The Making of Martin Sparrow

by Peter Cochrane

  Agnes rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Hear hear!’

  ‘Is this forever?’ said Bea.

  The crier chuckled. ‘Would you like a fixed term?’

  ‘I will not be sold on, save here, in public.’

  Joe Franks had not, not for a moment, considered such an eventuality. Nor had he anticipated the startling, limpid green of her eyes. His mind went to particles and the particles flew about in confusion, like straw in the winnowing. She was tall, and taller than she’d seemed at a distance, though by no means as tall as Mackie. Thinking about tallness he lost his train of thought. He was uncertain as to what further he might say.

  ‘I have a farm on the Branch,’ he said. It’s downriver. Not too far.’

  ‘A most handsome setting, a fine peach orchard,’ said Cuff.

  Gudgeon twitched and jerked as if startled and he snatched at the girl’s hand but she pulled away for he had not the strength to hold her. His eyes were wide open and the strangest look was fixed upon his face, like he was possessed of some comic demon.

  The girl wondered how far downriver was not too far, but she did not care to ask. She had decided she would go with this man Franks. It was not so much what he said; it was the sound of his voice that made her inclined to trust him. She could hear in that voice a fathomless sadness. Mackie said Joe Franks was a good man, as did Fish, and Atilio too. All she could see in the game hunter was ill-use and misery.

  ‘Will you do your share girl?’ said Joe. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you read?’

  ‘An elaborate interview, an avalanche of enquiries!’ said Boggitt.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean read, out loud, to me, with some fluency?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A transaction or a courtship I no longer know!’ said Boggitt.

  The girl cast a fierce look at the Parsonage twins who were much pained by the dawdling sentimentality of the epilogue and wanted the sale over. ‘I ain’t had a drink for twenty minutes,’ said Crispin.

  Cuff handed the tether to Joe Franks and the onlookers applauded what seemed to be a successful conclusion to an uncommon entertainment.

  Agnes spoke softly to Bea: ‘He treats you bad you come to me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m over there,’ she said, pointing. ‘Freeman’s Reach.’

  The crowd dispersed, some to their duties in the precinct and some to the Hive and some to their boats and some to the south track, thence to the Tap, and the soldiers decamped to the mess there to drink some more, and reminisce on the hunt.

  Bea untied the halter and let it drop to the ground. ‘You have an orchard?’

  ‘We have a small peach orchard.’

  ‘A most agreeable peach cyder,’ said Cuff.

  ‘We?’

  ‘My man, Freddie,’ said Joe.

  ‘Freddie’s a good man, simple soul, don’t go worryin’ yourself about Freddie,’ said Cuff.

  Nimrod Parsonage grinned at Mackie. ‘You gunna lodge him, Gudgeon, till he mends?’

  ‘I will lodge him, you will tend him.’

  ‘We don’t tend nothin’, ’cept what we kill and cure, same as her!’

  ‘Pick him up.’

  With some difficulty the Parsonage twins helped Gudgeon to the Hive and settled him on a cot in a small room near the kitchen.

  Late that night Atilio appeared in the hallway with a coarse muslin cushion in his hand. He stood for a moment, listening to the quiet. He stepped into the small room. He moved silently to the head of Gudgeon’s cot. He stood listening once again. There was naught but Gudgeon’s irregular breath. He put the cushion lightly on Gudgeon’s face and heard him suck for breath. He jammed the cushion hard down, stretching it wide, his knuckles pressing into the tick, the shape of the face taking form through the muslin like a bloated mask, a spray of feathers wafting to the floor, the sealer’s hands clawing at the big cook’s forearms. The upper body rose up and slammed down, and the hands clawed at the assailant some more, but to no avail.

  The kicking and the clawing subsided. The body beneath him went limp. Atilio took away the cushion and saw the face of the dead man, white as winter’s goose down. He bent low, close to Gudgeon’s face, picked feathers from the floor and closed his fist upon them. ‘No more,’ he said. He stood and listened, once again, to the silence.

  31

  The pup lay sprawled in the dust, wide-eyed, listening, watching, as Harp stepped from his hut, scratching at his parts. The sun sat squat on the forested rim to the west, an orange glow along the horizon, as if the great orb was cut and bleeding out.

  Sparrow and Peachey stirred, but they did not wake. They lay in the dust, in a restless half sleep abetted by a surfeit of bang-head.

  Harp did not mind. He plonked onto the chopping block by the fire stones. He beckoned the dog and the dog came to him and sat at his heel and they sat there, quietly.

  When the darkness crept in, Harp set about fixing the kindling, ready for the fire. He sparked some dry grass into flame and put the grass to the kindling. ‘Alright,’ he said and smacked his hands together.

  Sparrow and Peachey sat up, brushed themselves off. They felt the tiredness that comes from doing very little in the course of a long day drinking.

  Harp cocked his head right back and he saw the moon and everything else. ‘Like a jewel box,’ he said. He searched the heavens for the only constellation he could ever pick out, albeit something of a blur to him. ‘There it is.’

  ‘Is what?’ said Peachey.

  ‘The Hydra, don’t you know the Hydra?’

  ‘I gotta piss, that’s all I know.’

  Peachey got himself up, stretched, wandered into the trees at the back of the hut.

  Harp heard a thud, as did Sparrow, and then another thud like a man going down and the sounds of Peachey in extremis, groaning and cursing.

  They found him on his knees near the tethered pony, his arms wrapped around his ribbing. ‘He’s broke my ribs,’ he moaned.

  The pony was treading ground, snorting, stirred by the commotion. ‘Never trust a Cape pony, Africa no exception,’ said Harp.

  ‘Africa?’ said Sparrow.

  ‘That’s his name.’

  ‘He give me both barrels. There I was, pizzle in hand.’

  The pup was there too, licking at Peachey’s ear and Sparrow had to pull him away as Peachey was quite unable to let go of his ribs.

  ‘You flash your pizzle at me I’d kick out,’ said Harp.

  They helped him back to the cookfire and Peachey went down on his knees again.

  ‘You give him a big fright,’ said Harp.

  ‘He don’t know fright like the fright I got, he’s black as pitch.’

  ‘He’s snapped them ribs like a dried twig, that’s my guess,’ said Harp.

  Peachey didn’t know what to do. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said.

  ‘Nothin’ we can do, short of a gentleman’s corset and that I do not have,’ said Harp.

  Sparrow looked down on Peachey with the eye of pity, though privately he was glad it was Peachey and not him.

  ‘Why, why’d I ever listen to that man, all that commonweal prattle,’ said Peachey.

  ‘Why do birds sing after a storm?’ said Harp.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What are we gunna do?’ said Sparrow.

  ‘I don’t know that neither,’ said Harp. ‘Come light there’s some berries he can chew, if I can find ’em, fix the pain.’

  Peachey bent low like a Mahometan, so low his forehead almost touched the ground. ‘Get me some now.’

  ‘Not now, not in the dark,’ said Harp. ‘That boar’s out there.’

  Peachey lifted his head and stared into the dark. ‘You seen him?’

  ‘I seen him alright, I caught him rootin’ out a mash barrel one time. I stood off, hoped he’d eat his fill and blow up but he didn’t.’

/>   ‘Get me them berries.’

  ‘You know what he did to Spider Thornycroft, that boar? He tore out his throat and ate his tongue and miscellaneous other parts I’ll not deign to nominate.’

  ‘You think he might come back,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘He’s around, that I know.’ Harp stared into the darkness along the creek. ‘It’s round the mash you got to worry. Come next corn I intend to build a sleeping place, like a burial platform with a ladder but.’

  ‘What’s a ladderbutt?’

  ‘I mean . . . but with a ladder.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Peachey was still contorted but somewhat diverted by Harp’s idea. ‘What if you roll out of bed?’

  ‘I’ll buckle myself in, sleep like a snug foot in a shoe.’

  ‘You mean like a foot . . . snug in a shoe?’ said Sparrow.

  Harp took on a look of unhappy puzzlement. Sparrow noticed. ‘Sleep like the dead?’

  ‘That I will. I’ll shoot him from up there if he comes for my mash again.’

  They made Peachey stand while Harp dragged the old straw mattress from the hut and laid it in the dirt near the fire. Peachey sunk onto the mattress and rolled onto his back.

  Harp threw a tatty blanket over the invalid. ‘I might have to shoot you.’

  Sparrow reckoned Harp wouldn’t do that but Peachey wasn’t so sure. He took to suffering in silence, just the faintest groan now and then as he rocked to and fro and stared into the twinkling infinity above. ‘How could I possibly know about Africa,’ he said.

  That set Sparrow to thinking about the vast river on the other side. He now knew, on the authority of Mr Catley by way of Mr Thistlewaite, that the river flowed to a lake where whales were seen to spout and that meant the river must flow on, out the other side, a waterway to the ocean. And on that ocean a man might go anywhere if he wanted to, or had to, even Africa. But Sparrow had no thought of going to Africa. If the commonweal on the other side was all that Griffin Pinney said then he would stay there with the men and the women of the village embosomed at the foot of the mountains. Sparrow could picture himself looking down from the crest of those mountains, his bowels in good order, his mind transfixed in wonderment.

  Peachey was quieter now.

  Harp appeared with a musket in the crook of his arm and a lantern in his hand. ‘I’ll have a little look for them berries,’ he said, pointing. He wandered off, past the gibbeted savage, into the dark.

  The pup ambled to the fringe of the firelight, his attention divided between the tavernkeeper in his misery and Harp’s form as it melted into the darkness on the creek, just the lamplight moving through the trees.

  Sparrow clicked his tongue and beckoned the pup and the pup crossed to Sparrow and crawled onto his lap. He was no small thing, not anymore. He was a sprightly young dog, as good a companion as a man could have. As ever, the animal licked at his hand, wanting the salt in his sweat. Sparrow patted him and took hold of the loose skin on his neck and felt the warmth of that coat. He wondered if, perchance, the pony had done more damage to Peachey than just the ribs; if Peachey might have a burst liver or a busted spleen or a slivered length of gut, something deep within, something bad, prospects-wise.

  It occurred to Sparrow that if Peachey was to die he might reclaim the short-handled axe and give that to old Wolgan, that and the handkerchiefs, and if that was toll enough he might keep the pup for his own.

  Sparrow liked the pup. He liked him very much indeed.

  32

  The high tide was due a little after sunrise. A small crowd of wellwishers gathered near the waterline to watch Joe Franks and his new wife depart. They heard the rattle of the doctor’s gig, heard him whoa the bay mare and saw him fix the tether weight by his porch step, his every move observed by Caleb on the box seat.

  When he’d fixed the tether the doctor pulled a water bucket close but the mare showed no interest.

  The doctor called on Caleb to step down and the two men walked the switchback path down to the small gathering, Caleb limping, same as ever, a clean white shirt worn loose over his raggedy trousers, Mackie close behind, armed.

  The doctor spoke to Joe. ‘You’ll see he gets to his people.’

  ‘I will that.’

  ‘And Joe, keep an eye out for my boy.’

  ‘I will.’

  Joe unravelled a fit-for-purpose oilcloth and threw it over the provisions and set about lashing it down. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Mackie.

  Mackie nodded. ‘Good luck to you both.’

  The doctor was anxious to hold Joe’s attention. ‘Whatever’s happened to my boy it’s happened on this river, I know that in my marrow.’

  ‘I’ll keep a keen eye,’ said Joe.

  ‘Do, please.’

  ‘Caleb too, he’s sharp.’

  Cuff pointed a finger at Caleb. ‘He knows the ropes Joe, he can help you with the boat. Right, Caleb?’

  Caleb nodded, said ‘yes sir’, and the girl wondered if perhaps this fabled Caleb said that every time.

  Franks readied the sail for the light sou’-westerly, figuring the setting might do, trimming here and there, all the way to the sharp turn at the end of York Reach. They moved off, pushed into the deep by Cuff, who never seemed to care about muddy boots and slosh between his toes. Some of the watchers clapped and waved as the sail took the breeze and the boat slid downstream.

  Cuff did not wave. ‘Somebody should’ve made a speech, I should have made a speech.’

  ‘No one stopped you,’ said Mackie, as Woody took off, labouring his way up the switchback path, bent low.

  ‘No one asked me neither.’

  ‘Since when do you need prompting to pontificate?’

  Cuff was briefly silent, his thoughts on another tack. ‘You pay the wife price, provision them up . . . Why’d you do that?’

  Mackie hurried after the doctor. Cuff hurried along by his side. ‘Well?’

  ‘She will serve Joe well, he’s a good man; that’s our ethic.’

  ‘You serve another you serve yourself, every time, Alister.’

  ‘You’re the one said Joe needed a wife.’

  ‘That was a joke, long before them sealers come in draggin’ that girl.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, you are a prophet?’

  ‘The only time you resort to what you think is humour is when you want to change the subject, I suppose you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’re not changing the subject.’

  They crossed the square, bound for the Hive.

  ‘What is the subject then, you tell me.’

  ‘The subject is you and Beatrice Faa; the subject is that girl’s green eyes. She’s got your eyes, Alister.’

  ‘That’s entirely foolish.’

  ‘They’re the palest green eyes I ever seen, same as yours, down to the last detail.’

  Cuff took hold of Mackie’s arm and stopped him just short of the Hive porch. He was pointing at Mackie’s left eye. ‘Little black spot, flaw on the iris, same as hers.’

  ‘I note you’ve been looking at her most carefully.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I’ll hear no more of this.’

  ‘Her age is about right.’

  ‘I said no more.’

  ‘And she’s willowy too, like you.’

  ‘Enough! I made a bargain with her and I kept it.’ Mackie stepped onto the porch.

  Cuff was not finished: ‘Hear no more, speak no more, shut it out, but you cannot shut it out, which is why you paid the bride price and why you provisioned them up. And one thing more. The legalities will catch up with that girl. She’s fled a transport, God knows what else.’

  ‘She’s way clear of the legalities.’

  ‘What cunning hides time will reveal.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Me.’

  33

  Caleb stood in the prow with his back to Joe Franks and Bea Faa. He surveyed one side of the broad waterway with some intensity, t
hen the other.

  He had removed the white shirt, folded it neatly and jammed it under the lashing.

  Joe noticed Bea looking at the young man, her gaze searching after his to the fringes of the river, left and right. ‘It’s his pantry,’ he said as he trimmed the sail to a close haul.

  The girl turned to Joe, unsure of what she’d heard.

  ‘Pantry,’ he said. ‘Most of what they live on, or should or did, you’ll find in this river, or no more than a stone’s throw from the river. Thus, the river is the object of all contention.’

  Joe contemplated what more he might say. There were things the girl would have to know, the sooner the better. He settled the boat on a course, beating to windward. ‘Shellfish, roots, tubers, the fruit of the traps, bream and bass, soapies, catfish, all washed in by the hand of providence, that being the tide, and there for the taking till we drove them off, his people.’

  ‘Are they many?’ she asked.

  ‘Their numbers are diminished.’ Again Joe Franks found himself working hard for words. ‘Come what may this river steers our lives.’

  The girl watched Caleb. She could not tell if he was attending to the conversation, nor how much he would understand if indeed he was listening. He seemed intent upon watching the western riverbank.

  ‘When they come in they get punished,’ said Joe. ‘They tried to take back the river, harvest time last year, but for that they paid a terrible price in retribution.’

  Joe had put the tiller in her hand for he was trimming the sail more or less constantly, tightening and easing the sheet, glancing at her, discreetly, whenever he could. He guessed he might be older than her grandfather. ‘The wind takes the sail, quickens the spirit, so I find,’ he said. The muscles in his forearms were aching just shy of dreadful. He was grateful to have her by his side.

  They skimmed past Cattai Creek. The Cattai brought Woody’s urgent words to Joe’s mind. ‘Keep a sharp eye for that boy’s dinghy,’ he said.

  Caleb nodded.

  Come midafternoon their progress was much slowed by the flood tide. The landform had changed, the gentle hills replaced by steeper, sandstone climbs that were heavily forested and dappled with the pink and grey of rusty gums, their roots like glue spill on the stone, and higher up glimpses of caves and ledges from which a proprietorial eye might overlook the fertile patches on the margins of the river below, rimmed by the tidal flow and flanked by tributaries coming out of gullies and gorges. Idylls nestled in the embrace of water and stone.