The Making of Martin Sparrow

by Peter Cochrane

  Sparrow and Amicus watched on, Sparrow with some relief and Amicus with some interest in the biscuit. ‘You best have that last one,’ he said.

  Her hand seemed a little steadier. She shook her head.

  Sparrow thought best to leave her there for a minute or two, with the third biscuit, in case she changed her mind.

  He retrieved the pair of shoes from Mort’s haversack. He put them by her feet. ‘I believe these are yours.’

  She nodded. She took the shoes. ‘I’ll go wherever you want,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll find Mr Cuff, downriver,’ he said. Surely some gain in that. The girl saved, delivered up to the constabulary, credit where credit is due.

  Sparrow dearly hoped the savages had no part in the girl. He hoped, too, their companionship with Mort was, as it seemed, occasional at best.

  ‘Are you familiar with Caleb and Napoleon?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They know you was in that cave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He put his boot down hard on the fire and kicked up the fringe ash onto the hot core. He drained the teapot and the mugs and he put them inside his haversack and then he secured the grappling hook and he shouldered the burden and set the rope across his chest as he had done before and once again he patted the axe on his hip for there was comfort in the feel of that axe, secure upon his person.

  She had some difficulty pulling on the shoes.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  Sparrow started down the gully, slowly, and the girl followed. Short, careful steps.

  ‘What is your name?’ he said, though he knew it already.

  ‘I’m Dot.’

  He led the way onto the Branch, well clear of the spray, the levees gone, the banks swamped, water gums bowing to the force of the current. He weighed his prospects as he searched out a line through scrub and stone. He could only hope that Cuff would not insist upon delivering him up to Dr Woody. The memory of his time in the gaol was still most bright. So too the picture of Peskett, flat out on the sand, his skull a bloody ruin. The very same man who would have dismembered him without a scrap of pity, who might well have inserted the rectal pear in his arse had it been required – that man was now dead and good riddance.

  Sparrow felt no pity. He had a powerful sense that natural justice had been served. He took the view, the only possible view, that Peskett might have killed him had he not told his big lie and so created the necessity to head up the Branch. In that gaol he was entirely at Peskett’s mercy, or lack thereof – it was the big lie or rectal ruin, simple as that.

  Subsequent events had proved the telling of the big lie was the right thing to do. He was free and soon enough, most likely, they would sight the little party coming upriver. Soon enough he would be reunited with Bea, though he had to concede the presence of the constables was a substantial obstacle to his ambition.

  They walked on, the black sky thickening by the hour.

  They took a rest among the trees, midway on a long reach where the river ran deep. Dot picked a swollen leech from her ankle, plumb coloured, shiny as polished leather and fat as a frog. Then she took off her shoes and probed at the back of her heels where the flesh was worn away and together they examined the red raw patches atop the joints on several toes. ‘A marine gave me these shoes.’

  ‘On the transport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he favour you?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What about Gordy?’

  She paused. ‘He was alright.’

  ‘Can you walk some more?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was scree rattling down from the slope above. They looked up to where the slope was almost sheer, where the coachwoods and the turpentines were ramrod straight and seemed to hug the cliff face as if possessed with some deep understanding of perpendicularity.

  Sparrow saw movement there and he could hardly believe the sight that now took shape. It was Mr Catley’s mule, unmistakably Catley’s, for it bore the man’s pack saddle and harness replete with wicker baskets and leather panniers.

  The mule was indifferent to their presence, nibbling at young green shoots in the under shrubbery. Sparrow searched the slopes, looking for Mr Catley, but saw no sign of the duckbill hunter, nor of Moowut’tin. ‘What’s happened, I wonder?’ he said.

  He told the girl to hold Amicus and he started up the slope, some of the way on all fours, pausing to catch his breath. The mule watched him. The animal stepped down the slope with a sure-footedness that entirely belied its mass, the wicker panniers rattling like a tinker’s dray. It came to Sparrow and nuzzled at his hand and Sparrow called up the girl.

  They set about searching the panniers. ‘Don’t get behind him, not close,’ he said.

  They found a few handfuls of corn at the bottom of a small sack, a one-pound cut of salt beef, a small quantity of sugar and a bag full of sweaty onions.

  Sparrow poured the sugar into his hand and they each took a few pinches and put it on their tongue and savoured the treat. He fed one of the onions to the mule thinking to strike a bond with the animal as quickly as possible. ‘Have to hope he don’t kiss me,’ he said.

  They sat for a while, watching the river as they peeled strips of beef off the cut until half of it was gone, whereupon they dipped into the corn and ate it raw.

  Rain began to fall, heavy, heavier by the minute.

  They found shelter in a cavity beneath a mass of chock-stone. Water was streaming through the shelter but the silt on either side was banked high and they squatted there with the mule, untroubled by the runnage and the rain.

  In one of the baskets there was a wrap of tent canvas. They doubled the canvas over and dragged it under their bottoms for a groundsheet and they sat there, listening to the rain on the stone above and watching the transitory stream follow its course to the river.

  Sparrow fed another onion to the mule and he got the beef and the bagged corn and they feasted some more, a little feast.

  Amicus sat to attention, watching them eat. Sparrow fed him the last shreds of meat, leaving nothing for the morning to come.

  ‘I wish we had some tea,’ said Dot. She was shivering.

  ‘We got no touchwood, nothin’ dry out there.’

  ‘I hope Mr Cuff ’s got food.’

  ‘I expect he’ll have something to spare. We’ll find him tomorrow.’

  Sparrow had no idea if that would prove to be true or not. He hoped to find Cuff as swiftly as he could.

  Late in the day the rain stopped but its load carried on, gushing from fractures below the rim and dripping from the trees, glistening, as shafts of the westering sun broke through the cloud and the spray rose wild from the savaged banks and showered down in specks of silver.

  Sparrow led the way and they pressed on, cautiously, their progress slowed by sodden ground and thick scrub.

  They walked for an hour or so, picking their way and pausing now and then to view the river. On one occasion they studied a mess of debris wedged in a chute and they saw the shape of a man all but engulfed in the white churn. They came down the slope and looked again and saw it was the old constable, Dan Sprodd, the waters pounding his frame, the foreplate of his skull smashed in.

  Sparrow was so shocked he had to sit down, which he did, in the wet. Dot stood beside him and for a while they just stared.

  He was not about to put a toe into that churn, but he figured there was some chance of retrieving Dan Sprodd’s body with the rope and the grappling hook. ‘Let’s try,’ he said.

  He fed out several lengths and hurled the hook underarm but it fell way short.

  He tried again. This time the hook landed on Sprodd’s shoulder and dropped down his back.

  Sparrow reeled in the slack, pulling the hook from the churn until the hilt slid onto Sprodd’s shoulder. He jerked it hard and a barb bit into the flesh beneath the shoulderblade and held. Sparrow heaved again and the hook bit deeper and Sprodd slumped forward but the current pumme
led him back into the wedge.

  Dot brought the mule down the slope and Sparrow tied the rope to the pommel and backed up the mule until the slack was gone. He gripped on the rope and began to haul. The body came out of the wedge and rolled around the stone, the dog barking at the catch in motion, and Sparrow had not the power to fight the water, but the mule did.

  The mule felt the pull of the load and leant back, his hind hooves deep in the mud and his rump almost set down on the slope. The animal held steady, the rope held tight and Sprodd’s carcass twisted and turned on the hook.

  They took hold of the rope once more and began to pull and the two of them dragged the catch sideways into the shallows and from there onto the sodden bank where the body lay facedown in the mud.

  They rolled him onto his back, shooed off the dog. The hook had taken up under the shoulderblade and the barb was jammed there by the force of the runnage and the heaving that followed. The barb had surfaced below the clavicle and the skin had slid down the point and sat like a ragged frill on the poor man’s frame.

  ‘Did you know him?’ Sparrow studied the wreckage of the old constable’s forehead.

  ‘I seen him at the muster, that’s all.’

  They lay Sprodd’s body across the mule, fixed him at the withers, lashed his legs and arms to the girth on either side and they rested for a while, Sparrow pondering the measure of credit due for rescuing the remains of Cuff ’s old friend.

  He led the way and Dot followed with the mule, Amicus threading the undergrowth, shifting higher as they filed through a copse at the end of the reach, the boles ghostly white, the waters pounding the stone on the turn.

  They walked on, anxious now to find cover for the dark of night was not far off. They weaved their way through straight, tall trees, the light fading, the gorge a thicket of shadows.

  It was Dot who saw first the flicker of flame in the cave.

  They watched the dance of fire shadow in the blackness of the shelter, hoping to see one of their own. They moved closer, higher.

  They saw Cuff shuffle into view, leaning heavily on a staff, then Bea at his side. The dog ran to greet Bea and hurried about the cave, nose to the ground, as Sparrow tethered the mule without a word, the body of Dan Sprodd in full view.

  With Bea’s help, Cuff shuffled down the slope. He put a hand on the animal’s wither, felt the creature shudder at the touch. He bent low, studied the damage to Sprodd’s skull.

  ‘Hello Martin,’ said Bea.

  ‘Hello, Bea.’

  ‘Them black beggars kill Dan?’ said Cuff.

  ‘I think the river killed him. We pulled him out of the river,’ said Sparrow.

  Cuff rested his head upon Dan’s frame, a hand set on the harness, like he was saying a silent prayer. ‘I’d like a moment with my friend,’ he said. ‘You all go on to the fire.’

  Sparrow and Dot scrambled up to the cave and Bea followed them with Amicus at her heel.

  Cuff put a hand on Dan’s back and patted him, gently. He could not say he’d ever had a good conversation with the man, but he was the steadiest of companions, ever ready to help, never known to say a bad word. A good soul, not a skerrick of malice in the man. And now he was dead. ‘My fault Dan, never should have let you go, not in this weather,’ he said. He wiped his wet eyes on his sleeve, first one then the other.

  He looked about, the darkness closing, the scene wild, a chill setting in. ‘I wish we had a churchyard,’ he said. He patted Dan one last time and shuffled back to the cave, his lower back racked with spasm, the pain etched on his face.

  ‘What have you done to yourself, Mr Cuff?’ said Sparrow.

  ‘Broke my tailbone. My good friend is dead and, as you can see, Mr Sparrow, my predicament is severe.’

  ‘This is Dot, Gordy’s girl what Mort took, Mort and Shug,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘I know Dot,’ said Cuff. ‘She’s a good girl and don’t deserve any of this. None of us do. Where’s Mort?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘You kill him too? Come on now Martin, we know you killed Griffin Pinney.’

  Sparrow was shocked to hear this. He could hardly believe that Bea would tell.

  Cuff broke the silence. ‘We know you did a honourable thing Marty, ’cause Mr Catley told us. Most chivalrous in the circumstances.’ He gestured a hand in the direction of Bea. ‘No one here’s gunna point the finger, understand? Good riddance and all that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, these days it seems all the wilderness does is abet a multitude of crimes and occasionally a smidgeon of restitution. We ought be grateful for that smidgeon I suppose. Small mercies.’

  Cuff turned about with some difficulty and shuffled forward and stood, staring at the dark form of his old friend slumped across the mule. ‘Why I let him go in this weather I’ll never know.’

  ‘You do have a predicament,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘I do, yes. My locomotion is severely curtailed.’

  ‘You can have the mule if you want.’ He had, in effect, begun to bargain.

  ‘If I can sit him, that mule might just save my hide.’

  ‘It’s Mr Catley’s mule.’

  ‘Catley’s in a fix, I’m in a fix. The Branch is just one pickle after another.’

  Sparrow didn’t much care about Catley’s troubles, he was just pleased to know it was Catley who blabbed, not Bea.

  ‘What happened to Peskett and Redenbach, you see them go down?’ said Cuff.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That was Caleb, and that other one, Napoleon.’

  ‘I guessed as much, for they will have their revenge. Not a notion I care to contemplate right now.’

  Sparrow thought best to change the subject. ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ he said.

  Cuff stared at the fire. ‘He was a man of few words but never a bad word for anyone. It’s a virtue few of us can match.’

  ‘You want us to bring him in, out o’ the weather, lay him out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They took Sprodd from the mule and carried him into the cave and wrapped him in the cut of tent canvas, the dog sniffing about.

  Cuff reckoned the river probably did kill Sprodd, but how he came to be in the river was, in all likelihood, more complicated. He might have slipped. Then again, there were savages on the river, killing white men. ‘Might be he flung himself into the flow, or got thrown, the river swift enough to bear him away . . . and brutal enough to finish him,’ he said.

  ‘We found him stuck in a block-up, that’s all we know,’ said Sparrow.

  ‘We can bury him in the morning,’ said Bea.

  ‘If you would do him the courtesy I would be most grateful,’ said Cuff.

  62

  They woke early, hungry, the stink of smoke in everything. They studied the outline of Dan Sprodd in that dirty canvas shroud.

  Bea set to sparking the fire. Dot snapped twigs and laid them, in crosshatch fashion, neat on the little flame. Cuff watched, silent, working his toes, as Sparrow shuffled to the lip of the cave to see what he could see.

  The grey dawn gave form to the violence of the river. ‘I could take the gun,’ he said.

  ‘Forget it, Marty, there’ll be no meat on parade till this weather settles,’ said Cuff. He could not imagine that Sparrow had much in the way of finesse when it came to hunting.

  ‘I might get a pheasant.’

  ‘You might but I doubt it.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You can go forage, that would be helpful.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Cuff was anxious to sort a plan for they had to move, as swiftly as the weather would allow. He beckoned Bea Faa and she came to him and he bade her sit down. He signalled Sparrow, and Dot too. ‘Martin, you won’t know Bea’s in trouble but you need to know. She’s implicated in some awful doings on the sealeries, to wit the flagrant enormities of her companions.’ Sparrow had to wonder about these enormities. He had to assume they were bloody
and cruel, knowing what he did of the sealeries, what he’d heard. ‘I cannot go back,’ said Bea. Amicus settled close by her side. ‘Me neither, they’d hang me for sure,’ said Sparrow. He wanted to impress on the present company just how assured that outcome would be. ‘Whether for Jug who I did not kill or the boat I never sunk or the dog I just . . . found. Whether for one or all three for good measure.’ ‘He’s probably right. I do believe a panel would hang him,’ said Cuff. Cuff had made up his mind to see Sparrow and Bea Faa safe on a westerly path to the headwaters of the Branch. Beyond that, their fortune was in the lap of the gods, or the divine judgement of heaven. His main concern was the girl, Mackie’s girl, but the dice had rolled in such a way that he now had some respect for Sparrow too. The better Sparrow might prove to be a good companion for Bea Faa. The bet-ter Sparrow was another variety of Sparrow altogether. The wilderness had fired him up, made him useful. Sparrow was tempted to ask Bea what happened on the sealeries but he thought that unwise and, anyway, he didn’t care. Whatever happened on the sealeries had delivered the outcome he wanted. Best for Bea to tell him in her own good time. Cuff felt obliged to make clear to Sparrow the full import of his situation. ‘You understand, if you don’t come back with me, you will be outlawed?’ ‘Outlawed?’ ‘You have two capital matters unresolved. You don’t come back, the governor will declare you an outlaw as he did Shug and as he did Mort.’ ‘Me!’ said Sparrow.

  ‘It means they catch you they can shoot you dead, on the spot, or hang you, summarily, as they did Shug. It means if you go you go for real, way out of reach, the other side, the far beyond, if there is one.’

  ‘I never thought I’d be an outlaw.’

  ‘And I never thought I’d hear you killed the likes of Griffin Pinney.’

  ‘He killed Mort too,’ said Dot, nodding her approval.