by Rachel Leary
He told her that Arthur was not going to listen to him, and neither indeed was the Colonial Office.
The natives needed, she said—as she had before—to be educated, brought to God, not hunted down and killed.
For God’s sake, she knew he agreed with her. Why was she huffing and puffing at him like this? Perhaps what she hadn’t considered was that the natives themselves had shown few signs of being interested in her proffered education. There had been a group of them camped down at the bay near the town. Jane had visited them weekly, had arranged for them to have clothes and blankets. He’d been in the store one day, had overheard a woman say to another: ‘I just saw Jane Marshall down at the bay feeding the orang-outangs.’ He had been ashamed to observe the feeling of embarrassment it stirred in him. He ought to have felt pride in her philanthropy. After the hanging of the two native men the group by the bay had left. They had not returned and he had been rather grateful.
‘You can’t make pets of them, Jane,’ he said now.
‘They were not my pets.’ She spat it at him: pets.
He repeated Arthur’s assurance—that force would only be applied to drive them away from homes and property where necessary.
‘And who will decide, Richard, what is necessary?’
Yes. He should have known she would ask that.
Damn it. He’d hoped for a quiet evening, for a convivial visit from her. Was it so much to ask for? He did not have these answers—none for Jane and few for himself. He wished someone had more for him.
...
Marshall stood in the middle of the road. The sky was hard blue, clouds dragged and smeared across it. Still, like the day had inhaled and was holding its breath. He had been following the governor and Mr Ridgeway, a surveyor from New South Wales, around the town most of the morning. Ridgeway had come to create a new plan for the town; its shape and its streets were currently dictated to a large degree by the creek that flowed through it. Ridgeway was proposing a grid system, he and Arthur discussing the ins and outs of bridges and roads and where they would go. Marshall made his excuses then went up the hill towards his house.
...
At home he took the letter from his brother out of the drawer where it had been sitting for the past month. A good friend of his had taken over a senior position at Dublin Castle, it said. He felt certain of Richard being able to secure a good position there, should he wish to return to Britain.
Eleanor had been expressing again how much she missed her family, firmly reiterating her dislike of Van Diemen’s Land. Some days she hardly spoke to him.
Early in their marriage Eleanor had attempted to get to know him, to create warmth between them, and he had not reciprocated as he should have. He ought to have at least tried. They were both unhappy. And he must accept some responsibility for it. She wanted to return to England and he wondered if perhaps he owed her that. There was, she’d told him, a ship leaving in three weeks.
He put the letter away, got up and went over to the curtain, looked down into the empty yard.
He had told both Pullen and Arthur that Bridget Crack had run, and that he’d not been able to get a shot at her through the trees. There had been no questions asked, but they had been there in the silences.
...
Marshall crossed the creek, was coming back from the hut where he’d been speaking to Kelly. Near the dairy he stopped, faced back to the creek, watched it flow down through the gully. Behind him the cow flicked its tail. Steam rose from the animal’s fresh shit, the smell of it strong on the cool air. Further behind him, he heard a sound, turned around to see the convict servant girl Martha come out of the house with a bucket. She went to the pump and put the bucket on the ground. Marshall watched while she filled it. She leaned over to pick it up, lifted. He saw her arm take the weight of it, her spine curve as she rose, then her body moving, supple, feet one in front of the other across the yard.
She came across the soldier near a bridge riding the road alone, talking to himself.
‘You wouldn’t know, because you’re only a horse. That’s what you are, a horse. And ya have to be what you are. There’s no escaping it, see, horse. If you’re a horse, you’re a horse, and that’s the truth of the matter. That—is the truth of the matter. And who says what the truth is? God does. God—says the truth. Not you, horse. Not you.’ He pointed at the animal’s head. ‘And that is my point. That you, are only a horse.’
It was close to sunset. Bridget watched him. He had let go of the reins. The horse stopped and stood there in the middle of the road. The man did nothing. His chin dropped onto his chest. He was asleep. Drunk.
The horse wandered to the side of the road where Bridget was, started to graze. Bury had been standing next to her watching but now he suddenly ran out, snapping at the horse’s legs.
The horse took off fast. The man was unseated and fell, but a foot caught in the stirrup. The horse cantered away, the man dragging along the road behind it.
The man was lying still, the leg in the stirrup, the horse blowing breath from flared nostrils, lifting one hoof then another nervously. Bridget came up behind them on the dark road and the horse took a few steps forward, the man dragged with it. She stood over him. His eyes opened, his hand came up and he pointed to the leg. Bridget put her hand on the horse’s rump, shushed it. Pulled the foot out of the stirrup. The man groaned and the leg fell to the ground. He was breathing hard, his eyes flickering open and closed. ‘Catherine,’ he said. Bridget put her hand down and felt in his coat pocket. Three coins. The horse was standing in the bush near the road, its head turned to them. Bridget looked back at the man. ‘Are we home, Catherine?’
‘Yeah,’ Bridget muttered, ‘we’re home.’
...
The town was a spread of buildings around the east bank of the Clyde River, a couple made of brick, most of them makeshift and timber. She found the bakery and the store, bought bread and flour with the money from the soldier, the baker watching her as she left, his gaze ripe with suspicion.
On the edge of the settlement she followed a cart track that led up the west side of the wide river to a fork in the track, one track following the river she had come up, the other, a less-used track following a creek. As she stood there a boy appeared up ahead pulling a small cart behind him. As he came closer she saw that in the cart he had traps and a dead possum.
She looked along the lesser track, asked him was there a river out there. ‘A river? Plenty a rivers out there, miss.’ The track went nowhere, he said, to a few huts and then to the mountains. ‘Just stops.’
Bridget waited until he was gone and then turned onto the faint track.
...
The log was damp and slippery and she crossed it on her stomach, inching her way across, her knees gripping the sides of the log, pushing the knapsack along in front of her. It stopped a yard or so short of the other bank, its branches splaying out into the water. She stood up, measuring the distance, and then jumped—did not quite make it from where the log ended to the bank, her back foot dragging in the water, her boot now soaking wet. She looked back at Bury, who was standing on the end of the log wagging his tail. He made the leap easily.
The cold drained down off the hills now to sit heavily over the river, the dark and the cold curling around the ferns, around the rocks and trunks of trees, curling and more of it coming, the dark water getting darker, the hollows inside the trees filling with cold.
...
The hut sat among gums, had a lean to it, one end of the roof pressing into the trunk of the tree that grew next to it. At the other end of the roof was a stone chimney. She was only about twenty yards from it, having come that close before she noticed it. The dog was a bit ahead of her and she called him back now. He stood beside her and eventually, when nothing seemed to be happening, he sat down, looking up at her now and then as though questioning the delay.
There was no smoke coming from the chimney and nothing out the front of the hut. The two windows were rectangul
ar holes in the slab wall—they were framed but nothing filled or covered them. She crept forward and finally kicked the door open. It was empty, only a log of wood sitting end-up close to the fireplace. The dog sniffed around the gaps between the wall and the floor. On the window frame Bridget found a rusted knife and in the corner by the fireplace, an empty bottle.
She pulled the door wide open. Outside the stones of the chimney were damp and moss grew in the gaps between them. On the ground around the back there was a small clean skull and a few other bones. There was a hollowed-out log, the faint red of blood colouring the grain of the wood where someone had used it to salt meat. She stood back at the front of the hut looking around and listening—birds, the sound of branches brushing the air, and the flow of the river, almost indistinguishable from the wind.
Downstream on the other side of the river Bury had caught a roo. She came up the slope, the animal heavy over her shoulder. She dropped it, stopped to rest. Bury started to bark then stood next to her, his hackles raised, snarling. He was looking into the bush to Bridget’s right. She drew the gun but couldn’t see anything. There was no powder in the gun. The dog was focused on something, his growl low. And now she saw it. Among the trees not fifteen yards away a man stood watching her. There was another one, further back into the trees. The front one stepped forward, pointed the spear that he held at the kangaroo, beckoned for her to give it to him.
The dog’s growl lowered.
‘My dog got it.’
He stepped forward and reached for the roo and Bury flew at his hand. The man jumped back and pushed the dog’s chest with the spear and now the dog wrapped its jaw around the wooden base of the weapon. The man shook the spear but the dog held tight. The one behind him raised his spear.
Bridget stood in front of the dog. ‘No.’ She spoke firmly to Bury. ‘Let it go. Let go.’
Bury let go of the spear and she kicked the roo. ‘Take it. Here, take it.’
The man turned around and said something to the one behind him, picked up the roo and dragged it off into the scrub.
...
Night and day she slept fitfully on the hut floor. She was out of flour. She had been eating fern fronds from near the river.
She went down to the river and came back up with the bottle full. There was a cold wind up and she closed the hut door against it, although it still rushed boldly in through the gaps that were the windows, moved through the fibres of the timber walls. It knew this material, knew it as tree, as its own kin.
She laid red berries out on the hut floor and counted them. Eleven. Eleven berries. The dog got up to look. ‘Stay!’ she yelled at him, and he slunk back to the corner.
She paced the hut. The cough she’d had for a while had turned into a hack and she doubled over in the corner, spat out the door.
...
Flames picked fussily at the few sticks in the fireplace. The paper was soft and dirty, had worn through at the folds so that the letter was now in pieces, the writing faint. She held the pieces in her hand, tipped them absently onto the sticks.
She put her hands in the fireplace, into the soft grey ash gone cold now. The letter. The letter was in here. Had she put it in here? It was in here. She needed it. Had to have it. She got down on her knees, both hands in the ash, stopped there like that. She stood up, put her face in her sooty hands.
...
She lay in the corner of the hut. The dog was watching her. He got up and came over, stood there wagging his tail. He watched her for a while then went back over to the door and lay near it.
...
Light was coming through the window, washing over her where she sat slumped against the hut wall. Her arm rested on her leg, the inside of it facing up to expose the charcoal shape there. She stared at the tattoo, at the new moon on her arm.
There was a voice coming from somewhere. Someone was singing. Was it Eliza? ‘Will you come with me over the mountain?’ Eliza had sung that song.
Another noise now. A gunshot. Reverberating around the hills. Was it? No! A cough. It was her father coughing. Sitting up in bed. The doctor there, going out through the doorway, ducking his head. He is dead now. Father is dead. It seemed—unreal, just a thought, just—nothing. Nothing at all. But she knew it was true.
...
‘She opened the door saying, Maybe I’ll choose, to come with you over the mountain.’
...
She was aware of Bury close by. She reached out. A damp sensation. Bury licking her hand.
...
It was windy, tree branches creaking and moaning around the hut. Bury stood up and barked.
Bridget scrabbled for the gun.
She crawled to the wall and dragged herself up, peered out the window.
There was someone there. There was someone behind the tree.
She leaned against the wall, listening.
Bury barked at her then he stopped watching, whined as he flopped to the floor.
They might have some food. Whoever they were; they might have food.
Bury had got a small animal, close to the hut. But they needed more food.
...
Bridget pushed the hut door open, light came yelling and screaming at her.
No one.
Nothing.
She put her hands up to her face, dug her fingernails into her cheeks.
...
He was scratching at the door, whimpering. No, he couldn’t go out there. They had to stay in here.
...
She sat on the floor, her back against the wall. She was neither awake nor asleep, but in this new drifting place between. Darkness flowed into the hut and in it she saw someone. They were standing on a lane above a field looking at a leafless tree. Behind them was a cottage. It was the cottage she had lived in as a child. It was her; she was the person standing on the lane. A flock of birds rose out of the tree now. All of them flew off but one and this one hovered above her, a small brown bird that was the only thing in a vast and all-blue sky. She was in the sky, weightless, air all around her. And then something…What was it? A gunshot. Falling now, falling into black. And then running. She was running. Running fast down the lane and across a field, feet pounding the ground, chest straining. She stopped on the unfamiliar field then, looked up into the sky. Above her a white cloud broke apart, bits of it drifting away from each other. Killing itself into pieces. Killing itself into pieces to be free.
Bridget woke up breathing fast, wondered where she was, gazed into the darkness of the hut.
...
Dog? Come over here.
Dog? Are you there?
Dog?
The wind blew against Marshall’s back, sails the colour of bone above him, bulging with air. The ship had not long ago turned her bow from Hobart Town. In approximately six months they would reach England.
Jane was staying. The last few times he had seen her she had been polite. Polite. He understood that this had happened. He did not entirely understand why.
He stood facing back towards the cove now, his imagination taking him west, sweeping him out beyond New Town, across the Derwent River, over to the place where the mountains scratched at the sky, and beyond them past lakes and high wet plains where wind raked its cool hand through long tough grass. Small brown heads balanced on long blades, nodding. The grass agreeing. Yes, it said. Yes, I know. But what it was agreeing with, nobody knew. Then further, deeper west, where mountain hugged mountain, where trees strived for the sky, where soil took everything that was dead and made it its own. West, where a river rushed past an island, past a cross that was only a shape in rain. Where fishes’ gills opened and closed, opened and closed regardless of a woman, of her footsteps through forest, regardless of anyone’s stories about anything, of names, or dates, or language.
The water of this broad river that the ship now floated on all came from there, came raging and panting and merely, relentlessly, flowing from out there. Behind him now it widened into the bay called Storm.
He walked to the side of the ship and looked down at the surface of the water where the boards met a shimmering, moving pattern of black. Nothing there for him.
Bridget tucked soil around a little tree. Apple. An apple tree. She stood up to survey her work. Yes, yes, the garden was coming along, although the battle with the possums raged on of course, Primmy swearing and cursing, shooting into the night. Below her the field was full of cattle and their shit, holes from their feet, gums at the bottom of the slope below it.
Yes—how it would go. That was how it would go. The wedding at St David’s Church, on the corner there, with the bells ringing out over the bay the way they did. She would wear a new dress. Outside the church she’d climb up onto the cart. It’d be laden with supplies. The donkey—he would be tied to the back of it. Primmy would climb up next to her, his grey eyes smiling, Sy on the back. They would go up through Hobart Town and people they didn’t even know would wave and cheer. Sy would stand up in the back of the cart. ‘And we’ll have a pig too, won’t we, Primmy, a pig?’ he’d say. They’d follow the river along to the ferry and a swan, big and sleek, black feathers shining, would land, would slide across the water. Sy would point, full of excitement. ‘Whoa, did you see that?’
When they got there, to the land that was theirs, to the land by the river under the mountain where the sun was out and shining on green grass Sully would be there. He would be there and he would have finished the cottage already. He would have planted a vegetable garden and flowers too—daffodils and pansies, some rose bushes. Bridget would come out of the cottage with a basket of bread and ham, her belly round and firm in front of her. Primmy would walk over then and put his arm around her and they would all stand under the mountain and look over the field. Yes, that is how it would go.
She put her hand out to the dog. She was too tired to talk, but she told him in her mind so that he would know: that is how it will go. It will all be alright.
...
