A Far Country

by John Fletcher

  When daylight came he looked about him, hoping to see some sign of progress, but from the appearance of the countryside he might not have moved at all. To his left the plain still extended to a distant line of hills blocking the horizon, while far away to his right Jason could just make out the dark line of mangroves that bordered the gulf. Here there were no buildings, no people or animals, nothing but the unending plain. And then, emerging it seemed from nowhere, came a band of black, spear-carrying warriors who moved swiftly through the yellow grass to intercept him and into whose arms, helplessly, he rode.

  Close to exhaustion, Cato broke his journey at a tumble-down inn thirty miles north of Adelaide. The next morning, after a night plagued by fleas, he set out wearily on what he hoped fervently would be the last leg of his journey. Now there were settlements everywhere. Farms and vegetable gardens bordered the road, he overtook carts and drays at regular intervals, groups of children waved to him as he passed. He took it more easily, now. There was no longer any danger from marauding blacks and he could see no point in killing himself when he was so close to his destination.

  At last, shortly after midday, he crested the final hill and rode slowly down the slope and across the river into the city. He went straight to the Registrar’s office.

  The scrawny clerk eyed him with a supercilious eye. ‘The Registrar is at lunch.’

  ‘What time will he be back?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  Cato looked at the clock ticking ponderously in the corner of the office. A quarter to two. ‘Might as well eat myself, then.’

  He went to a local pie shop, ate and drank, returned at a quarter to three. The office was as empty as before. He sat down to wait while the minute hand of the big clock ticked its slow way around the brass dial.

  At three there was a whirr of mechanism and the clock struck the hour, measured, sonorous strokes in the silent room, but nothing else happened. Behind his tall desk the clerk’s pen scratched in the silence. The Registrar did not appear.

  Cato turned to the clerk. ‘I thought you said he’d be back at three?’

  The clerk stared down his nose. ‘The Registrar will see you when he is ready and not before.’

  Cato grunted. ‘Wonderful lives you fellows lead.’

  He went back to his chair and sat down, trying to control his impatience. At ten past three the door was thrown open and a figure hurried in.

  The black men surrounded Jason as he reined in the hired horse.

  After so long away from the clan his tongue was rusty but he greeted them as best he could, using the Narungga dialect Mura had taught him so long ago.

  They stared, astonished to find a white man who spoke a tribal language. A moment’s hesitation, then one of them replied in a tongue that was not dissimilar to the one he spoke himself.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the man asked him.

  ‘The peninsula.’

  ‘How is it you speak the Narungga dialect?’

  ‘I lived with the clan for a long time. Nantariltarra?’ he asked. ‘Mura?’ But the names meant nothing to them.

  The spokesman tapped himself on the chest, laughing. ‘Kaurna,’ he said. Kaurna was the name of the people who inhabited the plains between the head of the gulf and Adelaide. They spoke a language similar to the Narungga and had much in common with them. The two peoples had not always been friendly but for the moment at least Jason sensed no hostility.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the spokesman asked.

  ‘To the city.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I am trying to catch another man, also white, riding a brown horse like mine. He is a bad man,’ Jason said, making it up as he went along, ‘I have to catch him before he gets to the city. Have you perhaps seen such a man ahead of me?’

  They turned and talked to each other, speaking too fast in their Kaurna language for him to understand clearly what they were saying. Then the man who had spoken before turned back to him.

  ‘We saw such a man,’ he agreed.

  ‘When?’

  But time meant nothing to them and they could not tell him.

  ‘Will he have reached the city by now?’

  They thought not.

  ‘How far is the city?’

  Distances meant nothing to them, either.

  ‘I must go on,’ he told them. ‘I have to catch the man if I can.’

  ‘What will you do when you catch him?’ they asked. ‘Will you kill him?’

  It was the answer they wanted so Jason gave it to them. He slapped the rifle in its holster behind his saddle. ‘Kill him,’ he agreed. ‘Kill him dead!’

  They grinned cheerfully, approvingly. ‘Kill him,’ they agreed.

  Jason edged his horse through them. They made no attempt to stop him but stood waving at him as he rode away. He thought that if he rode flat out he might still have a chance of catching Cato Brown before he reached Adelaide. He put heels to his hired mount and headed south towards the invisible city.

  Every mile was a penance of heat, dust and flies. Every mile he hoped to see Cato ahead of him. Every mile he was disappointed. By the time he reached the top of the hill overlooking the city and saw Adelaide spread out below him Jason knew that, after all his efforts, he had failed. Cato Brown had got there first.

  He almost gave up but some inherent stubbornness would not let him.

  ‘At least let me get there,’ he told himself and rode on down the hill.

  The river slid silently beneath its new-looking bridge as he crossed it, numbers of people—mounted, in carriages and on foot—passed to and fro through the streets. There were many buildings. Jason did not know where to go. He hailed a passerby, obtained directions and rode his weary horse in the direction indicated.

  He found the building without difficulty, tethered his horse and went inside. In an office adjoining the hallway a clerk, thin and squinch-faced, worked at a sloping desk. The hands of a tall clock pointed to ten past three. In a corner of the room and sitting on a hard wooden chair, Cato Brown.

  Jason walked over to him. The shepherd eyed him cautiously.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ Jason said.

  ‘What you doin’ ’ere?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Same as you, I reckon. Come to register a mining claim.’

  ‘Weren’t no-one supposed to know about it.’

  ‘That Hargreaves tipped Mrs Matlock off.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Seems he reckoned Blake cheated him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past ’im. When did you leave?’

  ‘First light yesterday.’

  Cato’s eyebrows rose. ‘You made good time.’

  ‘I haven’t stopped since I left.’

  ‘Pity you wasted your effort.’

  ‘Your claim’s not registered yet.’

  ‘Will be, though.’ Cato grinned complacently. ‘First come first served, mate.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Jason told him.

  I’m damned if I’ve ridden all this way for nothing, he thought. He walked over to the clerk seated behind his tall desk.

  ‘The Registrar is out,’ the man said before Jason could speak.

  ‘When he comes in, I wonder if you would give him this?’ Politely he proffered Hargreaves’ letter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter from Mr Hargreaves.’

  The clerk eyed it suspiciously. ‘Mr Hargreaves is a friend of the Registrar. How did you come by it?’

  ‘He gave it to me. Mr Hargreaves was very insistent that the Registrar should see it as soon as he came in.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  Jason handed it over; the clerk turned it once or twice in his hands, staring at it dubiously, then went through a doorway into a back room.

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Cato demanded suspiciously.

  ‘A letter for the Registrar,’ Jason explained.

  Cato relaxed, thrusting out booted feet. ‘A letter won’t do no good,’ he declared. ‘You come in second and that’s
an end to it.’

  At the back of the room the door opened. The clerk returned. ‘The Registrar will see you now.’

  In an instant Cato was on his feet and pushing past Jason towards the door.

  ‘Not you,’ the clerk said. ‘The other man.’

  ‘But I got here first,’ Cato protested angrily.

  ‘The Registrar,’ the clerk said, enunciating each word clearly, ‘will see the other gentleman. You will wait your turn.’

  ‘Looks like you came in second after all,’ Jason said, and passed through the open doorway into the Registrar’s office beyond.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Asta wrote to Penrose and a week later, taking Luke Hennessy with her as an escort, she set out to ride to Kapunda.

  The town had grown considerably since she was last here. Stone buildings stood where before there had been bare ground. There were several hotels and shops. There was even a dressmaker, a Mrs Owen, whom Asta visited after she had left her bag at the hotel. For what she had in mind, a new dress was likely to be a useful weapon.

  ‘I may live in the middle of nowhere,’ she told Mrs Owen, ‘but that is no reason not to be up to date in matters of clothing.’ But raised her eyes, nonetheless, at the pictures Mrs Owen showed her of the latest dress style that, it seemed, had just arrived in the colony.

  ‘It is all the rage in Melbourne,’ the dressmaker assured her.

  ‘It looks so outlandish,’ Asta said. ‘Not at all practical.’

  The dressmaker would not agree. ‘It is extremely smart. I believe it will suit madam very well.’

  ‘If you have some material that I like …’ Asta suggested, and spent a happy twenty minutes poring over various bolts of cloth before making her choice: a silk upon which the light played like blue fire. ‘I congratulate you on the range of material you have in stock,’ she said.

  ‘There is plenty of money in Kapunda with all the mines working,’ Mrs Owen told her, hands busy with her tape measure, mouth full of pins. ‘We must just hope it continues.’

  ‘Is there any doubt about it?’

  ‘There are always rumours.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘People are saying that Wheal Sennen may be in trouble.’

  Asta was alarmed. If Wheal Sennen was in trouble perhaps Neu Preussen was, too, and she had a lot of money tied up in that mine. She had never found anyone to represent her in Kapunda but in truth it had not mattered. Lang, meticulous as always, sent her regular statements of income and expenditure, he wrote letters discussing future developments, the price of metal, the state of the workings and the labour force. There had never been any hint of difficulties but she supposed he could have concealed them from her.

  ‘What about Neu Preussen?’ she asked.

  Mrs Owen was able to reassure her. As far as she knew, Neu Preussen was still doing very well.

  Asta was relieved. Apart from her investment, her plans depended upon Neu Preussen continuing in profit.

  After arranging to come in next day for a fitting, Asta left the shop and rode over to the Wheal Sennen mine to meet Joshua Penrose at his house. The miner had obviously been on the lookout for her; he came out to meet her before she had even dismounted.

  ‘Mrs Matlock,’ he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, his florid face beaming. ‘Well, well.’

  If he was surprised that she should visit him unescorted he did not show it; protocol had never been as strict in the colony as in Europe. He led the way to the living room. Asta looked about her with pleasure. The house was much smaller than Lang’s place but a lot more comfortable and she felt at home in it at once. At home, too, with its owner, a feeling that it seemed he shared.

  He served madeira in crystal glasses, raised his own in a toast. ‘Welcome back to Kapunda.’

  She sensed they still had feelings for each other. The last time they had met she had not wanted to take things further but now circumstances had changed.

  ‘I was delighted to get your letter,’ he told her. ‘Absolutely delighted. To think that you’ve found copper on your own land! Tes a miracle, dear Mrs Matlock! A miracle!’ He topped up their glasses. ‘In your letter you talked about wanting my help. It goes without saying that I shall be glad to do anything I can. Of course! But in what way, eh? In what way?’

  Asta decided the direct approach was the best. ‘I want you to come to Whitby Downs and develop the Matlock mine for me.’

  ‘Ah.’ He raised his glass, squinted through it at the colour of the wine, put the glass down on a side table, all the time without looking at her. ‘Ah.’ He got to his feet, walked to the large bay window that filled most of one wall and looked out of it at the countryside extending into the distance.

  Asta watched him, waiting patiently while he pondered.

  Eventually he returned to his chair. He sat down and stared at her, eyes anxious. ‘It wouldn’t do,’ he said. ‘Tes a temptation, I don’t deny it. Oh yes! A compliment, too, and I thank you for it. But entirely out of the question, don’t you see?’

  ‘Why?’

  He gestured at the room with its large, shabby, comfortable furniture, the oil paintings, their images barely visible in the dim light, hanging on the walls, the samples of rock crystals displayed upon a side table. ‘Look about you, ma’am. This is my home. My place is here.’

  ‘You are a miner, Mr Penrose. Your place is wherever there is a good mine to develop.’

  ‘I already have a mine.’

  Her eyes met his. ‘There is talk in the town that Wheal Sennen is in trouble,’ she said.

  He sighed. ‘I see you are well informed. Unhappily tes true enough. Our present ore reserves are running out. But there is more there, I know it.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘You said it yourself, I’m a miner, born and bred. I come from a long line of miners. I can smell it, ma’am, smell it.’

  ‘Then surely you have no problem?’

  ‘The problem is getting to it. Knowing tes there is one thing, putting your hand on it quite another. It means further exploration, you see. Excavation.’ He sighed. ‘It all costs money.’

  Asta frowned. ‘But surely if the mine has been in profit up to now …?’

  ‘Barely, ma’am, barely. Enough to carry on, to pay the wages, but not enough to put anything aside.’

  ‘And the money I paid you for your interest in Neu Preussen?’

  Penrose looked troubled. ‘There were debts,’ he confessed.

  ‘From that land purchase you told me about?’

  ‘In part, ma’am. That was what brought things to a head. But there were other matters, too. The fact is, ma’am, I’m a fair enough miner, though I say it myself, but when it comes to business I somehow never seem to put my feet right.’

  ‘And now? Do you still owe money?’

  ‘Some. Not a great deal,’ he hastened to assure her, ‘but some.’

  ‘Beyond your present capacity to pay?’

  His head hung. ‘I fear so.’

  It was Asta’s turn to consider. ‘I have no money to spare,’ she said. ‘I need everything I have to develop Matlock. But I may be able to help you, all the same.’

  He raised his head to look at her and for the first time there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. ‘How can you do that?’

  ‘You will have to trust me. Tell me,’ she asked, ‘have you spoken to Walter Lang about this?’

  Penrose laughed bitterly. ‘He was the first person I went to. We were partners once, after all. It was no use. He refused to advance me any money at all.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t advance you any money.’ Asta was surprised that Penrose had even thought of such a thing.

  ‘But he knows the copper’s there! His money would be safe!’

  ‘That is why he won’t do it. If the mine closes he will be able to pick it up himself for next to nothing. Then all the copper you say is there will be his.’

  Penrose’s red face fell. ‘I fear I am a lost soul in such matters, ma’
am. A lost soul.’ He beat his clenched fist softly on the arm of his chair. ‘Tell you the truth, ma’am, there are times I wish I’d never heard of Wheal Sennen.’

  ‘I can help you,’ Asta said, ‘but only if you’re willing to come and help me develop the Matlock mine.’

  He stared at her dubiously. ‘Tes a great deal to ask.’

  ‘I need a miner. I know nothing about mining but I seem to have a feel for business. We would make a good team.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t rightly know—’

  ‘That is my price, Mr Penrose,’ she said crisply. ‘I will help you if you help me. Otherwise, no.’

  ‘How do you know there is copper there?’

  She explained how the copper had been found. ‘Mr Hargreaves said it looked very promising.’

  ‘Hargreaves is a surveyor, not a miner.’ But was tempted, Asta saw.

  She stood. ‘I hope you will accept my offer,’ she told him. ‘I am not the expert you are but I believe the copper is there. I am willing to invest money to extract it but I must have an expert and I would like it to be you.’

  ‘I have the mining skills—’ he began grudgingly.

  She interrupted him, looking him in the eyes. ‘Not only for your mining skills,’ she told him softly. She saw his expression change but before he could speak she had turned and walked across to the door. ‘I am staying at the Sir John Franklin hotel,’ she said. ‘When you’ve made up your mind perhaps you will send me word.’

  I have baited the trap, she thought as she rode back through the town. Now it is up to him.

  That evening Joshua Penrose waited on her at the Sir John Franklin hotel. They talked in a small but smartly furnished private drawing room with windows overlooking the main street.

  Asta looked at the miner’s troubled face. ‘You have come to a decision,’ she said.

  ‘I have, ma’am, I have, but I doubt you will like it.’

  ‘You are not coming.’ A statement, not a question.