Bridget Crack

by Rachel Leary

  ‘Is this the way to the road?’

  ‘If you’d stop talking and start walking, you might get somewhere.’ He walked off again. She stopped, watched him until he was almost out of sight.

  When she next caught up to them they were standing together talking, all four of them. She could tell by the way they looked at her that they had been talking about her. Henry gave her a long, dark look before he turned around and started walking again.

  ...

  Henry walked in the lead, Budders behind him, then Matt and then Sam. Bridget yanked her dress off a twig where it had snagged, swore, and hurried after them. They were coming down a hill, holding on to trees to keep their footing. The going was hard with the ground wet and the bush dense. Ahead of Matt, Budders slipped and fell, banging into Henry, who turned sharply.

  ‘Fuck me, if you’re not the most useless bastard…’

  ‘Ain’t my fault it’s muddy.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s fucking muddy—your brains. Your brains is the muddiest thing round here by a long shot.’ Henry hauled the man up by the back of his shirt.

  ‘I can get up meself.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Judging from what I seen you can’t even wipe your arse yourself. Hey, Matt—Budders here reckons he can get up himself.’ Henry reached out a hand and pushed Budders hard. The man slipped, hit the ground backside first, and slid some distance down the bank before getting his feet underneath himself. ‘Well, and so you can. Ain’t that lovely, Matt? He can do it his self.’

  Matt shook his head. Bridget could see that he was not amused.

  Something moved in the bushes nearby then. Henry drew his gun, pointed it in the direction of the sound, his eyes narrowed over the barrel. He slowly lowered the gun and Budders giggled nervously. ‘Stupid roo.’

  The other three men said nothing, resumed walking.

  ‘Stupid roo,’ Budders persisted.

  Henry’s eyes were slits of razor-sharp readiness primed for a target. He turned the cool blade of them on Budders, who fell in quietly behind.

  ...

  They crossed the creek where a log lay across it, followed a track up a hill, fat drops falling through the canopy, her and the men smelling of wet wool, the dogs’ hair wet and flat against their skin.

  The rain came down harder, smacked through the canopy. She felt as though they’d been walking through this forest forever; there was no end to it—it was a wet, cold blanket of moss thrown over her. She needed the walking for warmth now.

  Finally they stopped, stood under a shallow rock overhang behind a tree. Darkness flowed into the spaces between the trees, filled the forest from the ground up, expanded into the whole of the sky. And still it rained. Blades of water stabbing down into the shadows of the forest, the five bodies lined up against the rock wall like prisoners waiting to be shot.

  The rain eased and stopped. Light flowed into the sky like blood returning to a limb, a tingle of sun through the trees.

  ...

  They walked along the side of a lake. A cold wind raked its grey surface. Drizzle turned to rain that needled Bridget’s face as she walked. She felt the insistent prickle of cold as the moisture seeped through the woollen coat. A hill rose up on one side of the lake and most of the landscape was obscured by low cloud. She had the sense of walking further and further into nowhere. Again panic rose in her guts. What the hell was she doing following these men to God knew where? Stupid. Fucking stupid, Crack. Henry and Budders had been moving fast and were now out of sight, Matt about thirty yards ahead.

  She slowed even more and then stopped, walked away from the lake into the scrub that bounded it in the direction she guessed might be south. It got thick quickly and she pushed into it, felt it scratch her thighs through her dress and petticoat. She pushed until the scrub’s canopy got higher and by crouching she could move through it a little. She stopped to rest and at her feet saw a pile of bones, damp fur melding into the ground around them. She stayed there staring and then pushed back out the way she had come, grateful for the openness of the lake.

  She caught up to Matt. ‘I’m going back.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Where is this? There’s no road here.’

  He stopped walking and faced her, flicked his arm at the lake. ‘Go on then. Go back.’

  She watched him walk away and then hurried after him again. Bastard.

  ...

  She smelled the smoke and then the meat. Next to the fire they’d made was the fresh carcass of a scraggly-looking sheep, flesh having been carved off it, flies settling on the wounds.

  By the time darkness arrived the smell of roasting lamb filled the air.

  ...

  Matt was up and down in the night, prowling through the dark, gun at his side. Bridget felt Budders stir, felt him peering through the dark towards where she slept. She lay awake, heard Matt come back. The fire had died down, but she could still see the dark shape of him among the trees. He came back for the fourth or fifth time, this time stood close to where she lay. The blanket was no match for the frigid night air. Fingernails of cold reached through it, through her clothes, scratched at her skin.

  ...

  They walked through deep mud enclosed under a canopy thick enough to block the sun. Light broke through in a patch where a tree had smashed through the canopy and now lay rotting, as peaceful in its death as it was thunderous in its dying. In other places light slipped through gaps in the canopy, highlighting droplets of water that held shakily to fern fronds. Small birds twittered and hopped, their tiny eyes live, tails flashing. Their chatter formed a layer of sound underneath the dogs’ hard rhythmic panting, underneath the squelch of sodden ground.

  All morning Matt had been surly, had spoken in clipped grunts. One of the dogs hesitated at jumping a fallen log and he picked the dog up in one swift movement and threw it to the other side. The trunk of the tree was high enough that Bridget didn’t see the dog land, but heard its yelp. The next time she saw it, it was limping.

  She walked behind Matt, watched the back of his calves until they were not calves anymore, were nothing more than motion. His legs had become two things that slid past each other in a steady rhythm. Not muscle, not human, but movement. Mud flew up behind his boots. A drop of water sat on top of a leaf, shivered as his boot caught the stem of the leaf and pushed it down, the drip slid down the leaf onto the damp ground and was gone.

  ...

  A fern-fringed creek, sun filtering into the gully. Matt and Sam stood on rocks in the middle of the creek, crouched down, cupping their hands to scoop water, rays of sunlight on them. Henry laughed. ‘Ain’t that a sight. You boys look ever so pretty with that light on ya like that. Like a pair a bloody angels.’

  Matt let out a long ‘laaaa’, heavy with sarcasm.

  Henry frowned, looked confused. ‘I’d be bloody hoping angels can sing better than that.’ He stepped across rocks onto the other bank. ‘What was that noise?’

  ‘It were a fucking la, weren’t it? You deaf or something?’

  ‘La?’

  ‘Yeah. La.’

  ‘Do it again.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Do it again.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, we don’t have time to be la-ing.’

  ‘Well, now you say it. Now you say we don’t have time to be la-ing when just a second ago you was standing there doing it. Wasn’t he, eh, Sam? He was just la-ing then and now he says, “Oh, we’ve got no time to be la-ing.” Bloody confusing, ain’t he? La-ing then no la-ing. Well, fuck me.’

  Matt stepped over the rocks and brushed past Henry, went up the hill, Sam following behind him. For a second Henry didn’t do anything, then he put his head back and laughed, his great mouth open to the sky.

  ...

  She followed them along a creek through more forest, where grey light permeated down into the humus-y murk, black soil and wet tree trunks, no horizon. She tripped on tree roots, slipped on wet logs. Her heels were so painful that
she clenched her jaw to stop herself crying. Her whole body ached, the bottom of her dress was even more ripped and was muddy all the way up to her knees. Uphill again. She sat down against a rock. Didn’t care what happened—they could leave her there. She wasn’t going any further. She took her boots off. The backs of her heels were a mess of broken skin; the skin where her stockings were shredded was decorated in black leeches fat with her blood. Bridget sat there on the wet ground. She heard the sound of him coming back.

  He stood above her. ‘We’re going up to the mountains,’ he said. ‘Be there a while, come down to the road later on.’

  ‘Isn’t this the mountains?’

  ‘No.’

  He offered his hand to help her up. She took it, let him pull her to her feet.

  ...

  Henry made his way jauntily through the open undergrowth, whistling, the dogs at his heels. His form was flooded with sunlight then coated in shade, light and then shade, light, shade until they headed downhill again and the ground got damp and the flickering stopped. They crossed a small creek and began another ascent. Bridget’s boots were sopping, her heels raw, and walking hurt like hell.

  ...

  They spent the night sheltered against a rock wall, in the morning trudged uphill. From the top of the hill there was a view of the country all around. Rolls of hills washed in blue, small lakes glinting like coins and, in the distance, jagged mountains capped with snow. A cold wind blew across the ridge. Henry stood on a slab of rock, took the telescope away from his eye. ‘Looks like pickings.’ He passed the telescope to Matt.

  ‘Gimme a look. Gimme a look.’ Budders danced around next to Matt.

  Matt lowered the telescope. ‘Who do you think they are?’

  Down below them were two small lakes. At the far end of the biggest there were two tents, just visible, pitched close to a cart. Smoke rose up from near the tents. As Bridget watched she saw a figure come out of one of the tents and walk across to the cart.

  ‘Well, they ain’t redcoats,’ Henry said. ‘And there’s one way to find out, ain’t there? Reckon they might like some visitors, whoever they are.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Budders said. ‘Yeah, reckon they might like some visitors.’

  ...

  Matt grabbed one of the dogs, put a rope around its neck and tied it to a tree, then tied the other one with it. He turned to Bridget. ‘Stay here. Don’t move.’

  She was glad; sat down on the ground near the dogs and watched the men wind their way down the hill through the trees until they were out of sight. She could just see the tents at the end of the lake.

  One of the dogs started whimpering and then sat down and stared at her, wagging its tail expectantly.

  There was a shout and now there were five figures in view. One man stood a few yards from the tent while four men faced him—Matt, Henry, Sam and Budders. Another man came out of the tent, joined the first one. Then Budders went into the tent, came out with something that he gave to Henry.

  The smaller dog Higgins barked. Bridget turned to see two men coming down the hill straight towards her, guns by their sides. The dogs were jumping, howling, straining at their ropes. She got up and took off down the hill, the men running after her.

  Matt and Henry—they were standing at the bottom of the slope, guns pointed through the trees.

  The two men stopped on the slope above her.

  ‘Put them down and walk down here, slowly.’ Henry’s voice, deep and gravelly.

  The men squatted, put their guns down. They walked past her and Matt came up and grabbed her, pushed her ahead of him, and they followed Henry, the two men in front of him, his gun pointed at the middle of their backs.

  There was a bullock behind the cart, tied to it. The back of the cart was laden with goods. Matt was pulling things off, going through sacks and crates.

  Budders came out of the tent again, held up a knapsack. ‘Got one.’

  Henry said something, pointed behind him to a pile Matt had made on the ground.

  Matt and Henry had tied up the men who had surprised her on the hill and the two others, were now forcing them to drink rum from a barrel. One of them said something to Matt who put his gun close to the man’s head. ‘Do you want to die?’

  Matt came over to where she stood and grabbed her wrist, ‘Let’s go.’

  She pulled her arm away from him.

  She knew. She’d already known. But now there was no doubting it. Bushrangers—they were bushrangers.

  The sun hit the water, spat and sparkled there. Tiny bits of shell in the sand shone silver. Water rushed in and spread itself over the sand then withdrew only to return again in a splish seconds later. It would do this all day. And all throughout the night in the dark the rhythmic splish would ripple the silence, again and again. An eternity of persistence without achievement, Captain Marshall thought; wondered if his own life was much different. What futility. Absolute and pure futility. He could not see the point in anything today.

  There were five horses and carts parked above the beach, the ladies all sitting on blankets at the top of the sand, their parasols held above them. Mr Bainbridge and Mr Humphrey walked along the beach, deep in conversation, both of them with their hands behind their backs. Jane sat alone on the rugged rock point that headed out into the bay, looking out over the water and then back at her canvas. Always painting. ‘She’ll never get a husband, always painting like that,’ Eleanor said. Marshall had said that he didn’t know that securing a husband was Jane’s aim, particularly. ‘That is just what I mean,’ Eleanor said. ‘What does a woman want with all that painting?’ She gave him a confounded, irritated look and walked away.

  Marshall stood behind the women on the rocks at the top of the beach. The boats in the cove were still today, not a trace of rocking in their hulls. Mrs Bainbridge moved her parasol to the side, leaned back. ‘It’s a darling little sandy bay, Mr Marshall. Wouldn’t you say? I am most glad to have come upon it.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Indeed it is.’

  He looked over at Jane again, walked over towards the rocks.

  ...

  In the afternoon cloud came in and turned dark. Splotches of rain fell onto the women’s parasols. They squealed and hurried to the carts, Jane coming over last and smiling her lovely conspiratorial smile at him. They are silly, aren’t they? her smile said. We know they are silly, you and I. We are not like them. We are not silly. This was, he knew, one of the things that had turned Eleanor against his sister; her constant affirmation of their difference from Eleanor, her insistence—communicated in these small ways—that she and her brother were a team that Eleanor was not on. And it was true, Jane was not like Eleanor at all, but Richard himself was not nearly as much like Jane as she thought he was; he lacked her will and courage entirely, but if she had not noticed that, he was glad, for he sometimes felt that her good opinion was the only one he had. Everyone else saw him as lacking, saw his weaknesses, he was sure. And they were probably far more correct than Jane. Jane had always loved him. For no good reason. She just did. And for that, he was immensely grateful.

  The sky had turned darker, a cold breeze lashed at them from the water, where the waves had turned messy, the water gone from blue to dead grey. Loose bits of brown seaweed slewed back and forth near the shore. ‘Goodness me,’ Mrs Bainbridge said, hauling herself up onto the cart among her skirts. ‘I do hope no one catches cold. We shall all be needing a bath!’

  ...

  Eleanor pulled impatiently at the ties on her dress, steam rising from the bath beside her. Marshall could feel the accusation in her body. It was almost always there. Everything that went wrong, any discomfort of hers was his fault. All of Eleanor’s hurt seemed to become anger, and her anger a fire. He could not for the life of him work out how to get behind the hot wall of it.

  ...

  In his study he stood by the window, held the curtain aside. Down below he saw the servant girl, Martha, cross the yard with a pail of water. He wondered about Bridget—she
had been reassigned to the Interior, he’d been told. He recalled how sometimes he had sat here at his desk and found himself drawn to get up and cross the room and look down into the yard. Even now that she had been gone some time she continued to enter his thoughts. He did not know at all what had caused his interest in her. Had it been the unsettling sea-green eyes? The mole that sat teasingly above her lip near the side of her mouth, which might have been ugly but instead was—he had to admit—enticing? She’d been sharp, he thought, clever.

  ‘The wonderful thing about women of lower classes is that they can’t ask anything of you.’ He recalled his cousin Laurence, pouring whiskey. And then Jane: ‘If I can do something, one little thing to leave the world better than when I found it, I will be happy.’

  Marshall let the curtain go, walked over to the bookshelf and balled his fist, put his head against the flat of it. He wished he had not come here. It was supposed to have been a blank slate. In his mind he scoffed at that idea now. How stupid of him. What slate was ever blank? One took one’s marked and damned soul with one wherever he went. He had been unhappy in England. His father was critical of him and his marriage to Eleanor was like a fur: an adornment missing its animal. It had been his mother’s idea, of course—their union. Eleanor’s family had good social standing and, his mother said, she was ‘a fine-looking girl’. She had then reminded him of his age, that he was no longer young.

  It had been his father’s idea that he join the army and it had never suited him. He had joined at sixteen and was thirty when, after the end of the war, his battalion was disbanded. He’d lived on half-pay in his father’s house then, filled his time with reading. Jane had become involved with the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, passed him abolitionist literature. Perhaps it was all the death he’d seen, perhaps the new ideas stirring in him—he found himself increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin. Thinking his discontent in part due to the excess of time on his hands, he took an administrative post in India. However, he was not there long before he became very ill and returned to England.