The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  A rough hand seized her shoulder and shook her.

  ‘Git up, damn yer‚’ the voice said. ‘’Ow many times I gotter say it?’

  The unseen man cuffed her, pushing her into the darkness outside the tent. They were all there—Andrew and George, little Matthew clinging to Mary’s skirts. The men had their hands tied. Lorna’s heart sank.

  There seemed to be three robbers, big and rough-looking. She saw the glint of arms. There was a greyness in the eastern sky but dawn would bring no help. They were helpless. There was a horror in the word. These men could do whatever they liked with them.

  Two of the men climbed on top of the dray and began to break into the boxes containing their stores. Without stores they would die. Perhaps the men intended to kill them anyway. It would make sense from the robbers’ point of view—no one to pursue them, no one to give evidence. It hadn’t happened yet which might be a good sign but Lorna was not sure about that. Being alive created other possibilities that she would not think about.

  ‘Andrew?’ she ventured.

  He said nothing. The light was stronger now and she could see him clearly. His face was white, eyes like beacons, mouth furious.

  He was helpless as they all were but she would not let him ignore her. Deliberately she used the name he disliked. ‘Andy, what are we going to do?’

  The man guarding them turned upon her a face of horror—pale eyes in a high-cheekboned face, filthy yellow hair‚ a weak and vicious mouth. ‘Shut the hell up!’

  ‘I will no’ shut up. I am speaking to my husband.’ Heart beating, knowing it was futile, even ludicrous, but determined to go on speaking as though by doing so she could keep hope alive. ‘Andy, I am speaking to you …’

  ‘Keep quiet, woman. There’s nothing I can do.’

  At least he had answered her but had still not looked at her or any of them. She could feel rage coming off him like heat. Rage, she thought contemptuously. Aye, we all feel it. But what good is that when you’re helpless? She looked at George. His shoulders spoke of acceptance. No hope there.

  The day grew brighter. On the dray, the two men were still tossing goods to the ground. One of them gave a shout of triumph, flourishing a bottle over his head.

  ‘Give it ’ere!’ shouted the man with the dirty yellow hair. ‘Let’s have a slug.’

  The third man scowled. He was the biggest and oldest of them, a man of about forty with blackened teeth in a coarse face. Lorna guessed he was the man Andrew had met on his journey upriver. ‘Keep yer mitts off that, the pair o’ yer.’

  The man who had found the bottle turned on him, lips curling off his teeth. ‘Why should I listen to you, Charlie mate?’

  Charlie laughed. ‘Because I’ll kill yer if yer don’t, Billy Boy.’

  The guard was distracted by the argument. He was two paces from Lorna. Before she knew she was going to do it, before terror could prevent her doing anything, she stepped forward and snatched the pistol from his belt.

  It was heavier than she had expected and she had difficulty holding it, never mind aiming it.

  The man gaped at her, dumbfounded. She stepped back. Struggling with both hands, she curled her finger around the trigger and pointed the weapon at him.

  ‘You cheeky little bitch …’ Taking a step forward.

  She backed away, muzzle wavering on his chest.

  ‘I shall shoot,’ she warned him. ‘One more step …’

  A thud and blinding flash of light as the blow took her behind the ear. She was on her knees, head ringing, the pistol on the ground before her. She knew she should pick it up but the blow had slowed her reflexes. Before she could move, a huge hand reached down before her and took it. It was too late. Someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her upright.

  Charlie’s coarse face and blackened teeth grinned down at her. ‘Spunky little bitch, ain’t yer?’ To the guard he said, ‘Yer oughter be in the blind school, Pat, lettin’ a woman take yer gun off yer.’

  There was a splitting pain in her head. Her ear throbbed beneath the heavy hank of hair that lay about her face.

  ‘I’ll fix ’er,’ Pat said, face murderous. He stepped forward, fingers twitching.

  She knew all about terror now.

  ‘Leave it,’ Charlie said.

  ‘I bloody well won’t …’

  There was a click as Charlie cocked his gun. ‘What yer say?’

  Pat stopped in midstride. ‘Come on, Charlie …’

  ‘I said leave it.’ He looked at Lorna. ‘Next time yer use a gun remember yer got to cock it first.’

  ‘Next time I’ll kill you,’ she said.

  The expression on his face did not change. ‘That so?’

  He hit her once, hard, with an open palm. The blow seemed to explode the bones in her face. Her lip split and she felt blood running down her chin. She went down like a half-filled sack, sprawling in the dust at his feet. He put his boot on her hand and applied pressure until she cried out.

  She heard his voice behind the grinding agony of her hand. ‘Any time yer wants me to learn yer manners, say the word.’

  The foot went away although the pain did not and she began to sob.

  She was conscious of Mary kneeling beside her. Mary was crying, too, but was far away. Whatever Mary felt meant nothing.

  ‘Keep away from ’er. Less you want some o’ the same.’

  For a minute Mary did not move but must have been dragged away. There was a cry, the sound of a blow, then sobs.

  ‘I tell yer, I never seen such spunky females, eh? Like wildcats, the pair of ’em.’

  ‘Maybe we should take ’em along with us? Might be fun, taming a coupla wildcats.’

  The voices came from a great distance. Lorna paid no attention. They were no concern of hers. She lay with the side of her face in the dust, head and hand an explosion of pain.

  Time passed, a muddle of voices and noises, swelling and dying through the haze that separated her from the world.

  Suddenly she was dragged upright. The man called Charlie was grinning at her. ‘Yer in luck. The boys ’a’ taken a fancy to yer. I reckon we’ll be taking yer with us.’

  A confusion of shouting. ‘Dinna ye dare …’

  Andrew? she thought. Why’s he making such a fuss?

  A sudden, frothing rage. ‘Don’ you tell me wot I dare!’ Charlie snatched his pistol from his belt, hit Andrew with it. Hard. Andrew collapsed. Charlie’s feet lashed out at him, boots thudding. He spun round, cocked his pistol and thrust it under George’s jaw, pushing his head back, muzzle gouging his throat. ‘Git it through yer ’eads. Try an’ git smart wi’ me, I’ll kill the lot o’ yer!’

  Lorna watched him, heard his voice, but the distance remained. None of what she was seeing seemed real.

  ‘Leave ’im alone. He ain’t doing nothin’ to you.’ Mary’s voice.

  Charlie turned. Step by step, he advanced on her. With terrible eyes he looked down at Matthew, clinging to her, then back at Mary. He wiped the spittle from his lips.

  ‘Yore kid?’ Softly, so softly.

  Her arms went around Matthew’s body. The child’s face was hidden in her skirts.

  ‘Is ’e?’

  Rage, scalding, terrifying, set her back on her heels.

  ‘Yes.’ Whispering, face white.

  ‘I could kill ’im. You know that?’

  ‘You could kill the lot of us.’

  ‘But what if I jus’ killed the kid, eh?’ His voice rose. ‘Because ’is goddamned mother di’n’ know how to keep her trap shut?’ He stared panting at them, at Andrew unconscious at their feet. ‘Don’ think I wouldn’t, that’s all.’

  He kicked Andrew’s body once more and turned away. Blood was running down the side of Andrew’s face into the dust. Lorna could not tell if he was alive or not. She should have felt concern for him but did not. Our leader, she thought.

  The men loaded the stolen stores onto Scabbard and Domino and roped them to their own mounts.

  ‘Best take the r
emounts, too, Charlie,’ Pat said. ‘We don’ want ’em comin’ after us soon’s they get loose.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘This bunch o’ farmers? Wot they goner do if they catch up with us?’ But he ordered them to collect the other horses just the same.

  He turned to George. ‘Any spare saddles?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Done much ridin’?’ he asked Lorna.

  ‘No.’

  He said to the guard, ‘You take the remount, Pat.’

  The yellow-haired man scowled. ‘I’m stickin’ to me own ’orse.’

  ‘Yer’ll do what I damn well tells yer! ’Ow’s she going to manage bareback if she dunno ’ow to ride, eh?’

  Sulkily, the young bushranger obeyed.

  ‘No! You can’ take ’er!’ Mary protested hysterically.

  Charlie shut her up with a look. ‘Be glad it ain’t you. Or the kid.’

  He walked Lorna to the tent. She did not resist. She had made her one futile show of defiance. Now she was fatalistic. She would not let herself imagine what would happen later. But knew. Oh yes.

  ‘Git yer clothes on,’ Charlie said.

  She stood in her nightgown, staring at him.

  ‘Less yer wanner ride in that?’

  ‘Leave me then.’

  He did not move. ‘Git on wiv it.’

  She had no choice. She dragged her clothes over the gown, not exposing herself at all yet exposed to him as she had never been to any man. She thought, this is the start of it. Andrew should have protected her but had not. Now it was too late. Resistance, indignation, anger, they were all behind her now.

  When she was dressed Charlie led her out to the saddled horse, standing there quietly, tail swishing at flies.

  ‘Git up.’

  She put her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up and over. It was a man’s saddle and her in her dress. Her skirt bunched up around her waist, her legs for the world to see. She felt no shame. It no longer seemed important.

  Charlie mounted beside her. ‘Billy Boy,’ he said, ‘you ’n’ Pat take the other remount between yer. I got all I can handle with the girl.’

  ‘We already got them two stores horses,’ Pat objected, the sort to argue about everything.

  ‘Now yer got a remount as well. You was the one worried about them comin’ after us, so make sure it don’ git away.’

  ‘I never said I was worried.’ Pat was indignant.

  ‘Don’ lose the horse, that’s all. Now, git movin’!’

  He had secured Lorna’s horse to his own by means of a short rope. He put his heels into his mount and they began to move.

  Lorna did not look back.

  Andrew shouldna have let it happen, she thought. It’s no’ right.

  They followed the river westwards for what seemed hours. Lorna had told Charlie the truth—she had done little riding. She tried to tighten her legs about the horse’s barrel but in no time her muscles were in agony and the skin inside her thighs rubbed raw. A dozen times she thought she would fall but somehow she hung on. The speed they were travelling, she would be likely to break something if she fell.

  At last, at midday, they stopped.

  The riverbanks had opened out. The water was flowing much slower and there were fewer trees. Long strands of weed showed here and there and sunlight lay on the surface of the water like a brazen shield.

  Charlie looked at her, half-fainting in the saddle, head slumped against the coarse hair of the horse’s neck. ‘Yer wanner drink, git down and ’ave one.’

  She thought she was too stiff and tired to move but the inside of her mouth was gummy with dust and thirst and the thought of water, the taste and cleanness of water, persuaded her. She half-slid, half-fell out of the saddle and sprawled on the ground. She was weeping, tears of weakness rather than fear or sorrow. Fatigue had taken away all other feeling.

  ‘You won’ git no water layin’ there.’

  She opened her eyes. Pat was staring down at her from the remount, yellow hair hanging in greasy hanks about his face. His legs hung stirrup-less and his face was one big sneer.

  ‘Can’ wait all day fer you.’

  He slid to the ground, seized her under the arms and dragged her to the river. He dropped her half-in and half-out of the water. She lay there, unable to move.

  ‘We really got to work to get you to drink,’ Pat said. ‘Maybe this’ll do it.’

  Something was splashing into the water. She opened her eyes. He was pissing into the river a foot from her face.

  ‘My God!’

  She scrambled away from him, her face working. Charlie had struck her, threatened her, kidnapped her, all terrible things, yet this was worse because it showed the contempt they had for her. Why, she thought, a man who does that would cut your throat and not even think about it.

  The act, perhaps because it was so vile, dispelled some of the shock she had felt since she failed to prevent the robbery. She knew two things. She had to go with them, whatever that might entail, because she had no choice. But there was something else, too. She was not helpless. As long as she lived there was a chance.

  She began to scheme how she might escape.

  It took Mary two minutes to cut George free but another ten to bring Andrew round.

  Even then he was no use to them. He vomited as soon as he was conscious and his eyes were not properly focused. He complained of a shattering headache. He did not ask about Lorna, seemed to have forgotten much of what had happened.

  ‘’E won’ be right before tomorrer,’ Mary said. ‘What we gunna do about Lorna?’

  George said, ‘We got no guns. No ’orses. We can’ do nuthin.’

  ‘We can’t just forgit ’er. They’ll maybe kill ’er.’

  ‘If she’s lucky.’

  They stared at each other. There were other things than death.

  ‘There be more’n Lorna at risk yur. Without no guns ’n’ ’orses, we gotta work out how we be goin’ to manage ourselves.’

  ‘The squatter,’ Mary said.

  George looked at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘Somebody owns this land. Just ’cause we ’aven’t see ’im …’

  George stared at the vast and empty plain from which even the dust of the bushrangers’ horses had now vanished.

  ‘Where do we start lookin’?’

  Mary’s face was a mask of concentration. ‘The squatter won’t have his station too far from the river, will ’e?’

  ‘Long way from yur, though,’ George objected. ‘Otherwise how come we seen nuthin of him?’

  ‘At least it gives us somewhere to start lookin’,’ she argued. ‘Only chance we got, i’n’ it?’

  ‘On foot,’ George said. ‘Not much of a chance.’

  ‘Better’n nuthin.’

  ‘Mebbe we’d better wait till Andy’s better,’ George hesitated, troubled. ‘See what ’e d’say.’

  ‘And in the meantime they’re gittin’ further away every minute. I’ll put up some food for you and you can git goin’. We don’ git after ’em soon, we won’ never git Lorna back.’

  They reached the ford by midafternoon. The river had narrowed again and was spanned by a broad shelf of rock. There was perhaps a foot of water over it, deepening to two in places. The constricted water poured foaming across the shelf and into the depths beyond but it was obvious that, with care, a crossing could be made at this point.

  Lorna had relapsed into a state of semiconsciousness. Through her daze she thought this was what Andrew had been looking for and it was here all the time. Poor Andrew. He doesna seem to be having much luck.

  ‘Last chance for water,’ Charlie told her.

  Behind his shoulder, Pat grinned. ‘I bet she wants me to give ’er a hand again.’

  Once again she fell as she dismounted but did not wait for them to come to her. On hands and knees she crawled to the water’s edge. She didn’t want to provoke Pat a second time. She was scared of him. She was scared of them all. She lay on her face on the bank, no pri
de left, nothing left, and sucked up the water in long gasps. An animal, she thought. Nothing more—neither to them nor, increasingly, to herself.

  She heard Charlie say, ‘Let’s git on.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Wait a minute. Please.’

  She needed to relieve herself. For the last hour she had thought of little else. If she didn’t do something about it now, she wouldn’t be able to hold herself in much longer.

  Charlie mounted his horse and looked down at her, eyes like stones in the brutal face.

  ‘I said let’s git on.’

  ‘A minute.’ Weeping, now.

  She could neither conceal herself nor dissimulate. She waded deeper into the water and crouched down. The level barely reached her waist.

  ‘Little lady’s havin’ a piss,’ Pat said. ‘Looks like the habit’s catchin’.’

  She staggered back up the bank, water streaming from her saturated clothes. The coolness on her lacerated thighs was a blessing but would not last. The wet clothes would rub worse than ever. Nothing to be done about it, nothing to be done about anything in her life. She climbed swaying into the saddle.

  They crossed the river and rode south. The countryside was heavily wooded, the ground beneath the trees grey and floury, leached by recurrent floods and criss-crossed by gullies left by the water when it retreated. The air was hot and still. No birds sang, nothing moved apart from midges that hung in swaying clouds above the old wash-aways. They had come out of the living land into a wilderness of heat, insects and brooding silence.

  An hour after they left the river they came to a rough camp—two huts constructed from split tree trunks with bark roofs secured by branches. A circle of burnt ground showed where they had built their fire and there were bits and pieces of junk—empty bottles, the gnawed bones of animals—lying where they had been thrown. The camp was dirty, unpleasant, indescribably menacing.

  Terror squeezed Lorna’s heart as she looked at it.

  The plain shimmered with heat. Everywhere rocks stuck up like teeth out of the reddish soil. The blue vault of the sky wounded the eyes with its brightness and the gum trees seemed to float in the haze.