The Postmistress

by Alison Stuart

  When he returned, the coach was waiting for him. The parallel wooden benches barely held two people abreast, making it a tight squeeze for the four passengers. Penrose made room for Caleb on the rearward facing bench. The other two passengers facing them, a middle-aged couple, had not been on the Melbourne coach.

  Caleb swept off his hat and climbed in.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ he said as he stepped on the well-shod foot of the stout woman, which intruded into his space.

  The woman gave a simpering giggle and her husband doffed his hat, revealing a fine pair of sideburns and a ferocious pair of eyebrows. ‘One of our colonial brethren, by your accent. Might I venture to suggest a Southern state?’

  ‘Well, sir, it has been nearly a hundred years since America was a colony, but as to your second observation, you are correct. A Virginian born and bred,’ Caleb replied.

  ‘Russell.’ The man extended his hand across the cramped space. ‘Osborne Russell, manager of the Bank of Australasia and Justice of the Peace. I’ve just been at a sitting at Buneep.’ He indicated the woman on his left, ‘My good lady wife, Mrs Russell.’

  Caleb introduced himself and took Mrs Russell’s gloved hand. ‘A pleasure, ma’am.’ He bowed over the hand in a gesture of Southern gentility that made the woman blush like a debutante.

  ‘Why, Mr Hunt, such good manners. Please tell me what brings you to Maiden’s Creek?’ she said.

  ‘The same thing as everyone else—’ The carriage lurched forward and Caleb grabbed at a strategically placed leather strap to prevent himself from ending up in Mrs Russell’s lap.

  ‘Gold?’ Osborne surmised.

  ‘He’s got a claim up by Pretty Sally,’ Penrose said.

  Russell raised a magnificent greying eyebrow. ‘I’ve got hopes for Pretty Sally, but it’s reef gold, Hunt. Not easy to get out in a small operation.’

  Caleb effected a nonchalant shrug and peered out the window. They seemed to have started uphill, the daylight muted by the canopies of the gum trees that soared above the narrow track. Up on the driver’s box, Burrell whistled tunelessly.

  ‘How long is it going to take us to get there?’

  ‘It’ll depend on the road. Burrell will spell the horses at the rest house on the Thompson River. If we get there too late, we’ll spend the night,’ Penrose said.

  Mrs Osborne sniffed. ‘Odious place. I got bed bugs last time we had to stay there.’

  ‘But the beer is good,’ Penrose said. Ignoring Mrs Russell’s second sniff, he continued, ‘And after that, it’s a good half-day into Maiden’s Creek. Just pray it stays dry—if we get rain, the road becomes impassable.’ Penrose sat back, crossed his arms, tipped his hat down and closed his eyes. ‘Maiden’s Creek has to be one of the colony’s best-kept secrets. Hard to get into and harder to get out of.’

  ‘Virginia.’ Russell frowned. He turned to his wife. ‘Mrs Russell has family connections in … where was it my dear?’

  ‘Fairfax,’ Mrs Russell said. ‘The Stricklands. Do you know them?’

  Caleb shook his head. ‘I’m not acquainted with them, ma’am. I’m from the west of the state, the Shenandoah Valley, and I worked in Charlottesville in the south before the war. I’ve not had much cause to go north to Fairfax, even before the war.’

  Russell regarded him. The man had intelligent, bright eyes that seemed to sear Caleb’s soul.

  ‘Ah, the war. Bad business that. Were you caught up in it, Hunt?’

  Caleb met the man’s eyes with an unblinking gaze. Three years of violent conflict that ripped apart a nation, the scars from which would probably never heal, could not be dismissed as just ‘bad business’.

  ‘I was, sir, but there would not be one person in Virginia not affected in some way. Even your friends in Fairfax, Mrs Russell.’

  The woman’s lips tightened and she glanced down at her gloved hands where they rested in her lap. ‘They lost a son to the Southern cause, Mr Hunt. And you, did you take up arms—’

  Caleb was saved from answer by the carriage jerking and Burrell cursing above them. With a shout of ‘Whoa!’ the coach came to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing both Russells onto their fellow passengers. Caleb caught Mrs Russell in time to prevent an embarrassing grapple. As the lady sat back into her place, straightening her bonnet and fussing with her gloves, Penrose called out of the window, ‘What is it, Burrell?’

  ‘Gold convoy.’ Burrell punctuated this observation with a blasphemous exclamation.

  Caleb leaned out the window. Coming up the hill towards them were three riders moving at a good clip, their dark blue uniforms and caps marking them as members of the constabulary. Behind them was a small covered wagon pulled by four horses, followed by another three mounted constables.

  ‘Impressive,’ he remarked. ‘Is the gold from your mine, Penrose?’

  Penrose shook his head. ‘Some. We’ve yet to hit the main seam but some of the other mines in the field are doing well, particularly the Blue Sailor.’

  Russell held a neatly pressed white handkerchief to his nose in a vain attempt to lessen the dust cloud kicked up by the passing convoy. ‘The convoy leaves once a week,’ he said. ‘Never the same day or time.’

  ‘Why?’ Caleb asked.

  ‘Bushrangers.’ Russell’s mouth pursed. ‘We learned our lessons from the other goldfields.’

  ‘Bushrangers?’ Caleb had never heard the word before.

  ‘Outlaws,’ said Penrose. ‘Highwaymen, we’d call them in England.’

  Mrs Russell cast a nervous glance around the carriage. ‘Do you think we will be held up?’

  Her husband patted her arm. ‘To the best of my knowledge, they are not yet operating in this area, and I don’t see why they would be interested in us, my dear. Burrell has a rifle and if I am not mistaken, our American friend over there is carrying a sidearm.’

  All three looked at Caleb and he realised his jacket had pulled back as he leaned out of the window, revealing the Colt revolver on his left hip.

  ‘Expecting trouble?’ Penrose said, his dark eyes disapproving.

  Caleb settled back into his place, pulling his jacket to cover the weapon. ‘Habit,’ he said. ‘When you’ve been a soldier …’ He let the sentence die away.

  The coach lurched forward again, resuming its leisurely pace.

  ‘You didn’t answer my husband’s question. Did you fight in the war, Mr Hunt?’ Mrs Russell said.

  No point in prevaricating. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘For the South?’ she continued, adding, ‘I always hoped the South would win. Such smart uniforms.’

  As Caleb struggled to find an appropriate response, Mr Russell cut in. ‘My dear, the reasons for such a war are complex. Far too difficult for you to be bothering your head about. Now leave Mr Hunt in peace.’

  Mrs Russell opened her mouth again, but Caleb turned to the window. He leaned his elbow on the sill, eyes drawn to the passing scenery, and allowed the scent of gums and the chatter of unknown birds to distract him from memories he’d tried to forget.

  Caleb had faced charging cavalry, survived barrages of Minié balls, known cold and starvation and other deprivation, but nothing had prepared him for the descent into the Maiden’s Creek valley.

  They had made good time and after a brief stop at the rest house on the Thompson River, the driver had chosen to push on. After they crossed the river, the track had wound upward through increasingly denuded forest. Rough tracks ran off from it, some with signboards nailed to posts and trees bearing roughly painted names like Morning Star, Whitsunday and Growler’s Gulch. Most of the signs were largely illegible, either from the hand that had painted them or the ravages of weather.

  They followed along a ridge a mile or so before the track became a series of roughly cut switchbacks descending down into the valley, barely wide enough for a single horse let alone a coach, even a small one. The absence of vegetation afforded Caleb a clear view of the sickening drop falling away below the track. One false move and they would
be over, tumbling to their deaths long before they reached the creek below.

  The harrowing ride did not seem to concern his fellow passengers, evidently having full confidence in the driver and being used to the road. Burrell urged his horses down the track with a combination of endearments, expletives, coos and clicks.

  ‘They call this descent Little John’s Sleigh Ride,’ Penrose said.

  ‘And who was Little John?’ Caleb asked to distract himself as the coach swung around another hairpin bend, the wheels slipping on the dust as the horses scrabbled to maintain their grip on the road.

  ‘John Miller was the prospector who found the first gold in Maiden’s Creek back in sixty-four. I met him a couple of times. The nickname is what you might call ironic—he must have been six feet five in his stockings,’ Russell answered.

  ‘What became of him?’

  ‘Like so many successful prospectors, Miller drank his good fortune away and was last heard of heading for Queensland.’

  ‘At least he didn’t die on this road,’ Caleb said.

  ‘You should try it in winter,’ Penrose said with a smile. ‘It really is a sleigh ride. I’ve seen a horse team sliding down it on their haunches.’

  Mrs Russell lurched and swayed, only her iron grip on the leather strap above her seat stopped her landing in Caleb’s lap. The sinews of her wrist stood out and Caleb guessed that beneath the grey kid gloves she wore despite the warmth, her knuckles were white.

  ‘You should see the bullock teams bringing in the mining and other equipment,’ Penrose said.

  ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ Russell added, the muscles of his jaw clenching as they swung around another bend.

  Caleb’s grip on the strap relaxed as the road levelled out to a gentle curve that brought them into a valley. He leaned out the window, craning to catch his first sight of Maiden’s Creek. Steep slopes rose from the curve of the creek, leaving little room on the flat ground for the rough and tumble town that crowded the banks of a fouled waterway. Cabins constructed from split logs clung like barnacles to the vertiginous sides of the hills, spoil heaps from mines spilled down to the creek bank and, beyond them, tall chimneys belched smoke. Overlaying it all was a steady cadence: bump, bump, bump; a sound he remembered from his time on the Californian goldfields.

  ‘I’d forgotten how much noise a stamper makes,’ he said, conscious of having to raise his voice to make himself heard.

  Penrose nodded. ‘At the moment it’s only a three-headed stamper. Wait till the five-header arrives.’

  ‘The silence at night must be deafening,’ Caleb said.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t stop at night,’ Penrose said. ‘Only on Sundays and, yes, the silence is deafening. You get used to it.’

  Mrs Russell sighed. ‘When the new stamper arrives, Mr Russell will be seeking a transfer to a more congenial town.’

  Russell shot his wife a mutinous glance that conveyed he had no intention of seeking a more congenial post. ‘If it’s any consolation, Hunt,’ he said, ‘they don’t have a battery up at Pretty Sally yet, so you’ll find it a little more peaceful.’

  ‘Any recommendations of places to stay?’

  ‘The coach will set you down at The Empress,’ Russell said. ‘That’s probably the best hostelry in town. Mrs Riordan has an excellent reputation for keeping a respectable place.’

  ‘Unlike most of the hostelries,’ Mrs Russell put in. ‘It even has a piano. The only one in Maiden’s Creek.’

  Caleb thought of the treacherous road they had travelled and wondered how they had brought a piano into Maiden’s Creek, let alone the equipment needed for a mine the scale of the Maiden’s Creek Mine.

  The main street bustled with activity. Bullock trains vied with packhorses for right of way and Burrell bellowed for everyone to make way. Saloons, or ‘pubs’, as Caleb had learned they were called, seemed to account for every other building. They each proclaimed the best beer in Maiden’s Creek. They passed a general store and at least two banks. Most of the buildings were timber, some painted but others still raw boards. Only the banks seemed to have an air of permanence and respectability. If gold had been discovered less than ten years earlier, the town had risen fast, too fast for the basic services a town like this required. Caleb wondered what kind of hell he had come across.

  As if reading his thoughts, Russell said, ‘We have our problems, Mr Hunt, but I am proud of this town and its people.’

  ‘Who governs the town?’

  ‘We have a council of respectable business people and I am one of three Justices of the Peace,’ Russell said. ‘Ah, here we are. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Hunt. I wish you the best with your endeavours and if you should need any—’ he coughed, ‘—financial advice, please do not hesitate to talk with me. I can assure you that you will receive the best possible service.’

  Better than any other bank in town, his tone implied.

  The coach drew to a shuddering halt outside a double-storeyed hostelry graced with an elegant lacework iron balcony on the upper floor and a well-painted sign that read: The Empress. Caleb had arrived.

  Four

  The long school day dragged to a close and ended as it always did: with the elderly schoolmaster pulling his fob watch from his waistcoat. The sixty-five children of all ages held their collective breath as he tapped the glass face, as if he didn’t quite believe what the hands revealed. Mr Emerton rose to his feet, his hand going at a glacial pace to the school bell that stood on the corner of his desk. He picked it up and gave three short rings, releasing the students of the Maiden’s Creek School into the world with whoops and shouts.

  Danny Greaves led a solitary life, happy in his own company. He had little in common with his schoolmates, who mercifully ignored him most of the time. He suspected they felt sorry for him, ‘the poor fatherless child’ as he had heard other women in the town refer to him. He decided long ago he would rather be fatherless than have a father who came home drunk and took out his frustrations on his wife and children; several of the boys frequently arrived at school sporting black eyes and other bruises. However, he secretly envied those boys with more kindly fathers who took them hunting for kangaroos or fishing on the Thompson River on their days off.

  He kicked at the dust on the road as he wandered home to the post office along the main street. His heart gave a leap as he spotted the Shady Creek coach winding its precarious way down Little John’s Sleigh Ride towards the town. The coach meant the return of Amos Burrell, one of the few men in Danny’s life who had time for him. He had shown Danny how to tie knots and was teaching him the fundamentals of horsemanship.

  His mother had let slip that Amos was ‘sweet’ on Netty. Danny didn’t quite know what that meant except that Amos spent a deal of his free time drinking tea in the kitchen of Danny’s home.

  Danny broke into a purposeful stride, arriving at The Empress as the coach came to a halt, the two huge horses Dave and Mac, sweating and blowing from the difficult descent.

  Amos raised his whip to his hat brim in greeting before he jumped down from his box. ‘’Ow’s it going, Dan?’ he called.

  Danny grinned up at his friend.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Burrell.’ Netty greeted her suitor as she crossed the road from the post office.

  Amos swept the hat from his head. ‘Afternoon, Miss Redley,’ he said.

  Netty handed Danny a bowl with the offcuts of carrots to feed the horses. ‘Thought you’d be here,’ she said.

  The coach horses, twitched their ears in anticipation as Danny approached them with the snacks in his outstretched hand. Their soft, hot lips snuffled the tasty morsels up as Amos opened the carriage door and his grateful passengers emerged onto the boardwalk outside the hotel.

  Danny glanced at the arrivals without much interest. He recognised Mr and Mrs Russell. Mrs Russell never missed an opportunity to chide him for misdemeanours, whether his hair was untidy or he had misbuttoned his shirt. Mr Penrose from the mine smiled and waved at him. A tal
l, dark-haired man with a colourful waistcoat was the last to alight. He stood looking around as Amos climbed back onto the coach and started to hand down the baggage to the man from The Empress who served as everything from porter to odd-job man.

  Danny cocked his head and considered the newcomer with interest. As he stretched his arms, no doubt glad to be free from the cramped quarters of the coach, the man’s jacket fell away, revealing a large handgun at his waist. The man smiled at Danny before pulling his jacket back over the weapon.

  Danny returned the smile, a little uncertainly. Strangers in Maiden’s Creek were not unusual but they didn’t normally come armed. He wondered if the man could be a bushranger. He’d heard some of the boys at school talking about Captain Moonlight, who’d been seen in Aberfeldy, or so they had overheard someone telling their father.

  A massive explosion from the Maiden’s Creek Mine rocked the earth beneath his feet. Such explosions were common and he wouldn’t have thought much about it, except the tall man went down on one knee as if he were ducking a bullet.

  ‘Danny!’

  He turned at Netty’s scream to see Mac rear, his front legs pawing the air as he fought to get free from the traces. Frozen in fear, Danny could do nothing except watch as the massive ironclad hooves descended towards him.

  A strong arm wrapped around him, hurling him out of the way as Mac brought his hooves to ground. A woman screamed and a man cried out.

  Danny curled up in the dust of the road, his rescuer’s arm heavy across his body. Shadows fell across him and he gasped for breath as Netty leaned over him.

  ‘Danny, are you hurt?’

  He rolled over, still fighting for breath. ‘I’m fine, Netty,’ he gasped.

  Netty folded him into her arms as the attention of the crowd focused on the man who had pushed him aside. He lay quite still, face down in the dust. Mr Penrose got down on one knee and turned the man onto his back. The bright colours of the waistcoat were now dimmed with dirt.

  ‘Is he …?’ a woman’s timorous voice came from the back of the swelling crowd.