She soon had Jenny chatting merrily of what she had seen in the township, but Nessa could not banish thoughts of John Reid so easily. If only Philip were fully grown and she were not still tied. Then she was swamped in guilt. Where did such a wish come from? She was never so grateful to hear the shrieks of children barrelling out and demanding she rule on their latest spat. It kept her fully occupied, mind and body, until she could escape to her translation work.
Mrs Fleming had not exaggerated when she said Nessa would be doing a favour as much as receiving one, but it had not taken her long to become as fond of wee Jenny as were all the young couple’s many friends—nor to realise what her past must have been before she married. The only places for a poor, single woman to work were the profusion of bar rooms that sprang up wherever there was a trace of gold and a collection of miners. It should never have happened to Jenny, and she had swiftly joined in the conspiracy of former workmates to make sure Jenny Brown would never have to work in such a place again. Her husband Caleb was as well-liked and as incapable of surviving in this place as she.
Yet for all their poverty, their simple hut was a place filled with a rare beauty. The man could make the finest of furniture from the offcuts of buildings, all that was available here in a place where wood was a scarce luxury, and Jenny was an expert needlewoman. The pity was that neither seemed to realise their skills could earn them far more than Caleb’s luckless digging, and both tended to give away work that could be sold for a fortune in the thriving township. Their friends had to keep constant watch.
Sitting at her desk that afternoon, Nessa looked at the card she had put in the window of the general store. “Anyone asking about this,” she said to Henry Maxwell, the storeowner, as she tapped a finger on the message board.
“Yes, and I gave them directions to the Brown place and told them to visit in the evening when Caleb gets home, just like you said, Miss Nessa.”
“Thank you.”
“I shoulda told ’em to make sure you be there too, so those two wouldn’t be fleeced like the innocent lambkins they be,” he added chuckling.
“Mr and Mrs Brown have been very good to me,” Nessa said blushing.
“And who would guess a fine lady such as yourself could get a man like Caleb Brown to drive a decent bargain with anyone?”
Nessa refused to answer that. She and Henry Maxwell had come to a fair understanding in her weeks here. Her translating business brought him good custom. In return, he treated her with courtesy and respect and refrained from trying to get her married off. It didn’t stop his irrepressible sense of humour. Fortunately, the man was already married himself.
Soon a line formed outside the shop, and she was busy with requests. German, French, Italian, Greek and the strange Spanish of the Californians who came out here. It was a dialect she was not familiar with but she could tell a man what his precious miner’s licence and claim form meant. Sometimes, she thought, it was not the meaning of the words they needed as much as to hear the sound of home.
It was a nice thought. It helped to push away that other one. The one that hurt.
He was not coming back.
“Sorry, gentlemen, my sister is closing early today.”
They stood in the doorway. Philip and the man she had not expected to see again. John Reid. The room fell silent. Not because of Philip’s order. No, it was the look on John Reid’s face and the stillness of his big body. His powerful frame blocked the door as he entered and stood to one side. Men began to file out and soon there were just four. Then three. The shopkeeper had disappeared with a nod from the run holder.
She refused to look at him. “What do you think you are doing?” she said to her brother. John Reid let her, made no attempt to openly engage her attention or accept the blame. He stood there, that tyrannical silence doing his work for him as he allowed Philip his head. She glared, once only, and briefly, but the slight quirk of his lips and a pleased look in his eyes told her he understood.
“It has come to my attention,” said Philip at his most pompous, “that the current arrangements for your accommodation are quite unsuitable.”
“Oh, and where did you hear that?”
He flicked his hand, knowing her well enough to straighten his back in defence, yet misguided enough to continue with ordering her life. “I know, and therefore others must also. Your reputation and safety in this township are no longer secure.”
“Balderdash. I am as safe here as anywhere in this country.”
He ignored her. “I have decided that the only possible solution is for you to come back with me to my claim.”
The silence that hit the room was totally unlike that before. Mr John Reid’s mouth dropped. It was the only satisfaction Nessa could find in Philip’s plan. This was not what John Reid had planned to happen.
“You think a mining camp, where there are only men, safer than a township where I am known, and where I have a business which is important enough to ensure that my clients will act against anything that threatens me?”
“For a single woman, clearly living with and being protected by a brother as opposed to having her only male relative visit occasionally? Yes.”
She glared at him. There was an obvious rejoinder to that. What sort of protection did he think a youth such as he gave her against the hardened miners of this place? But she could not hurt his pride by saying it. He had just effectively stymied her, leaving her fuming and trapped.
“Give me two hours to collect my things and say my farewells.”
“You are not going back to that house. I will do all that is necessary.”
But that she refused. Finally, even Philip realised she would not be moved on this, and reluctantly agreed she could go if he went with her. Her face grim, she gathered up her things, said her farewells, apologised to Mr Maxwell and started to walk out the door. Someone grabbed at her arm. John Reid. All this time he had stood silent, his face as grim as hers. Now he held her arm, stopping her from moving farther. She looked down, as if in irritation. Philip was a bit ahead and had not seen.
“You’re not going through with this, are you? You must know how dangerous such a place is.”
“Yes, Mr Reid, I am. Thanks to your interference, I have no other choice. Good day.” She brushed him off and whisked out the door, breaking his stunned clasp as if it were nothing.
She knew his eyes followed her up the hill, yet he made no attempt to follow her. Maybe he had discovered there were places even his authority did not reach. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
She trudged on and hated the gritty dampness that made her rub briskly at her eyes. She saw Jenny. “Men,” was all she could say in explanation. At least it was honest. Jenny could think what to tell Caleb.
“You will look after yourself?” Jenny asked, regardless of the insult Nessa was sure she had given her. Tears pricked at her eyes again. She never cried!
“Mr Maxwell has promised to tell his customers how good you are at needlework, and will pass on any orders,” she said gruffly. Then gave Jenny a quick, hard hug, picked up her bag and walked out the door to where Philip waited. In silence, she let him take it from her as they started on the long walk towards the diggings and away from the town.
She had nearly found a home here. She had found friends. Now both were gone—again. Would this wandering never end? And John Reid had done this to her. The hurt grew, harder and deeper than she ever remembered. John had done this.
Philip’s campsite was as primitive as she feared. Worse, he shared it with three others. Not much older than Philip, they were still old enough to eye her, considering. Nessa clutched her bag close to her chest and put on her firmest, schoolmarm’s voice. The one that always brought Philip into line. Fortunately, her only clothes were prim and workmanlike calico gowns, tough enough to survive the rigours of the fields. Anything pretty and feminine would have been a decided mistake with these men. She needed distraction and looked around the campsite. It didn’t take long. Four men to cook and
clean for, and little to do it with, it seemed. There would be work enough to keep her busy at least.
It was still only just after midday when they arrived. So much had happened, so much changed, but the gold called and there were still plenty of working hours left in the day. Shortly after her arrival, the men returned to their work. Philip stayed long enough to pitch her a small tent for her personal use, show her the rudiments of the camp and where the food was kept, then left her to it, disappearing over the bluff leading to the river. She gasped, and hurried to the edge of the bank, then wished she hadn’t. It was a rough, steep path down to the swirling waters below, impossible to negotiate without the knotted rope Philip had used to make his way down. A second rope lay nearby, anchored in a primitive pulley. For bringing up gold and taking down supplies, she could only guess. Nervously she clung to the rope as she peered over the edge. There were the other three men, so very far below.
“Nessa, get back from the edge before you fall.” Philip had seen her and stopped to shout at her from his precarious perch halfway down the bank.
For an instant, she was tempted to tell her young brother exactly what she thought of him. Fall was it! Safe enough for him but not for her. She then looked down at her cumbersome skirts and at the new strength in his arms. She stepped back as ordered. Then turned to properly review her new home.
A fireplace. The makeshift canvas lean-to where the men slept. Three rocks by the fire for seats. Up and down the banks, she saw similar arrangements, but no washing lines, no gowns hung out to dry, no shrieks of children’s laughter. Nothing to suggest the presence of another woman. There was little sound from the other camps, but noise still pervaded the area: the sound of gravel scraping, of stones falling, of the splash of water ladled into the ever-rocking cradles, of men talking in the short bursts that was all their heavy toil allowed.
She eyed the bank, thought of the rope and the hard climb it would take Philip to get back.
“Keep me safe, will you?” she muttered. “By the time you got back up here, I could be violated ten times over and be dead in my grave.”
That the words were true made them no less annoying; but she would not let it beat her. “Since you made me come here, don’t complain if I inflict some civilisation on you,” she huffed angrily, and set to tidying up the area and bringing some order to the rough and ready arrangements.
When the men emerged from the riverbank that evening, she had to wonder why she had bothered. They were too exhausted by the hard hours in the blazing sun to do more than grunt their thanks before falling on the mutton stew with damper and the plum pudding—all that the basic supplies she had found made possible and which she guessed to be their unchanging fare.
Tom, George and Ted. These were the names of her new camp mates. They introduced themselves more fully once the food had eased their hunger and weariness. Tom said little, blushing slightly when she directed any comment to him, but confining his answers to one or two words only. Shy, not used to women, she judged, yet still he studied her whenever he thought she was not looking. It seemed unlikely he would do more without encouragement. George was more vocal. She reminded him of his own sisters, he told her warmly, and by the end of the evening had accepted her as enough of a replacement for them to produce a sizeable pile of darning and mending for her attention. He could not resist a mild flirtation, but his genial ease kept it harmless enough.
It was Ted who made her most wary. Almost as silent as Tom, she could feel him watching her all evening. Sharp black eyes tracking over her body and slithering over every curve she possessed. She hunched a bit, to look as frumpy as possible, and avoided talking. She slept little that night, one eye unconsciously fixed on the opening to her tent, and kept her pistol closeby and loaded.
It was no better in the morning. She had lived in enough primitive places to know when she was not safe. This was the same. Always in the past she had been able to take protective action. This time, thanks to her brother, she couldn’t. She avoided all talk with Ted, but didn’t fool herself it made a difference. At dinner time, Ted went out of his way to sit close to her then insisted on helping her carry a pail of water, bringing his arm around her to take it when he thought Philip was not watching.
Then came the evening, the time by the campfire and the talk after the meal when the men managed to regain some energy in the long, southern gloaming. The talk drifted here and there at first, the general talk of men anywhere: of the small doings of the day, where the gold might be, who had been heard to make a strike and who had given up to go home, broken and penniless.
Gradually it changed. It was Ted who directed it. Mild comments, nothing she could object to, but with look and insinuation, he slowly changed the flow. She fell silent and drew nearer to Philip and could feel the growing tension in him. Then, finally, came a comment too personal, too pointedly a reference to any pleasure she might wish to dispense. She began to rise but was stopped by Philip, his arm hard on hers. He wasn’t looking at her, but his face wore an expression she had never seen before, hard and adult. He pulled her back to her seat and rose instead.
“Light’s still good. Too good to yarn the night away talking a load of nonsense. How about a shooting contest? No harm in keeping our eye in. You never know what kind of character is lurking round these parts.”
Tom and George brightened.
“Not in front of a lady like your sister here. Might scare such a pretty young lady,” said Ted.
“Oh, you’ll find my sister has more pluck than that. She has her own pistol and was taught long ago by our father how to use it.”
Ted’s face said it all. Disbelief warring with a need to show off his abilities. He shrugged. “Why not?”
In no time, the targets were set up. Crossed twigs of matagouri held a carefully balanced stone, placed on a rock up the hill and well away from any possible passerby.
“Best of five rounds?”
The others nodded and all four young men suddenly produced pistols which had been variously concealed in their clothes. Nessa felt even less safe than before. Young, brash and armed. That was who she had to contend with?
The others were competent enough, each of the three hitting the twigs on four out of the five shots and sending the stones balanced on top of the twigs flying. Philip had a clean five out of five, as she had known he would.
By the fifth round, Philip was the clear winner, but none of the others could resist when he suggested they make it a bit harder and add a wager for interest. By this time, the shots had attracted curious miners from the nearby camps. Always eager for anything to break the monotonous toil, the onlookers egged the young men on. Some joined in, keen to show off their own skills, and an impromptu knock-out contest developed. George and Tom were soon eliminated but stood goodnaturedly to one side, urging on Philip and Ted. “Keep up the honour of the claim,” they loudly called. More men stepped up to try themselves but gradually all were dropped, Ted among them. Eventually, Philip stood supreme, a cocky grin on his face and a gathering cloud of black smoke testament to the volley of shots he had fired off, all with the same, lethal accuracy.
“Not bad, boy. Can you shoot a rifle as well?”
“Better, old man. Better by far. If there was any game left here with all the noise going on, the boys and I would be feasting large every night.”
There was a general chorus of laughter at this. Boastful it might sound, but the miners had seen the proof of the young lad’s marksmanship for themselves and were fair enough to grant Philip his well deserved honours.
“So has anyone ever out-shot you,” called out Ted, a sullen note in his voice. There was an answering hardness in Philip’s face beneath the genial mask. Nessa guessed only she knew him well enough to recognise it.
“Not yet,” Philip called back. “Not even close, excepting my sister Nessa here.” And he swung round, bringing her with startling suddenness to the notice of the entire crowd. It was a warm evening. They had all worked hard, and the m
iners were enjoying this unexpected entertainment. They were all reluctant for it to end, and she could see Philip’s words promised a novel twist. Her heart sank.
“Your sister, you say. You claiming that wee slip of a girl can outshoot you?”
“Not me, boys. Most any of you, yes, but not me.”
There was a good-natured growling amongst the men.
“Let’s see it them. Come on, Missy. Show us what you can do.”
Nessa’s face was bright red by now, and she glared angrily at Philip as she was prodded forward.
“Better hope her aim ain’t too good, young feller. Looks like she’s planning to use your backside for target practice.”
“I’m tempted,” Nessa found herself calling back, then clamped her mouth shut. Where had that come from?
“Far rock, best of three,” said Philip beside her. “Take a couple of warm up shots first to get your eye in.”
She stomped forward. “This is a new gun, you dolt. Apart from those practice sessions we had, I’ve haven’t used it,” she hissed angrily.
“I know, but you don’t have to beat me. Best you don’t in fact. Just show them you can shoot.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her gun, cocked it and checked the sights. There was a gasp around her.
“You carry that gun all the time, Missy?”
“Always,” she called back to the crowd, still annoyed at Philip and the rest of these stupid men. “And I keep it loaded.”
She lined her target up, letting off a couple of quick shots at the base of the rock. Dust flew up and an eerie silence fell. She nodded to Philip, who extravagantly waved her to go first. The targets had been set up a way off, still in range but near the limit at which she felt confident with this gun. She stood square, legs apart to brace herself and lined up her gun. Beside her, Philip did the same, aiming for the target beside hers. They fired at the same time. Up the hill, a man ran in to check the results, then stood, both arms lifted high. “Both true,” he yelled. The silence got even tenser.
Mary Brock Jones Page 11
