‘Exactly,’ he replied. ‘And she wants someone else.’
Chapter 32
Brandon poured water into his hat and the old dog slopped it up, his front legs splayed wide as he drank. He ruffled the animal’s fur, tipped out the remaining liquid and pushed the hat firmly back on his head. Maggie had barely spoken to him over the last seven days. Her shunning was made worse by the time she spent with Sean. He knew he had to accept that one day she’d marry and have children of her own, and he should have been relieved by that thought. However every time he tried to justify Maggie’s leaving he pictured sweat along her hairline and young Hackett – naked, angry, possessive.
Overhead, brief snatches of the sky could be seen through the treetops, swirls of blue and white that appeared to fly from nature’s masts. He ran a palm across the bark of a cedar, feeling the ribbing of its outer shell and decided that he would leave this one until last. It was the grandest of all the trees growing in that area and it had taken hold on a ridge, which looked slightly downhill to where the homestead could be seen through the trees. Its ungainly roots had become a place of rest at noon and he’d grown used to its quiet refuge. Were it allowed, he would have camped there, preferring it to the low-slung cots and snoring workers in the men’s quarters.
‘I see you have a favourite.’
Miss Schaefer stood before him in a gown of buttercup yellow, a parasol held aloft as if she were taking a stroll on an English estate. She held a small dog on a lead. The animal strained at the collar about its neck, pushing on its front legs so that its chest protruded like a figurehead on a ship, its paws gripping at the earth.
‘It is a pretty tree. I wouldn’t cut it either. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘It would be a pity,’ Brandon admitted.
‘Then don’t,’ she told him frankly. ‘You’re alone?’
‘Sean will be back soon. We’re about to start on another tree.’
‘Come,’ she invited. She waited until he was by her side and together they walked through the timber. ‘You didn’t like me the day we met. Is it women you’re averse to or falconry?’
He thought of Glanville shredding the innards of his prey and Miss Schaefer in her hunting suit, blood oozing from the scratch on her cheek, which was now nearly healed.
‘Hmm, the former you’re hesitant of, the latter you dislike,’ she answered.
Brandon kept his counsel. He was unsure how to behave in the presence of a lady, especially this young woman in front of him. He had witnessed Miss Schaefer’s haughty disposition and her liking for blood sports, which were at odds with today’s small talk.
They stopped in a clearing on the ridge’s crest. The rhythmic pounding of Mr Truby’s steam engine down at the mill carried on the breeze. The dog snapped at the grass.
Miss Schaefer gestured at the homestead. ‘It’s quite deceptive. From down there, this slope seems more like an undulation. I always thought it was an illusion. A combination of light and the angle and height of the trees. What do you think?’
‘I couldn’t be sure,’ said Brandon.
‘Come. You must have an opinion,’ she persisted.
‘It’s all those things, as well as the fact that your house sits in a slight depression.’
‘You see, it’s not so difficult to make conversation.’ She walked about the rise, stopping to peer through the trees again at the homestead below. The dog did its utmost to move in the opposite direction and Miss Schaefer jerked the lead impatiently. ‘That tree you favour. What do you like so much about it?’
Brandon considered the question. ‘Its height and grandeur. It’s simply a beautiful specimen.’
‘And what is beauty?’ she asked, twirling the parasol so that its fringing fluttered prettily. ‘It’s a straightforward question. There are no right or wrong answers.’
Brandon wiped his hands nervously on his trousers. ‘In nature, beauty is about harmony, balance.’
She moved towards a tree and, closing the sunshade, rested against the trunk. ‘My uncle said you were observant and considered in your speech. He admires those qualities. But perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you that in case you use that knowledge to wheedle your way into his confidence.’
‘I would never do such a thing,’ said Brandon.
She gave a girlish giggle. ‘I’m only teasing. Really, you must learn the art of banter. It is quite an amusing means of passing the time.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m tired from cutting,’ he replied.
‘The chopping down of such beauty must be hard at times.’ She looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Am I beautiful?’ she asked.
He thought of what he might say, that some of the most attractive women he’d ever seen were those in rough calico dresses, with a small child in hand. Miss Schaefer’s prettiness had harsh edges, and there was a shrewdness about her that was accentuated by the scent of lavender water and the rustling of silk.
‘Brandon! Brandon!’ Maggie’s voice echoed through the trees.
‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ he said, pleased at the interruption.
Miss Schaefer shrugged. ‘Another young woman seeking your attention.’
He ran downhill through the cedars, hearing the urgency in Maggie’s voice, weaving through the growing area of decapitated trunks to where a bullock team waited to drag another tree to Mr Truby’s mill.
Maggie waved as he approached and then resumed twisting her skirt between her fingers.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘It’s Sean,’ she explained, clearly upset. ‘He’s fighting, down at the mill!’
Brandon ran across open ground, through the mill where the steam-driven engine throbbed and out the back to where men crowded around two fighters, one of whom was red-haired. Without hesitation he thrust his way through the bunched spectators and blocked the fighters by placing himself directly in the middle of their argument. Sean’s punch collected him mid-swing and Brandon fell to the ground. His cousin dropped his fist, and gave Brandon a vacant stare, before realising what he’d done.
‘What in Saint Patrick’s name . . .’ stuttered Sean.
The circle of men fell back as Brandon got to his feet. Mr Truby had arrived on horseback with a curled whip in one hand and fury etched onto his face.
‘Who instigated this fight?’ he barked.
Sean’s opponent, a sickle-backed man of fifty years or more, gave a cough. ‘It was me, Mr Truby. I do my share of work and I don’t need to be putting up with the likes of this one calling me maimed and useless.’
‘And you, Sean O’Riain, what do you say to Duffy’s charge against you?’
‘If a man can’t do his share, then he shouldn’t be here,’ said Sean.
‘And Brandon?’ said Mr Truby.
‘He only tried to stop us. I’ve no argument with him,’ said Duffy.
Truby turned back to Sean. ‘As you are so keen to thrash the life out of something, we might put you to use elsewhere,’ he said.
‘I was employed to cut trees,’ Sean answered gruffly.
Mr Truby crossed his wrists one over the other and leant forward in the saddle. ‘For the next week, you’re employed to do whatever I damn well say you are. Come with me,’ he ordered Sean, before turning to Brandon. ‘You as well.’
‘What is the matter with you, Sean? It’s almost as if you intentionally go out of your way to complicate our lives,’ said Brandon, as they followed Mr Truby and his horse out of the mill
Sean smiled. ‘I didn’t start it. So don’t go blaming me.’
Brandon knew he was lying.
Chapter 33
They arrived at a bend in the river. It was a pretty spot populated by scraggly-boughed gums grown massive due to their proximity to the water, and a sweep of low grass coloured a vibrant green as if the soil here was somehow richer. The river was clear, tinged slightly brown. The sandy bottom edged out towards the deep, where fish jumped and dashed across the surface before
diving away from long-legged waterbirds that stalked the far bank. The scene brought back images of Ireland to Brandon. Its bubbling streams and countless shades of green. A land so evergreen it was hard at times to notice the changing seasons. Not like this northern part of New South Wales, where blustery winds marked the change from chill winters to heated summers, with spring lasting a few unremarkable weeks.
Brandon and Sean followed Mr Truby on foot. Their legs pained from the cracking pace their employer set and their lungs begged for air, so they were more than pleased when a hut came into view and Mr Truby drew the reins and slowed. They passed the rough dwelling. A set of yards lay ahead.
The steady bellow of cattle grew louder as they approached, as did a putrid stench of decay that thickened with their every step. The yards were built close to the waterway, which proved to be the source of the bawling cattle, who were enclosed within.
Brandon covered his nose to stop himself from dry retching. ‘What have you got us into now?’ he said to Sean.
His cousin ignored this, as he had all Brandon’s questioning for the duration of the five-mile walk, and instead bowed his head and finally whispered, ‘He converts folk, your Englishman. He takes a simple-minded Irishman and steals away the one thing freely given. Religion.’
‘Is that what the fight was over with Duffy? Religion?’ Brandon asked in disbelief.
Sean ignored him.
Mr Truby waited, swishing at the black flies that rose and fell in the air like breath, coating his back like an extra garment. Brandon and Sean kept their distance from the Englishman, whose interest was fixed on the single man at work in the enclosure. The stranger ran into the mob, scattering the animals, and with a large hammer hit one of the cows over the head. The beast staggered but remained upright. A further blow was needed to bring the animal down.
‘Not terribly scientific,’ said Mr Truby, from the vantage point of his horse. ‘However the method works.’
They watched as the man swung an axe into the skull of the freshly killed animal. Bone and brains splattered everywhere.
‘This way,’ said Mr Truby.
On the far side of the yards, four large cast-iron boilers, each big enough to hold a person, were positioned above fires that cracked and popped with the ferocity of the blaze. Each vat drained a glutinous yellow fluid from a tap into nearby barrels, releasing a stench that was hard to tolerate. Not far from the bubbling meat, land had been levelled flat and it was here that already filled casks awaited collection.
‘One man can do about one hundred and thirty sheep a day, but cattle take longer. It’s the size of the beast. They must be hacked into pieces small enough to fit into the boilers. It’s a job that needs a man with a ready arm and a keen eye,’ said Mr Truby. ‘And as I said earlier, you seem to have a taste for thrashing, Sean O’Riain.’
Brandon and Sean traded brief glances and then concentrated on their feet.
‘There’s a drogher due here in a few days to collect the tallow and transport it back to Wirra and then on to Ballina. From there, it will be loaded onto a ship bound for Sydney. I want the rest of these old cows boiled down by then.’ He flicked the reins and the horse moved closer to the yards. ‘McCauley!’ he yelled.
The yard worker looked up vaguely. Upon seeing Mr Truby, he left his task and climbed through the split rails. He wore only trousers, tied at the waist with a strip of rawhide leather, and his entire body was soaked in blood, his hairy face and arms red. He stopped to kick at a pile of offal that was massed with flies and ants and then dunked his head in a barrel of water, bobbing up and down numerous times before drawing himself free and shaking his entire body like a dog. Scars laced his torso. The markings of a lashing.
‘Yes, Mr Truby.’
‘I’ve brought two men to help you.’
‘I usually work alone, Mr Truby. That was our agreement.’ He drew his fingers through long shaggy hair. The water revealed a greying beard and small eyes in a large face, as if he’d seen too much and was gradually withdrawing from the world.
‘And I’d never take a job from a determined man, McCauley. I appreciate your enthusiasm, however these two require education. Brandon will only stay for the afternoon while Sean will see the task through.’
‘I’m not a slaughterer,’ muttered Sean.
McCauley walked towards them, a meaty smell growing in intensity until he was close enough for Brandon to see that the left side of his nose was missing.
‘Slaughter or be slaughtered, that’s what I say,’ said McCauley.
‘McCauley here is the best at his job,’ said Mr Truby. ‘He’s used to cutting up whales.’
‘And other things,’ interrupted McCauley, his tone menacing.
‘I don’t have to do this,’ said Sean.
For the first time in his life, Brandon sensed Sean’s fear.
‘We agreed on two weeks’ work, lad. So if you refuse to do as I say, I’ll be taking your four feeble bullocks and boiling them down for candles and lighting oil as well.’
‘You have no right,’ shouted Sean.
‘Nor do you have the right to cause trouble on my land. Think about that, boy, while you’re up to your armpits in gore. McCauley, Brandon is to chop wood for the vats and then stir them and Sean is to help you quarter the meat and carry it to the boilers. And if the red-head doesn’t do as I say, you have my permission to boil him down as well.’
‘Love-er-ly,’ replied McCauley, scratching at the hollow where a nostril should have been. ‘Different smell, a human has. A bit like pork or chicken.’
‘I’m not staying here,’ whispered Sean.
‘Be quiet,’ said Brandon.
‘Brandon, be back at the men’s quarters by dark.’ Mr Truby tapped the rump of the mare with the heels of his boots and rode away.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve had company,’ said McCauley to Sean. ‘You can share me hut. My home is yours.’
Sean considered the land about them. It occurred to Brandon he might well run.
‘Get yourself a knife and I’ll show you the quickest way to cut a beast down for the vat.’ McCauley moved back to the yards where he leveraged himself through the railings.
‘Share his hut?’ muttered Sean. ‘Not in this lifetime.’
Brandon left his brooding cousin and chose an axe that lay on the ground along with a selection of knives. There was a grinding stone next to the implements and he wound the handle, angling the axe-head against the stone so that the metal sparked as the grinder rotated. He was tempted to tell Sean to shut up and do what was expected, instead he concentrated his annoyance on the dull blade, which had seen far better days. Once the jagged edge was smooth, he began filing the blade into a fan-shaped curve.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Sean brusquely.
‘What I was told,’ Brandon replied, inspecting his handiwork.
‘You don’t really expect me to do that.’ He grimaced at McCauley, who was kneeling in blood and dirt while he hacked into the cow.
‘I don’t really care what you do,’ Brandon replied tersely.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning,’ said Brandon more strongly, ‘that I’m tired of getting caught up in your wrongs.’
‘You wanted to come here in the first place!’ said Sean.
Brandon lowered the axe so that the head rested on the ground. ‘I turn my back and you’re cosying up to the Brotherhood and burning houses. Now you’re fighting men far less able than you? And all because of this small question of religion?’
‘“Small question”? Even though it killed your mother?’ said Sean, his voice rising.
‘The famine claimed her.’
‘I’ve always wondered about your leanings. I figured you kept your mouth shut when it came to the Catholic faith simply because you’re not the fighting kind. I admired that about you, Brandon. That steadiness you have. And I was happy for you to make decisions because you always appeared to have your family in mind. But it seems to m
e that your head’s become muddled when it comes to the importance of the old country and our religion and I’m beginning to wonder if you’re willing to forget your birthright simply to satisfy your own ambitions.’ They stared at each other. Anger showed in the beating pulse at the base of Sean’s neck.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Brandon replied, trying to ignore the niggling nub of truth Sean’s words stirred. ‘We have the opportunity to have more than our fathers ever dreamt possible, but we don’t seem to want the same things.’
Sean selected a knife from the assortment laid out on the ground and ran a thumb along the blade before spearing it into the dirt so that it quivered on impact. ‘I want what every Irishman wants who came out here to start a new life. Respect.’
‘You don’t want respect, all you want is to pick a fight.’
‘And all you really want, Brandon O’Riain, is a brown-eyed girl. Your stepsister.’
Brandon dropped the axe and punched Sean square in the nose. His cousin staggered under the force.
‘Take that back!’ yelled Brandon, his arm still raised.
‘You think I’m an idiot’—Sean wiped at his nose and stared briefly at the blood on his hand—‘but I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
‘You’re a fool,’ said Brandon, horrified by the accusation.
‘Maybe I am, but I know what I’ve seen and I’m telling you, Brandon, it’s wrong. The two of you were raised as brother and sister.’
They faced off against each other, neither of them relenting. The space between them grew heavy with rage.
‘You lads gonna glower at each other all day?’ McCauley balanced hunks of meat on his shoulders en route to the boiling-down vats, blood and juices dribbling down his back.
‘I’m not,’ said Sean. He considered the bush that ringed them and then set off along the river, away from the dying cattle.
Brandon picked up the axe, feeling the familiarity of the tool. It was made of inferior timber, the handle already splintering. He stared at the blade, turning Sean’s words over and over in his mind. God help him, it was true. He no longer thought of Maggie as his stepsister, and Sean knew it too.
The Cedar Tree Page 21
