined up the dull end of the blade with the target, lifted his arms and dropped his hands back over his head between his shoulders. He leant back, feeling the weight of the axe tugging at his muscles and locked his wrists and elbows. His mind drew itself inwards until there was only the axe and the distant target, then he stepped one foot forward and released the handle. He felt it slip from his grasp, his fingers stroking empty space, his eye never leaving the log as his body moved forwards. The axe spun, end over end, slicing through air, and landed with a thwack in the middle of the target.
Brandon’s heartbeat slowly eased. Around him, the gravelly voiced bystanders broke his concentration as sunlight flashed on the river. He retrieved his axe.
‘There’s real art in that,’ said Arthur, reluctantly handing over money to Sean, who counted the winnings three times before pocketing it. ‘If you can cut as well as you can throw, lad, you should be back on Hackett’s team.’ He held out his hand to Brandon, who shook it.
‘You’re coming tonight,’ Arthur said, his grip tightening. It wasn’t a question.
‘Of course he is,’ said Sean, almost too quickly.
‘You are coming,’ Sean continued, once they were back on the street and alone. ‘I said you would.’
‘Tell me the point of it, Sean. Really, tell me the reason a man would squat in the dark like a thief with men we don’t know, talking about a country we all left years ago.’
Sean stopped abruptly. ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? After everything we’ve been through and lost – family, friends, our livelihoods?’
‘I just wonder at the sense of it,’ said Brandon, wary of stirring his cousin’s zeal even more.
‘The Fenians in America have been issuing bonds in the name of the Irish Republic. With the money they’ve raised, they’re buying arms, Brandon. Hundreds of thousands of people have subscribed. This is not some small movement. This is a people who want their country back. We have to be in it. We can’t let others do all the work.’ Spittle had collected in the corners of Sean’s mouth. ‘We talked about such things when we were with Hackett. Had you stayed with the men on those nights instead of keeping to yourself, Hackett and the others might not be so unsure of your loyalty. This is a small place, Brandon. It’s best to make an effort.’
‘Fine. I’ll come tonight,’ Brandon said, although it was against his better judgement.
‘Good,’ said Sean. He led them beyond the limits of the village and across the river flats, where their hobbled bullocks grazed. The grass was flushed a vibrant green, the trees bracing the riverbank, enticing with their outstretched limbs and dappled shade.
‘I have to tell you something, Brandon,’ began Sean, his halting speech at odds with his earlier enthusiasm for the Fenian cause. ‘The word is that Maggie’s seeing someone.’
‘Seeing someone? Who? Did she tell you that?’ asked Brandon, his voice rising.
‘No. I haven’t spoken to her. Some of the men hinted at it,’ admitted Sean.
‘She said nothing to me this morning.’
‘And why would she? She’s been left to make a life for herself in our absence. You can’t blame the girl if she wants to marry. They all do eventually,’ said Sean.
‘Marry? But this is Maggie. We’ve made plans.’ Brandon walked ahead of his cousin, trying to fathom how his stepsister had grown old enough in the short time they’d been away to become involved with a boy. For that’s what he’d be. A pimply, useless, shallow-brained youth. He waited for Sean to reach his side. ‘This family lost everything with Macklin’s death.’
Sean drew close to him, his expression darkening all too quickly. ‘Say it. Say what you really mean. That I was the one who killed Macklin. That I was the one who ruined our lives and made us flee our home.’
This wasn’t the first time his cousin had spoken of his actions that day.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Brandon backed away in a gesture of surrender. It had taken him months to forgive Sean for throwing that rock, a process that might have been easier if his cousin had showed a thread of remorse.
‘Sure,’ said Sean bitterly.
‘Listen to me. Don’t you ever consider that maybe it was all for a reason? That somehow, somewhere, there are better things ahead for Maggie. For all of us. Otherwise, why would our lives have been destroyed? It can’t have been for nothing.’
Sean appeared bewildered. ‘I can’t answer you, Brandon. Maybe what happened simply happened and there’s no reason to it.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Well, you’ve seen Maggie. She’s grown. Become a woman. And there’s not many of them about here. I only hope that she’s choosy, for I’m betting there’s any number of men willing to take her on.’
Brandon had never given thought to the possibility of Maggie wanting to live a separate life away from him. The very idea was unimaginable.
They set up camp next to the slide. There was salted meat, flour and fresh river water and these few ingredients became tack-hard bread and something brown and lumpy in the cast-iron pot. They ate with the crock between them, taking turns to dig into the food with pieces of bread, sucking at the spilt portions until the meal was finished and all that was left to swallow was a few mouthfuls of water. Sean talked throughout their eating, regaling Brandon with the expressions of disbelief that had showed on the men who witnessed the axe-throwing. One minute his eyes were as round as organ-stops, the next his nose wrinkled with indignation. Were Sean an artist, rendering through a charcoal sketch, the men’s features would have been shamefully exaggerated. Brandon couldn’t help but laugh at his cousin’s mimicries and fell onto his back, clutching at his stomach until their mirth eventually eased and once again, Maggie took hold in his mind.
Chapter 24
Late that night Brandon reluctantly followed Sean along the sloping embankment. They stopped for a moment to orientate themselves. It was blacker than black on the riverbank. Land and water merged together so that only the splash of a river creature or the clink of chain on rafted logs offered direction. A distant glow drew them on, the tangy scent of the waterway a quiet presence as muted voices gradually formed into the accents and tones of the strangers they were due to meet. Twenty or so men were gathered around a campfire right at the water’s edge, concealed by a steep slope. It was a canny place to meet.
‘Who’s there?’ someone called.
‘Sean and Brandon O’Riain,’ answered Sean.
Brandon stole a glance at his cousin.
Sean walked to the edge of the circle and claimed a space for them on the ground amongst the men. A bottle of rum was passed across to them. Sean took a swig and then handed the bottle to his cousin.
‘Go on,’ he urged Brandon.
‘Are you sure he’s Irish?’ said one of group. There was a snicker of laughter.
Brandon drank and passed the bottle along. A branch was thrown onto the fire and with the catch of flames came recognition. Hackett was there with some of his felling team, and the two men who’d given Brandon a ride in the cart from Truby’s holding. The foreman of the lumberyard, Arthur Henderson, was also present with those men who’d bet against Brandon’s axe throw. The rest were unrecognisable to him, while Sean acknowledged most of these unfamiliar persons and in return they addressed him by name.
‘We’re all here for the same reason,’ began Hackett. ‘Most of us know each other. And I know you. But we’ve a newcomer tonight. This is Sean O’Riain’s cousin Brandon.’ Hackett nodded across the fire to where Brandon sat. ‘I can’t vouch for him. You men must decide if he should stay or not.’
‘He was in your team,’ one of men declared. ‘We worked with him.’
‘Never spoke much,’ said another.
‘Or drank much,’ replied a third.
‘Are you sure he’s Irish?’ said the first speaker again.
‘I’m Irish,’ s
aid Brandon angrily.
‘He can throw an axe.’ The man who’d drawn the line in the dirt at the yard spoke up.
‘Enough,’ said Hackett. ‘He was a good worker when he wasn’t snarling. But the boy and I don’t see things the same way, and I can’t say for sure that he’s one of us. A believer of the cause.’
‘I can vouch for Brandon. I grew up with him,’ said Sean.
‘You know what this is about, don’t you, lad?’ asked Hackett.
‘The Irish Brotherhood,’ Brandon replied.
‘Free Ireland,’ someone muttered. Every man present echoed the sentiment.
‘He’s the same as us,’ said Sean. ‘Just because he doesn’t speak up doesn’t mean his heart’s not with ours. I’ll tell you the story of his birth. Then you decide.’
‘Don’t, Sean,’ said Brandon.
‘What say you, boy?’ said Hackett. ‘You don’t want your story told or you don’t want your story told to the likes of us?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Well then, what is it? And speak up. Us old men don’t have the hearing of you young ones. It comes from the sound of money crashing to the ground.’
The men laughed at this.
Brandon’s voice rose. ‘The past should be kept in the past.’
‘The past never goes, boy. It’s with us forever. You’d do well to keep that in mind,’ said Hackett.
‘Let me tell them, Brandon. About how it was. When you were born. He was born in ’50, three years after me,’ began Sean.
The Cedar Tree Page 15
