The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  My God, he thought, it’s good to be alive.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There were times when Nance Radin found it hard to believe she had ever been discontented with her life on the goldfields. Luke had treated her well but Nance had wanted to live while she was still young enough to enjoy it and in the end Luke had been too old for her.

  After Matthew left, things between her and Luke had gone downhill fast and she had left as soon as she had found someone willing to take her with him.

  ‘I’ll treat you right,’ Gadsby Maddocks had promised and Nance had gone with him, hoping he meant it.

  Unfortunately he proved no better at keeping his word than he had been at mining gold. They got as far as the next town where he took a back room in a flea-bitten hotel and settled down to win his fortune at cards with money Nance earned by entertaining anyone willing to pay for her services.

  Fortunately someone shot Maddocks for cheating. Things were better after that. At least then Nance was able to keep her earnings to herself although she would have preferred to give up the game altogether. Then she met Git Hancock and did so.

  Git was a long, bony fellow with a thin neck, a prominent Adam’s apple and a slow way of talking and thinking. He had limp blond hair and washed blue eyes, was a year or two younger than Nance and had worked as a stockman on a cattle run in the dry country beyond the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. Like thousands of others, he had gone to the goldfields to make his fortune and had not done so. Unlike the majority, he had got together enough to give him a stake in whatever venture he decided to go into next. Best of all, he was no more a miner than Nance was.

  ‘What you goin’ to do?’ Nance asked him.

  He chewed it over for a while. ‘What I was doin’ before.’

  Nance didn’t like the sound of that. She had plans and Git being a stockhand was not one of them. ‘Don’t you want to run your own show?’

  Git believed in looking at new concepts from all angles before he reacted to them. ‘Ain’t never given it no mind,’ he managed eventually.

  ‘You should look for a place of your own,’ she said. ‘Out in the back country maybe.’

  The idea made Git uneasy. ‘I always been a stockhand. And a good one, too.’

  ‘There won’t be no future for us if you stick to that,’ she told him. ‘I’m not going to sit at home and wait for you and I ain’t never heard of no women stockhands.’

  If he wasn’t interested it was better she should know now but she held her breath while he thought about it.

  ‘Dunno I’d be up to it,’ Git said finally.

  ‘I’d be there to help if you want me to.’

  Git didn’t know what to say. He’d done all right working for himself on the goldfields but when it came to cattle he’d always had someone to tell him what to do. As for getting a place of his own, he had no idea how to go about it.

  Nance had no patience with that. ‘Other blokes get on their horse and go and look for themselves‚’ she said.

  ‘You can’t just wander off‚’ he protested. ‘It’s hard country. People don’t get it right, they die.’

  ‘Then we must join a drive‚’ she said, ‘and look for our own place when we get out there.’

  One thing they were agreed upon: they had both had enough of digging for gold.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ she asked.

  He chewed his thoughts a while. ‘North‚’ he said. ‘More cattle up there.’

  ‘There’s only three of us‚’ Charlton said. ‘Over four hundred cattle and thirty horses. We need another three hands plus a cook.’

  ‘One of the hands can cook,’ Matthew said.

  ‘You want us to die of poisoning before we get there?’

  ‘Even if we take a cook he won’t be dishing up anything fancy,’ Matthew pointed out.

  ‘At least he’ll be a cook. A good hand won’t be willing to cook. If a cook’s no good you can throw him out. What do you do with a stockhand who’s good at his job but not with the pots and pans? Keep him because he’s a good hand or get rid of him because he’s a bad cook?’

  Two days later Charlton came back from town with a funny expression on his face. ‘I found us a cook‚’ he said.

  ‘I don’t see anyone with you‚’ Matthew said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In town. And it ain’t a he. It’s a woman.’

  At first Git Hancock had gone along with Nance’s talk of looking for a place in the back country, not because he believed in it but because it was easier than arguing. He was fond of Nance but a man had his place in the world and his was at the tail of a mob of cattle. But after they arrived in Sydney he came slowly to realise that Nance meant every word she said.

  He didn’t know what to do about it. ‘Makes me feel a bloody fool‚’ he said.

  Her dark eyes dissected him. ‘That’s too bad.’

  He hated the idea of asking the droving bosses for a job for a woman as well as himself but Nance was not interested in excuses.

  ‘If you’re scared to ask I’ll do it myself‚’ she said and meant it.

  He hung around the pubs where the drovers went. There was a man organising a drive into the Victorian Gippsland but Git had no interest in returning to Victoria. A week later someone else was talking of taking sheep north for the Australian Agricultural Company but Git had never had anything to do with sheep and considered them beneath him. Finally as he watched the smoke-fumed room from his usual table by the door, a big, bluff stranger broke away from a group of men at the bar and strolled across to him.

  ‘You Git Hancock?’

  Git eyed him cautiously. ‘What if I am?’

  ‘I’ve heard good things about you.’ The man sat down. ‘Beer?’

  ‘Orright.’

  The man turned his head and shouted across to the bar before facing Git again. ‘I’m making up a party to go northwest.’

  Git frowned, pondering. ‘Wild country up there,’ he said eventually.

  ‘No wilder than anywhere else.’

  Git thought about it for a while. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Been there is why.’

  Git studied him with heightened interest. ‘You must be Charlton Grange then. He’s the only man I heard of been out there.’

  Charlton shook his head. ‘There’s been one or two others. There’ll be plenty later.’

  Git contemplated his beer for a minute or two. ‘What you taking?’ he asked.

  ‘Cattle and horses.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Thousand miles, thereabouts.’

  Git sucked his teeth dubiously. ‘Far.’

  ‘Four months, five. Not too bad.’

  ‘Your show, is it?’

  Charlton shook his head. ‘Workin’ for a bloke called Curtis.’

  ‘Never heard of ’im.’

  ‘Made money outa gold down at Ballarat.’

  ‘Wait a sec …’ Git stared. ‘You ain’t talking about Matthew Curtis? Him that had the California Deep?’

  ‘Know him, do you?’

  ‘I know someone who does. How much is he payin’?’

  ‘Two quid.’

  Git grunted. Stockmen were cautious of setting out into the unknown and the pay had to be high to attract them. Even so, two quid a week was good pay.

  ‘I need a top hand,’ Charlton said, ‘you interested?’

  Git took a deep breath. ‘Could be,’ he said, ‘but I got a problem.’

  ‘I told him it was no go‚’ Charlton said, ‘but he said it was the two of them or neither.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I’m not having a woman along. There’ll be problems enough without that.’

  ‘We got to have a cook.’ Charlton could be stubborn when he had a mind to be. ‘Besides, you’ll be getting two for the price of one: a top stockman and a cook thrown in free.’

  ‘It’s too risky‚’ Matthew said in a no-nonsense voice. ‘We don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘Seems you do‚�
�� Charlton said. ‘Her name’s Nance Radin.’

  Matthew threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nance? Where on earth has she sprung from?’

  He thought of telling Charlton how she had made up to him before he left Ballarat. When he decided not to, he knew he was going to take her after all.

  ‘She’d better behave herself, that’s all. And‚’ turning fierce once more, ‘make sure this Git Hancock understands. The first sign of trouble, I’ll run them both off.’

  The evening before they left, Matthew, Charlton and Tom Naismith sat together in the house for the last time. Through the open door they could see the rosy glow of the campfire and the huddled shapes of the newly recruited stockhands sleeping in their blankets around it. Overhead the sky was a rash of stars. The warm breeze brought to them the peaceful noises of the cattle.

  ‘You ain’t planning to sell this place?’ Charlton asked.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I like the idea of having somewhere to come back to when I’m too old to beat my head out taming the wilderness.’

  ‘You could put in a manager.’

  ‘I could but I won’t. I reckon they can be more trouble than they’re worth. All I need when I’m stuck in a sand drift up the Warrego is to worry if I’m being cheated by some manager back here in Moriarty.’

  ‘You leave it empty the house will fall down‚’ Charlton pointed out.

  ‘A house is easily built. The land’ll still be here.’

  ‘Some folks would say you was crazy to go at all,’ Charlton said, ‘with all your money.’

  Matthew’s money was a burr in Charlton’s hide. It irked him not to know how much money Matthew had and he was always fishing, hoping to find out. Matthew did not intend to oblige him. ‘They could be right,’ he said.

  People could say what they liked. Matthew had to get out and see the land for himself. Everything hung on that. It made him nervous, though. If the drive failed or if when he got to the other end he disliked what he found he would have nothing to replace the dream.

  Charlton didn’t feel nervous at all. The sooner he got back to the empty plains the better.

  In the waggon, Git asleep at her side, Nance watched through the opening in the canvas canopy the stars and a fingernail of moon riding against a velvet sky.

  She wondered whether the stars would be the same where they were going. She thought they would be. Git said it would be a thousand mile journey; no distance at all if you thought how far it was to the stars. She wondered what the journey would be like.

  ‘Drought, fire, natives, even bushrangers‚’ Git had warned her. ‘It ain’t goin’ to be no picnic.’ Yet had sounded unworried even as he said it.

  Now she listened to the even sound of his breathing and told herself that a thousand miles was not much different from one mile. You took a step, then another one, and kept going until evening. The next day the same and the one after that until one day you got there. She wondered how they would know when they got there, if none of them had been there before. It wasn’t likely there’d be any signs to tell them.

  At least they had Matthew to lead them. She had faith in Matthew. Had a soft spot for him, too, always had. Watch yourself, girl, she thought. Don’t muck things up now they’re going so well.

  First thing in the morning they began final preparations.

  ‘Tom,’ Charlton said, ‘you lead. Git and Bill, take the wings. Charlie and Joe, I want you on the points. Brett, you’ve got the tail.’

  ‘That leaves you and me,’ Matthew said.

  ‘I’ll be scouting ahead for water and a place to camp at night. You can talk to the cook.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to talk to the cook?’

  ‘Good-looking woman like that? Of course you want to talk to her. I’d talk to her myself if I wasn’t going to be too busy keeping us all alive.’

  Matthew went into the house for the last time. It looked the same; the rough furniture was the same, even the early morning sunlight shining through the chinks and crannies of the walls and window shutters was the same, yet nothing was the same at all. The house, occupied and alive only an hour before, was dead.

  He had wondered how he would feel when the moment of departure came. He felt nothing: he was leaving an empty house, no more.

  He went out, shut the door and fastened the lock. What should have been a moment to remember was no more than another step on the road stretching out into the future.

  He checked his saddle leathers, mounted and trotted over to where Charlton and the others were waiting.

  ‘Let’s find some country,’ he said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Wilma Shaughnessy, long legs, red hair and the temper to go with it, wanted money more than anything else in life. She had been born without it, had lived all her twenty-four years without it and was damned if she was going to die without it.

  So far, however, things hadn’t worked out as she would have wished. The only way she knew how to make money was through a man but somehow it always ended up with her doing the work and the man keeping the money. Shanks bloody Patchett was no better than the rest.

  Wilma had first met Patchett in the pub. He wasn’t much to look at but there had been something about his pale eyes that had caught her attention. They were knowing eyes. She could relate to that: she considered she was pretty knowing herself. When Patchett had talked to her about a business arrangement she had listened to him but, unfortunately, things had ended up as they always did, with her servicing the clients and Patchett keeping the cash. There were times when she wondered why she bothered but the fact was that in her sort of trade she needed a man. Blokes were more likely to try something on when a girl was alone.

  Now she sat with Patchett in a corner of the bar and watched his weasel eyes as they studied the other men in the room.

  He said, ‘Stubbs is thinking of going north.’

  Stubbs was Patchett’s partner.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Look for gold. Make up for what he missed in Victoria.’

  ‘Maybe we should go too.’

  Patchett was shocked. ‘Would you go?’

  ‘Got to be better ways of earning a living than this,’ Wilma said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Bloody men were all the same. ‘Fine for you, ain’t it?’

  In truth she had never thought of living any other way but she wasn’t about to let Patchett know that. Keep ’em on the hop was her motto. Never let ’em feel sure of you.

  He was unconvinced. ‘What would you do in the bush?’

  ‘I’d manage.’

  Wouldn’t she just. She’d heard there were rich squatters out there, most of them unmarried. Looked at from that point of view, the outback might be her best bet yet.

  She studied a man who had just come into the bar. She nudged Patchett’s arm. ‘That one might be worth a try.’

  It was a cold, wet night and the stranger’s topcoat and silk hat were spotted with rain.

  ‘Slumming‚’ Wilma said.

  Wealthy men with a fancy for rough trade came down to the docks from time to time to see what they could find.

  ‘Have to make sure he remembers his trip‚’ Patchett said, sliding out of his chair. ‘Leave you to it then.’

  ‘The usual?’ she asked him.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Don’ be so fast this time‚’ she told him. ‘The last bloke still had his coat on.’

  ‘Better get a move on then, hadn’t you?’

  He was gone. Wilma studied the man at the counter.

  In his forties, perhaps a little more. Porky stomach, moustache, a head of expensively coiffeured hair gone grey over the ears. His dark coat, unfastened now in the warmth of the room, was of superior quality and what looked like a gold watch chain spanned his waistcoat. Eyes sealed in fat prowled the room.

  Wilma, dressed in her stalking gear, all feathers and flounces, caught his eye, held it. A smile glimmered between them. Taking his time, the m
an unpeeled himself from the bar, came across to her table.

  ‘May I join you?’

  She inclined her head, well into her Lady Muck role. She did it well: should do, she’d had enough practice.

  The man sat down, sighing as he took the weight off his belly.

  ‘Would you care for some refreshment?’ he wondered.

  ‘Perhaps a gin and hot water,’ she said.

  Sid the potboy took the order, winking at her when the man wasn’t watching.

  ‘An inclement evening,’ the man said, brushing drops of rain from his cuff.

  ‘What brings you to this part of town, Mr …?’

  ‘Brown,’ he supplied, a liar like all of them. He gave her what he probably thought was a roguish smile. ‘I like to browse.’

  Makes two of us, she thought. Only I know what’s on the menu and you don’t.

  ‘I’m Sadie,’ Wilma said.

  The gin came. Wilma sipped, little finger extended.

  The man who called himself Brown said, ‘I hope it’s to your liking, my dear.’ Leaning back in his protesting chair, dark eyes gleaming. His fingers played with his watch. Also gold, Wilma noticed. The evening was looking better and better.

  ‘Very refreshing,’ she said.

  Brown asked, ‘I wondered if we might discuss a … business arrangement?’

  Her eyes met his. ‘Five pounds.’

  He blinked. He had not been thinking of five pounds.

  Cheap bastard, she thought. It wouldn’t make any difference in the circumstances but a girl had her pride.

  ‘If it’s too much for you …’

  ‘No, no.’ Hastily. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Shall we go then?’

  In the room she unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it while his fat little eyes crawled all over her.