by Darry Fraser
Twenty-Four
Bendigo
James Anderson left the Bank of Victoria and stood on the street alongside his carriage. The afternoon had not rushed to dusk as he expected. He’d had plenty of time to telegraph instructions to the bank in Echuca for CeeCee, and to think over his movements of the next couple of days.
For now, he needed to deal with Gareth Wilkin.
He looked about him. Bendigo was a big, thriving town. Not big enough to get lost in, like a city, like Melbourne. It bustled with a freshness he’d forgotten. Certainly smelled better than Melbourne. Carriages and carts drove past him, pedestrians strode across the wide road, children played along the footpaths.
Trade was brisk, but the loom of depression hung in the air. Nobody took any notice of him except a few gents who doffed hats. Women allowed their gaze to glide over him.
Time to be moving. He alighted the carriage, checked the way was clear and moved out onto the road. The sun had already bobbed low on the horizon but last light still lingered. James rode at walking pace along N Street, certain not to attract attention.
He pulled his hat just a little lower, and settled the dark kerchief at his throat further down under the open neck of his shirt. He turned to stare, first to the left then to the right. The street was quiet; it would be a long while before any men would venture home from the pubs.
It was easy to pick his target. The two houses either side had bright lamplight in a front room. The dull glow of a smaller light coming from a window in the middle house gave him his mark. He wondered who lit the lamp in Wilkin’s house. Maybe the bloody donkey didn’t live there by himself after all. Perhaps some other poor woman was living with his cowardly fists.
That meant his plan had to change somewhat. He didn’t want to burn an innocent person, he only wanted to dish out Wilkin’s own medicine and sear the flesh off him. So instead he would settle for crushing Wilkin’s ribs, and battering his eye till it closed.
Crush him so his chest would cave in. Batter his eye so hard he’d never see out of it again. Maybe he’d break all his fingers so he’d never use his fists again. Or his hands, so that he couldn’t dress himself, feed himself, wipe up after a shit. Or hold his cock to take a piss … or otherwise. Far better idea.
His fingers flexed on the reins.
He rode past the house and turned the horse into a backstreet, passing ramshackle huts and yards filled with junkyard collateral— broken timber boxes, burlap sacks with straw spilling, rusty tin drums, bones of an old cart. He saw movement under canvas shelters in one or two places, but no one bothered to call out.
And then he was at the back of the cluster of three houses. He slowed the horse to a plod and surveyed as best he could in the fast-fading light. No dividing fences. The outhouses were in a line across the back of the blocks. No dogs, no chicken coops, no horses. He kept on his circuit, rode back to the corner of N Street again and stopped, listening.
Distant singing by drunken voices, but nothing to alarm him. They might have been in the street behind him. He looked up past the trio of houses. No one about. Not a soul.
The kerchief came up over his face. He knew he didn’t need to do it, but long-held disciplines died hard. Still best to be careful. The weakening light would protect him anyway. If he’d had his own horse, the warrior Mars, a robust Waler gelding he’d purchased years ago, he would just push up on the stoop and knock the flimsy door down. Mars did love a challenge.
James eyed the verandah over the door. It was so low he’d knock himself out, much less damage the horse.
Softly, softly approach …
Anticipation curled in his gut. There was only one way to stop men like Wilkin, and that was with men who called them out. Men who valued life and loved ones. Men who valued right from wrong, and then did something about it.
A low burn of anger coiled around his heart. Fight fire with fire. Be damned the excuses and the eye of the law.
He urged the horse another couple of paces and stopped. Then he slid to the ground. Rounding the corner and into the same street, not far from him now, came two men on horseback. One was in full song—if you could call it a song—that pained his ears.
Damn it. He remounted, wheeled around to ride past the meandering duo, clearly drunk and—
‘Come on, Ard, you bugger. You’re still not singing,’ the man slurred out at full voice.
James dropped his kerchief fast and pulled between the pair. A belly laugh threatened to escape him before he realised the gravity of the situation. All three of them were within cooee of Gareth Wilkin’s abode, and at least two of them had cause to inflict some damage on the man.
No, no, no. It had to be clandestine, with no witnesses to run to the police.
Jesus.
‘Come along now, boys.’ James reached over and grabbed the slack reins of Sam’s horse, gripping them in one hand with his reins.
Sam Taylor, mid-song, recognised him with a wobbly grin. He flung his hands in the air and sang his lungs out, a forlorn tune if ever there was one, and loud, James thought, though he couldn’t place the lyrics. More forlornly, the singer was painfully out of tune.
And Ard O’Rourke, doing his best to support his friend, but unable to retain any control over him. He met James’ eyes briefly and shrugged a little.
James’ free hand grabbed for Ard’s reins. ‘Come on, young fella.’
Secured, he led both the horses and the young men comfortably down the street and away from Wilkin’s house. A few shouts from a neighbour, clearly not happy with the God-awful carousing, and that was it. No extra light showed at Wilkin’s house. No hurried rush of feet on any verandahs nearby.
Steady as she goes.
James coaxed the horses into a trot, careful not to unseat the wailing Sam. He checked on Ard. ‘You look like shite, lad.’
‘I feel like shite.’ The reply was low. ‘I need to get home.’ Ard tried to take back the reins.
James held tight. ‘Let’s get your friend home first. Do you know how to get there?’
Ard looked up and squinted. ‘Back to the centre of town, then right at the town hall.’
‘Can you ride?’ James asked.
Ard nodded. ‘I’m not as drunk as Sam.’
James considered, then relinquished the reins. ‘Then lead on.’ He leaned over and slapped Sam on the back. ‘More tune, lad, less noise.’
To which Sam sallied forth ever louder.
At Sam’s house, his father came out to the noise, a tall lean man with a shock of straw-coloured hair. He stood on his verandah, hands on hips, and squinted at all three in the darkening evening. ‘Could be no other than my son with that noise.’
‘Sorry, Mr Taylor,’ Ard said. ‘We went to the pub.’
Mr Taylor grunted as his son fell off the horse and landed in a heap at his feet, still singing. ‘Gawd, his yodelling hasn’t improved. He’s a sorry business of late. I bet his mother’s pound note has gone, too.’ He bent to lug Sam upright. ‘Get along with you, you and your friend,’ he said to Ard. ‘I can manage from here, as long as he stops the caterwauling.’
Ard hesitated. James turned his horse. ‘Come on, Ard.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Taylor.’ Ard wheeled his horse to follow James. ‘Sorry.’
‘Look after Pie,’ Mr Taylor called after him.
Ard came level with James. ‘What were you doing on that street where you found us?’
He glanced across. ‘Looking at properties.’
‘It was getting on for dark.’
‘There’s been a lot of properties to see. I’ll be leaving town soon, was running out of time.’ James gee-upped to a trot and Ard follow suit. ‘And what were you two doing on that street? Not the way home for Sam, clearly.’
Ard was silent for some time. He dragged in a breath. ‘Sam reckoned he knew where Gareth Wilkin lived.’
‘Ah. The evil little bag of cods.’
Ard blurted a laugh. ‘That’s it.’
‘Leave hi
m to the coppers, lad. Come on, I’ll get you back to your farm. I might have to avail myself of a swag there, this time of the night, if that’s all right with you.’
Ard nudged Pie to keep up. ‘I’d be glad for it. God knows I need a quiet night with someone making some sense of all this.’
James didn’t question him. ‘Sounds like a night for strong tea and a good feed of beef pie.’
‘Tea I can provide.’
James leaned over a little to pat a saddle bag. ‘And I can provide the beef pie.’
It was clear, even long before they turned the horses onto the road bordering the orchard, that a property was well on fire.
Fear stung Ard like white-hot needles in his chest. The closer they rode, the clearer it became, the sharper his mind through the fog of Sam’s rotgut.
‘It’s my place. It’s my place,’ he shouted, frantic.
He kicked Pie into a gallop, but the horse was reluctant to give it all, to charge into the roar of the flaming orchard.
Men darted from burning tree to burning tree with sacks or blankets beating down the flames as they licked and scorched their way over his trees. At the trough near the hut, Ard pulled up an ever-fearful Pie, jumped off and tied him to the pump. James dismounted on the run, flung his reins over the pump handle and grabbed hold of Ard.
‘Blankets? Burlap bags? Anything?’
Ard bolted for the hut and dragged out what he could. Smoke poured from behind him as he threw what he’d grabbed into the trough then dragged it out, all sodden. He charged the first trees and swung and thrashed at the flames eating their way through his family’s livelihood. As he thrashed, he knew it was a losing battle. His head knew but his heart kept him beating down those flames.
James swung heavy blankets alongside him. ‘Keep going, lad,’ he yelled.
The men Ard had seen from a distance were Chinamen, and still they worked and thrashed and beat at the flames. There must have been twenty of them.
Gradually, beaten it into submission, they had it under control. The men seemed to stop simultaneously. Flames died. Soot and smoke swirled around them. The tree tops smouldered and spat and curled against the heat. Landscape, scorched.
His trees were dead. His land devastated.
Each man looked up, looked around. Silence was eerie. Here and there, a few heavy feet stomped out some fiery spurts. A few burlap sacks crushed down a burst of flame. Men left the blackened field to check their own hands and limbs. Some headed towards the water trough and dunked reddened and dirty forearms or blistering fingers into cool water. Others headed for the channel and slid in fully clothed.
James stomped around the base of the tree closest to him.
In the failing light, Ard stared at row after row of charred and blackened branches, at fallen trees, at sooty balls of scorched oranges and shrivelled stone fruit, just little bags of ash and dust. He stared at tired men who trudged, shoulders slumped, back down through the orchard to Mr Ling’s plot. He watched them thrash half-heartedly as they walked past smoking piles of tree limbs. A pair of men helped carry a third whose eyes streamed blackened tears. They passed Ard in silence.
The hut! He spun around. Not a mark. Smoke-filled, but saved.
Mr Ling walked out of the smoking ash-covered desolation. ‘Mr Ard.’ He carried a blackened bag, his face and his clothes streaked with ash, his hair covered in white soot.
Ard glanced at the Chinese man then looked at his own feet. Gratitude welled up in his throat and his eyes. ‘Hello, Mr Ling. Thank you, and thanks to your men.’ His voice shook.
‘It very fast, Mr Ard. Land, trees too dry. Very sorry.’ Mr Ling’s voice was low and soft.
Ard lifted his head and looked into the older man’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Mr Ling.’
Mr Ling gave James a slight nod, and he returned the acknowledgement.
Mr Ling pinched his nose. ‘Chin Chee Father saw man and cart. Chin Chee First Son say it man with stench of thousand monkeys.’
Ard nodded.
Mr Ling nodded again, and turned and walked back towards his plot, skirting the edge of the decimated orchard as he went.
James beat his trousers with both hands, and soot and ash rose in a small cloud. ‘A thousand monkeys, eh? Can only be one person I know smells like that.’
‘Aye. But the Chinamen won’t talk to the coppers. Mr Ling’s only let me know so I can deal with it.’ Ard slapped a palm to his forehead, and wiped the sweat and soot and grime over the rest of his face. He looked at his hands, and back at the smoking ruin that was his orchard. ‘Must have been alight for a while.’
James stared over the burned ground. ‘Was good of Mr Ling to bring all his men.’
Ard nodded. Mr Ling would have been protecting his own fields from the possible spread of fire, as well as his prospective purchase. Would he keep his offer on the table?
Straightening up, Ard looked into the night sky. ‘Naught to do now but wait for morning.’ The half moon rising was a bright light through the smoke. ‘No wind. Should be safe. No rain, though. I’ll check it doesn’t flare through the night.’
James reached over and pressed his shoulder. ‘Let’s get some of that beef pie, lad.’
Twenty-Five
Echuca
Linley was very happy. It was an absolute boon to have a walking carriage for Toby.
Mrs Rutherford straightened and pressed a hand to her back. ‘That’s as best we can come up with. Belonged to one poor dear … Never mind that. It’ll be fit for your son, Mrs O’Rourke. We just need someone to come along and tighten a few pins and things.’
Mrs Cooke stood back. ‘Seen better.’ Hands on hips and her wiry froth of rusty hair whipping about her face in the stiff breeze, she eyed the baby carriage. ‘Seen worse.’
Linley looked it over. A tired old contraption that needed a fair bit of repair. The three women had walked it up and down the street, to and fro out the front of the house, checking for any instability. There hadn’t appeared to be any; it just looked as if there might have been.
‘I reckon if you have a spare old blanket or two for underneath, he’ll be very comfortable.’ Mrs Rutherford scrutinised the carriage itself.
‘Could do with a scrub up as well,’ Mrs Cooke said.
Annie Rutherford glared across the pram. ‘Is that right?’
‘And some oil for them wheels.’
‘We’ll likely have to do it ourselves, so we should set about it.’ Mrs Rutherford winced as she stood up.
Linley had a flash of fear in case the woman was beginning to feel poorly. ‘Is something ailing you, Mrs Rutherford?’
‘Good heavens, no. A chill is all.’ She rolled her shoulders. ‘It eases with work.’ She gave the pram another push and pull. ‘Now, if you run home and find some extra padding for the base, we should be able to put Toby in for the walk back this afternoon.’
Now, much later, Linley strolled up High Street pushing the perambulator with a snug Toby O’Rourke tucked inside. The street was busy. Pedestrians, carriages and horseback riders populated the wide road. Most people she passed nodded at her, gentlemen tipped their hats.
She pushed on towards the river, not wanting to go home just yet. She didn’t want to idle along for she had little interest in the shops, or the banks, and had no business with the survey office. There’d been nothing at the telegraph office for CeeCee from James. Mrs Rutherford had fed Toby. Back home there was a plentiful supply of tinned milk for his next feed when they returned, so time was at her disposal.
Well, a couple of hours at best. That would be enough. Her mind was on the docks. She wanted to see the boats, fancied she could smell the river not far ahead.
Hesitating at Leslie Street, she knew a right turn would get her to the wharf area. A carriage clip-clopped past her, the driver nodding in her direction, and once past, she stepped onto the road. Compacted dirt underfoot eased the push of the perambulator, yet all the same the carriage rattled and clattered across the road. Toby gave a few s
quawks but settled back to sleep, a faint frown of discontent on his face.
Linley stood at the corner in front of Customs House and looked across the road to the tall trees that lined the river on the other side. From her vantage point all she could see were the sheds and the cranes on this side, sitting on the wharf above the river level. Men issued shouted orders far away, and carriages and riders passed her by. She heard an engine idle somewhere, but she couldn’t pinpoint where on the river it might be.
She crossed the road to stand at the edge of the wharf area and stared wide-eyed at what spread before her. The wharf was huge, much bigger and longer than she expected. A great expanse of heavy timbers rising out of the mud-coloured water. The level was low, lapping fully ten yards below where she stood. She edged closer, pushing the pram carefully, hoping not to awaken the baby.
Toby snuffled and let out a yell. Linley leaned over the carriage to check him, but he was soundly asleep. She drew her shawl up over the opening so he was protected from the sun as he slept.
Horse and buggy passed behind her. She turned and followed its progress until it pulled up a little further along the road. The driver dismounted, and tied the horse to a rail. Something familiar about him caught her eye—
‘Missus, you’re likely to get mown down if you stand around here.’ An impatient voice rasped at her back.
Startled, Linley spun the other way and a working man, by the looks of his clothes, stood with a battered hat twisted in his hands, his gaze on her face.
‘Am I not meant to be here?’ she asked. ‘It seems a public thoroughfare.’
‘Not that so much as it could get busy, what with traders and merchants and shearers and the like all milling about, unloading and such things.’ He kept wringing the hat with his large, gnarled hands. His shirt was dirty with dust and sweat and oil stains, his pants held up with braces, his worn boots muddied.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, though she gripped the handrail on the baby carriage more tightly. He peered at her and she backed up a step. ‘I just wanted to see the boats.’ She waved over her shoulder towards the river.
