by Rachel Leary
Matt had said he was going to take her to the road from Jacobson’s but she knew he wasn’t going to. Earlier she’d seen a track that went around the side of the hut, disappeared into trees behind it. It might go to the road. She could follow it and see, try to find her way to the road on her own. But what would she tell a constable? Who would believe her? No one was going to believe her. They’d put her back in the stocks, or in that cell, then send her wherever, and to whomever, they wanted. Or worse.
At first light Matt rolled over, took something from his pocket, held a necklace out in front of her. Silver, the pendant with a light pink stone in the middle surrounded by diamonds. ‘Put it on.’
She hesitated. She had never touched anything so valuable. He watched as she fumbled with the clasp. She felt the coldness and foreignness of the pendant against her skin.
Matt lay back again, arms behind his head, looking at the top of the A-frame. ‘We’ll get a boat, go to China,’ he said. ‘Live like kings there,’ he said.
‘Live like kings.’
...
The men came down the slope, knapsacks on. ‘Mighty pleasant down here, ain’t it?’ Henry said.
They crossed the creek, the morning overcast and still. Bridget went last. As she reached the other bank she paused there, looked back at the track that snaked around behind the hut.
2
THE ROTTENNESS OF BONES
Days chucked on top of days—a pile of time, everything made of walking. Wood, dirt, sky and water. The dogs and the men. Her own smell and theirs. Rain. Rain so that it was all there was: a curtain of water dropped over the world. Stinking wet. And then: a field. A hut. They circled around behind it among the trees. She smelled the river before she saw it—wide and flat. The hut they stopped at was built close to the bank, a boat tied up to a narrow jetty. The man they called Doyle, pallid and bony with a sneer for a smile, eyed her suspiciously.
Matt said they would be back within a day. She was to stay there. Stay put. Don’t go out, keep the shutter closed, don’t open the door to anyone.
In the pre-dawn darkness the men left the hut, Doyle with them. She heard the dogs barking; the men must have left them behind, tied them up with the other dog that had been there when they arrived. Then nothing. Bark of a dog, crack of the fire, the thuck thuck of the cocky.
There was a dried sinew tied around the bird’s leg then tied to the leg of the table, the sinew about ten inches long. A white cocky. Now and then it would have a fit, flap its wings making a thucking sound, jump up and down, pull at the sinew. Then it would go quiet again, stand still by the table leg, only to start the thucking and pulling again. All night it had done it, Bridget awake in the dark listening to it.
There was a knife on the table. As she sat there she thought about cutting the sinew, taking the bird outside and letting it go. Dawn light was leaking in under the door. It would fly out into the morning. If it could still fly.
She wondered what this river was, where it would take her if she followed it. If it might go to Hobart Town, how far it would be. She thought again about that man Jacobson saying he’d heard she was with them. She wondered where China was, what it was like there. Maybe it would be a good place. She wondered then how far it was from there to England, felt the pendant. It would be worth enough to get back to England. She was sure it would be.
The bird had stopped for a while, started up again now, this time thwacking against the table leg that was a cut tree branch. Her gaze fell on the knife on the table again. But she didn’t move, only stared at the knife, sat listening to the bird tugging against the sinew.
...
She did go outside. Walked down to the river’s edge and looked up and down. The sky was dirty white and low, the surface of the water grazed by a cold breeze. All the dogs were barking and crying, jumping and pulling on their ropes. She took wood from the stack at the side of the hut, added it to the simmering fire inside. Ate Doyle’s meat and bread, smoked his tobacco. Sat watching the line of light under the door. Wondered if they would come back. What she would do if they didn’t. After a while of sitting, getting up, walking around the hut, picking things up and putting them down again, she lay down by the fire.
...
She woke to the sound of the oars on the side of the boat, heard them coming to the hut, stood up. Then the men all barrelling in, the dogs with them, Higgins rushing at the bird, Doyle’s boot connecting with him before he got to it, sending him sprawling across the hut floor. Not long after they were leaving, walking fast away from the hut into the trees behind it.
Walking again, ceaseless trudging, pushing into punishing scrub. A flea, a flea trying to get through the bristles of a massive beast, all the jump worked out of it. A worn-out, staggering flea.
...
Damp white breath of God, clinging to the hills. The hiss of His exhale. The flat lands behind them, the expressionless faces of black rock mountains.
...
The river ran wide, steep and shallow over smooth brown rocks, the roar of it loud enough that the men had to yell to hear each other. The forest they had come through was open, blond grass growing between the trees. They crossed it on a log and soon after came to a hut surrounded by tall gums. Immediately in front was cleared, a few fat black stumps sticking up out of the ground. As they walked towards it a pack of dogs came rushing at them, barking. Caesar and Higgins were welcomed into the crowd with wagging tails and noses shoved into their arseholes. ‘Some bloody welcome,’ Henry said, watching them. ‘I wouldn’t be putting up with that. Would you, Matt? Would you put up with that?’
‘Depends who was licking my arse.’
Henry’s body jiggled as he walked. ‘Dirty bastard.’
The hut was dark and low to the ground. At one end of it was a smaller hut, this one open-fronted, timber with a shingle roof. Inside it hung a mass of kangaroo skins. A shot went off, the bullet passing Henry’s right shoulder. ‘Bloody oath. What the…? Stupid old bastard. Nearly bloody shot me.’
‘Sully, you old bastard, what the bloody hell are you doing?’ Henry yelled.
The hut door opened further and a man stood in the doorway, wild grey hair and beard obscuring most of his face. ‘Oh, it’s you. Heard the dogs making a bloody racket. What do you want?’
‘Just passing through.’
Sully eyed the group, looked over at Bridget and nodded in greeting.
‘Matt picked her up,’ Henry said.
Sully looked at Matt, who seemed to be blushing as he stepped into the hut.
It was crowded inside, just one room, a fire going up one end, a hammock in one corner, barrels stacked under it, a wide shelf piled high with all manner of tins and rope and bottles and leather. Near the fire there was an armchair, upholstered in green fabric with pale pink flowers through it. It was faded, ripped and worn on the arms and the seat of it was sunken.
Matt squatted next to the fire.
‘S’pose you want tea? I’m not making it for ya. You know where everything is. Make it yourself.’ Sully sat down in the armchair.
‘No water in the bucket here,’ Henry said.
‘Whole bloody river full of it out there. Go and get some, ya lazy bastard.’
‘Budders,’ Henry said, ‘go and get water.’
‘How come I have to?’
‘Go and get some fucking water.’
Budders went out. Matt sat where he was, played with a knife, turning the blade over, while Henry looked for tea.
Bridget stood awkwardly behind the chair where Sully was.
‘Sit down, for God’s sake, you’re making me tired,’ Sully said without turning around.
She looked for somewhere to sit, found a drum and sat on that.
Budders came back slopping water on the floor, earning a clip around the head from Matt.
Later, with his tea, Matt leaned against the window frame while Budders sat on the floor next to Sully’s chair.
Sully looked into his cup then drank. ‘S
’pose you heard the reward’s gone up?’
Matt glanced at Henry. ‘Who said that?’
Sully got up, walked over to a crowded bench, picked up a newspaper and threw it down in front of Matt.
‘How much?’ Henry said.
‘One hundred guineas,’ Sully said.
‘One hundred guineas?’ Budders stood up. ‘We’s worth one hundred bloody guineas.’
He stood over the paper, close to Matt. Matt looked up at him, a warning in his eye, and Budders moved.
Sully sat. ‘Gov’nor swears he’s gunna be rid of the lot of ya. Talking about some new law that all shepherds have to have a supervisor, make sure they’re not helping bushrangers.’ He looked up at Henry, across at Matt.
‘Bullshit,’ Henry said. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘He’s the bloody gov’nor, can do what he likes just about. Fixing to make an example of ya.’
Matt looked at Henry. He appeared to be growing more uncomfortable. Henry was serious, not a trace of a grin on his face now. Matt went over to the open door. ‘What about a boat?’
‘What about one?’ Sully said.
‘Steal one. Find a bloke that can sail.’
‘S’pose you could. And go where?’
Matt didn’t say anything; he was looking out the door.
‘Yeah,’ Budders said, ‘a boat. We’ll get a boat.’
‘Go to China,’ Sam said.
‘China?’ Sully said, a trace of mocking in his tone. ‘Tell ya what I’d do if I were you.’
Matt looked over at him. ‘What?’
‘I’d wear out me frigging knees.’
Sam looked up, confused.
Henry laughed a bit. ‘Fat lot a good that’ll do us.’
Sam looked to Henry for explanation. ‘Pray,’ Henry said, a slight grin again, but gone quickly now. ‘We should pray.’
‘Men like us don’t pray,’ Matt said.
Sully stood up. ‘Just an idea.’
‘Well it’s bullshit.’ Matt snapped.
Sully turned, challenge in his eyes. They stood about a yard apart.
‘What would you know, anyway? About any of this? Who do you think you are? Do you think God’s going to listen to me? To give me any bloody thing? Or him.’ He pointed at Henry. ‘Or him.’ At Budders now.
‘Gived me a big dick,’ Budders said, grinning. ‘A big fat dick.’
Matt’s gaze was on Sully. ‘What the hell are we to God? You shoot a man, that’s it, you have no fucking God. You are on your own. You are on your fucking own.’
‘Then get a fucking boat,’ Sully said, and he pushed past Matt and went out the door.
Matt turned and drove his fist into a crate behind him. The thing shattered.
‘Alright,’ Henry said. ‘Easy. Take it easy.’
Matt and Henry stood close enough to inhale each other’s breath, their eyes glimmering.
Matt sat down heavily in the chair by the fire, one fist curled around the other, his chin resting on them.
One of the dogs stood outside the door looking up at Henry, wagging its tail. Henry squatted down. It came forward and he rubbed under its jaw.
...
A Proclamation
By His Excellency Colonel GEORGE ARTHUR, Lieutenant Governor of the Island of Van Diemen’s Land and its Dependencies
WHEREAS Matthew Sheedy, Henry Evans, Samuel Merriweather and William Budworth (for whom Apprehension Rewards have already been offered) yet remain at large and have lately added to their Crimes of Murder and other Personal Outrage and Plunder by an unprovoked Attack on the Premises and Property of William Effingham Lawrence at Lake River: NOW THEREFORE, for the Protection of the Settlers at this Important Time, I DO HEREBY PROCLAIM, that, instead of the Rewards already offered any Persons who may apprehend any of the Offenders before named shall immediately receive from the Government the sum of One Hundred Guineas, or (at their election) One Hundred Acres of Land, free from all restrictions: And if the Offenders shall be apprehended by prisoners, such prisoners shall receive a Free Pardon: AND I DO HEREBY FURTHER PROCLAIM that any person who may apprehend Bridget Crack (5 ft. 3 in. light brown hair, green eyes, 21 years of age, arrived per Faith, native place Suffolk, absconded from Black Marsh, October 7, 1826) having absented herself from her usual place of residence and lately suspected to be in the company of the before named Offenders, will immediately receive from the Government the sum of Fifty Guineas, or (at their election) Fifty Acres of Land, free from all restrictions: And if the Offender shall be apprehended by prisoners, such prisoners shall receive a Free Pardon.
...
Bridget went outside, stood on the bank looking down into the flow of the river. She heard him coming, flicked around to face him as he got within a few yards of her. ‘Get away from me. Get away!’ The screeching ripped out of her and he stopped in his tracks. He stood there staring at her and retreated; turned around and strode back towards the hut.
...
That night she lay on the floor of the hut, unfolded the letter. By the light from the fire she could just make out the words.
Dear Bridget
if I ever see timothy crack again I will kill the cur you will come bak I know you will you must have faith in God Bridget you must never give up hope we will see each other again father has took sick he has not been hisself since he herd about you I am praying for you
Your loving sister
Kate
It had been delivered to her in gaol in Manchester. She held it as a flame jumped up from the log, burned blue in the middle, wavered and then was gone. She put the note away, lay her head down on the floor.
‘Gentlemen, as you are aware, the colony finds itself in a delicate situation. The seriousness of the threat posed by both the bushrangers and the natives is one I believe you all understand. We are concerned here with correction and punishment, indeed. But we are also building a colony—an ordered and civilised society of which Britain may be proud.’ Governor Arthur cast his gaze around the table at which the twelve men were seated, settled it on Marshall. ‘Is that not correct, Captain Marshall?’
‘I believe it is, sir.’
A number of months ago two native men had been hanged for the murder of a stock keeper, Arthur hoping that the hangings would act as a deterrent to others. Since then, however, the conflict that had been building in the Interior had only intensified with natives recently killing three stock keepers and a settler. And the Sheedy gang had now been at large for more than twelve months. The governor had called a meeting to discuss what he had described as an ‘inadmissible’ state of affairs.
Marshall had only been half listening. Some weeks ago now he had been informed that Bridget Crack had taken up with Sheedy. At the time he had been unable to contain his shock and had questioned the governor about the possibility of it being a mistake. ‘I hardly think it is a mistake, Captain. The description of the woman given by the surveyor’s men matches the description in the woman’s convict record. On what grounds do you assume it mistaken?’ Marshall explained that the girl had been in his service and that…what? He had petered out then, unsure what he’d been going to say. That he couldn’t imagine her taking up with bushrangers? As he’d started to say it he realised he was no longer sure. Perhaps he could imagine that. Sitting at the table now he wondered—was he sure? It seemed no one and nothing ever turned out to be what he’d thought. He no longer trusted himself. If he ever had.
‘It is imperative that the settlers are armed and ready to defend themselves,’ Arthur said.
Captain Marshall stared at the wave of grain in the wood of the table as his thoughts went from Bridget to Jane. She had become friends with a Quaker woman in Hobart Town, an older woman, Mrs Potter. The two had become almost inseparable. And with the blossoming of this friendship had come Jane’s letter-writing endeavours; she had taken to writing to England about any and every matter that she saw as an injustice, and that Mrs Potter pointed out to be so. She had written about the condition
s in the women’s gaol, in the orphanage, about the natives.
Just last night he had again urged her to curb her letter-writing. Yesterday Arthur had been speaking to him about his troubles with Britain. No one there had any idea what he was dealing with: the type of country, the mountains and dense scrub—they were, he said, issuing orders that were quite inappropriate. At the end of the conversation Arthur had been quiet a moment, then said: ‘And how is your, sister, Captain? Jane, isn’t it?’ From the way he had asked the question, Marshall suspected he knew about Jane’s activities.
A couple of weeks ago he and Jane had argued. He had simply said that life was not always fair; that you could not always know God’s plan.
She had stood there staring at him with what he thought was dislike blistering in her eyes. When she said, ‘Really, Richard?’ it was in a tone she had not used with him before. ‘So we are to turn a blind eye to suffering, to accept it and not try at all to do anything to help, to right a wrong? How dare you attempt to sedate me with such a platitude. What a convenient excuse. We may be completely lazy then. To do nothing at all. Is that right?’
He said he just meant that you couldn’t fight everything.
‘God’s plan,’ she said, ‘is not for me to be a coward.’ And then she walked out of the room.
He could hear himself saying it now, ‘Life is not fair,’ and he wondered all of a sudden what on earth he had been talking about. Of what had he been trying to convince her? A few days later she had gone up-country to Macquarie Plains. She had been there since, staying with a friend of Mrs Potter.
Arthur’s voice crashed into his consciousness. ‘What do you say, Captain Marshall?’
...
Marshall sat beside the lamp in the sitting room. The house was quiet, everyone in bed. He had gone that day to look at Bridget Crack’s convict record. She had been sentenced to seven years’ transportation for having in her possession counterfeit coins. Arrived April 1826. Assigned to him, then charged with insolence and disorderly conduct and put in the stocks for two hours. Assigned in August to Nathanial Johnson. He’d winced internally over that. Knew the man. Her hair cut then, and solitary confinement. He had been surprised by the strength of his response on reading that her hair had been cut, had felt it somewhere in his viscera. September, assigned to Charles Pigot in the Interior. October, absconded. Ship surgeon’s comments: Behaved Tolerably Well.
