by Bonnie Leon
“No door or roof?” John shook his head. “Doesn’t seem fitting. I don’t want my wife living in such a state. It’ll be spare enough as it is.” John ate the last of his sandwich and talked around the mouthful. “I’ve hired a man, Quincy Walker. Well, not exactly hired. He said he’d work for food and shelter.”
“We’ve no shelter, but I’d be happy to feed him.” Hannah met John’s eyes. “If he comes to work for you, then you’ll need a cook.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I don’t see why we can’t move in as soon as the floor is in place.” Hannah drank from the flask. “Could Quincy live in a lean-to?”
“He might be all right with that, at least until we can put up something more substantial.” John studied Hannah. “You’d truly not mind living without a roof or a door?”
“Well, if Quincy is going to be here, a door would be nice for privacy. We could use a blanket for now.” Hannah leaned back on her hands. “But I’d rather be here and get the house finished. And I’m not afraid when you’re with me.” She leaned toward him. “I just want our life here to begin.”
Lying beside John on a bed of woven rope, Hannah gazed at a night sky bejeweled with stars. “It’s a perfect night, isn’t it?” John clasped his hands behind his head. “I’d say nearly so.” “Our first night in our own home.”
“As humble as it is,” John said sardonically.
“It’s only temporary.”
A dingo howled, cutting into the quiet of the night. Another cry followed the first.
“Tomorrow I’ll put in a door.”
Hannah cuddled closer to John. “I’m not afraid. Really I’m not. When I’m with you I feel completely safe.”
“I won’t always be here. I’ll need to make trips into Sydney Town for supplies and I’ll have to travel to buy sheep.”
Hannah knew. She’d thought about the days and nights she’d have to spend alone. The idea frightened her, but with as much confidence as she could muster, she said, “There’s nothing to be done about it. I’ll simply have to learn to be more independent.” She rested her cheek on his chest, feeling comforted by the steady thump of his heart. “I like the open roof and not having a door.” She yawned. “It makes the house cooler.”
“Well and fine on a hot day, but there’ll be wet and cold ones to come. And cooler or not, the door will be set in place tomorrow.”
Hannah barely heard him. She was exhausted and could scarcely keep her eyes open. John pressed his lips to the top of her head and caressed her back. Secure, Hannah drifted into sleep.
When morning light awakened her, it was as if the night had passed in a moment. John was already out of bed. She sat up and her muscles complained. For several days, she’d worked alongside him, helping to finish the walls, laying wood planks in place for a floor, and moving in their few furnishings. They didn’t have much, but she’d managed to make the cottage look homey.
She let her eyes roam over the house. It was small but clean, and the hearth was a good one. A hook for managing cooking pots rested against one side of the fireplace, and a heavy iron teakettle sat on an iron stand in the coals. John had built two benches. One sat beside the hearth and the other had been placed just inside the door. He’d also made a rough-sawn table with two chairs and a wooden cupboard that held basic necessities. A row of hooks for clothing stood in line on the wall next to their bed.
Hannah set her bare feet on the rough-hewn floor. The coarse boards felt prickly, but it didn’t bother her. She knew that after several scrubbings the floor’s surface would become smoother. She moved to the window and watched John carry an armload of boards to the house. After a long yawn and a good stretch, she stepped to the doorway.
“These will do fine for a doorframe,” he said. “I’ll have it finished in no time.”
“I can see you’ve been up a good while.”
“That I have.” John offered Hannah a smile.
She hurried outside and walked several paces from the house where she found privacy behind a tree.
Just as she put her skirts to rights, she saw movement across the river. Her heart thumped. An Aborigine stared at her from the shadows. Hannah sucked in her breath. What was he doing there? Had he been watching her? Humiliated and frightened, she hurried back to the house.
“As soon as I get the roof on, I’ll see to it that we have a proper facility.”
“John.” Hannah’s voice trembled. “There’s an Aborigine across the river.”
“Is he still there?”
“I don’t know. I hurried back.”
John grabbed his musket and moved toward the road. “Stay in the house,” he commanded and made his way to the edge of the property.
Fear thrumming through her, Hannah hurried indoors and went to the window to watch. Her eyes moved over the landscape, but there was no sign of the man.
John cautiously approached the river and walked the bank, first heading downriver and then upriver. Finally, he made his way back to the house, occasionally glancing behind him.
Hannah met him at the door. “Did you see him?”
“No. I’m sure he was just curious and has gone on his way.”
“He startled me so.” Hannah pressed a hand against her throat. Her pulse raced. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone, especially not while I was . . .”
John chuckled. “As soon as I finish the door, I’ll get an outdoor convenience built.”
“Thank you.” Hannah stepped inside. “I’ll make breakfast.” John and Hannah sat on a bench at the front of the house, munching on scones and dried beef. John kept an eye on the river. “I need brackets for the door. I can get some at the Athertons’. Would you like to come along?”
“Yes. I’d love it.” Still frightened over the Aborigine being so close to the house and watching her, Hannah was thankful for the invitation. “It would be lovely to see Lydia and Mrs. Atherton.”
John finished off his scone and leaned forward on his thighs. “I made a deal for our first batch of sheep.”
“You did? You didn’t say anything.”
“Sorry. In the midst of all the work, I guess I forgot. The man who has them lives near Sydney Town. He said I could get them anytime. I’d like to go next week.” His face tensed and he lifted his eyebrows slightly. “I’ll be away a few days.”
Hannah had just taken a bite of scone. She chewed and managed to force it down. “So we’ll truly begin, then.” She gazed at the property.
John smiled. “Today we’ll have a door, tomorrow a roof, and even a stock pen before I go. We’ve truly begun.”
“That’s an awful lot for you to do before next week.”
“I talked to Quincy, and he said although he’s still working for Mr. Atherton, he’d be glad to help out. We just need to keep his stomach full.”
“I can do that for him.” Hannah smiled, but her mind was still on the news that in a few days John would leave her here alone. Fear spiked through her. “Perhaps I should know how to shoot a pistol.”
“That’s a good idea.”
Hannah watched as John poured black powder into the pistol muzzle.
“Be careful not to put in too much,” he said, and then pulled the string on a pouch closed with his teeth. He fished out a lead ball from another small bag and pushed it into the barrel. Using a rod attached to the underside of the gun, he stuffed the powder and ball in tightly. He looked at Hannah. “You think you can do this?”
Hannah hated the idea of firing a weapon, but she needed to know how. “It doesn’t seem too difficult. I’ll have to practice a few times.”
“Right.” John turned his attention back to the gun. “The next step is to pull the striker back, but just halfway. After you’ve done that, you need to prime it with a bit of gunpowder.” He poured some into the flash pan and then closed the lid. “Now it’s primed and ready to shoot. If you’re carrying it or keeping it on the shelf, you can leave it primed so it’s ready to fire when you need it.”
He glanced at a target he’d set up. “I’ll see to it that you always have a pistol primed. There’s a safety notch here to keep it from firing until you’re ready.” He showed her how to put the safety on and then asked, “So, you think you can remember all that?”
Hannah nodded, but she wasn’t truly sure. There were so many steps.
“Now, when you want to shoot, you pull the striker back like this.” He demonstrated. “Then grasp the pistol with both hands to keep it steady.” He held the gun out in front of him and aimed at a wooden slab leaning against a stump. “And then you pull the trigger, right here.” He squeezed the trigger.
The gun discharged with a loud explosion and seemed to jump in John’s hands. Hannah flinched. “Oh my Lord! I shan’t be able to do it.”
John smiled at her and lowered the pistol. “Of course you can. You must.”
Hannah knew he was right. “I’ll give it a go, then.” Hands trembling, she took the gun and did just as he’d shown her. When it was loaded and primed, she cocked it and grasped it between both hands. She fired, missing the stump completely.
“Not bad for your first attempt,” John said.
Swamped in a cloud of smoke and her hands tingling from the kick of the pistol, Hannah was certain she never wanted to fire a weapon again. “Oh, the stink is awful. What is that smell?” She fanned the air with her hand. “It’s like cooked eggs.”
“Just the burned powder.”
Quaking and frustrated, Hannah lowered the pistol. “I was terrible.”
John chuckled. “You’ll do better. Try again.”
Hannah didn’t want to, but she made two more attempts. The last time she managed to hit the target, but the noise, smoke, and pain in her hands begged for her to stop.
“Well done. We’ll practice more another time.” John rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze
“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather stay at the Athertons’?” John asked as he headed for the door.
“No. I’ll be quite all right. I’d best get used to spending time alone.” Hannah managed to smile. She would have preferred staying at the Athertons’, but that was foolishness. She was a farmer’s wife and must become self-reliant.
She glanced at the wall where two pistols hung. “I’ll do fine. You’re not to worry.” She rested a hand on John’s arm. “Just bring back our sheep.”
John kissed her. “I’ll think about you every moment.”
“I’ll be thinking of you too.”
John stepped outside. Quincy, already sitting atop his horse, nodded at Hannah. “G’day.”
“Good day, Quincy.”
John pushed up into his saddle, lifted his hat slightly, and then turned the horse and moved away from the house. The two men cantered toward the road. Hannah watched until she couldn’t see them any longer. Taking a deep breath, she closed the door and turned to her morning tasks. She tried not to think about what could happen while John was away. They’d not seen any Aborigines since the one incident, but she still worried that they were out there . . . watching and waiting. Plus there’d been an unsuccessful search for an escaped prisoner. Desperate escapees were always a danger.
The day passed uneventfully and, surprisingly, Hannah slept well that night. When she awoke the next morning, however, she felt very much alone. John would be gone at least three more days.
She pushed aside her melancholy. There was work to be done. The Athertons had made a gift of a milk cow. Hannah was clumsy at milking, so the cow was sometimes disagreeable. She had named her Patience, hoping the name might bring out the best in the animal. Thus far it had done little good.
Now the bovine bellowed, letting Hannah know she needed to be milked. Carrying a wooden bucket and a stool, she walked to the corral where the small cow waited, still mooing her distress. As difficult as this task was for Hannah, she was thankful for the fresh milk, cream, and butter.
She let herself into the pen and patted the bovine’s side. “Good day to you. I hope you’ll have patience with me this morning.” The cow looked at Hannah from behind brown eyes lined by long lashes. Hannah caressed her soft nose. The animal snuffled her palm, searching for grain.
Hannah set her bucket and stool beside the cow and then grabbed an armful of hay from a lean-to and spread it out in the crib. Patience pushed her nose into the fragrant fodder and was soon grinding hay between her teeth.
Apprehensively Hannah moved the stool closer to the cow and placed the bucket beneath her. Gwen had shown her how to milk, but Hannah had yet to master the task. Often, before she could finish, Patience would grow frustrated with her and with a swish of her tail would move off, sometimes knocking over the pail. Most days John took care of the milking, but that did her little good now.
She rested a hand on the cow’s bulging side. A calf was expected in the spring. Although eager for the birth, the thought produced a pang of longing in Hannah. If only she were expecting a child.
Using a damp cloth she’d draped over her shoulder, she wiped the udder clean and then pressed her forehead against the animal’s fragrant warm hair and gently tugged on the teats. Milk splashed into the bucket.
Her mind returned to the expected calf. John hoped for a heifer so there’d be enough extra milk and cream to sell, but Hannah wanted a bull calf. That way they’d have beef for eating instead of chicken, rabbit, and kangaroo. She was tired of chicken and rabbit and didn’t like eating kangaroos. The large golden-haired animals were lovely, playful creatures. And the mothers were nurturing to the delightful joeys. She hated killing them.
Hannah worked steadily, but the bucket was only half filled when Patience decided she’d stood still long enough and started fidgeting, swishing her tail furiously. Hannah tried to work faster. Perhaps more hay would help. She straightened, moving the stool back and setting the bucket aside.
Her eyes locked with those of a black man who stood no more than ten yards away. Her pulse jumped and she gulped in a quick breath. There were two of them, their black skin dusted with summer dirt. She backed away.
“What do you want? Would you like some milk?” She picked up the bucket and extended it toward them. She received no response.
Quaking inside, but trying to look calm, Hannah walked toward the gate chatting amicably all the while. “I’d be more than happy to share my bread and cheese with you. There’s cheese down at the river.” She pointed at the makeshift springhouse.
The men remained silent.
Hannah stepped through the gate and closed it. “I can pour you some milk. Just a moment.” Hurriedly she walked toward the cabin. When she glanced back the men were gone. She stopped. Where were they?
Her heart thumping wildly beneath her ribs, she looked all around. What had become of them?
Milk sloshing over the sides of the bucket, Hannah hurried to the cabin, stepped inside, and pushed the door closed, slamming down the latch. Setting the milk on the table, she moved to the window and peered out. She couldn’t see them.
Hands shaking, she grabbed both pistols from their places on the wall and then returned to the window. Still no sign. Setting the guns on the table, she closed the shutters and bolted them. She tried to quiet her breathing. If only she could go to the Athertons’, but John had taken the horse, and the mule was trained only to the plow. There was nothing she could do.
Hannah picked up the pistols and moved to a chair and sat. Quaking, she held the guns in her lap and prayed.
5
Hannah pressed her hands down on the sill of the window and gazed out. “Where is he? He should be home.”
It had been three days since Hannah’s encounter with the Aborigines. They’d not returned, but she was still afraid. Glancing at the primed pistols she’d left on the table, she crossed to the hearth. Using a hook, she moved a pot of stew from the lug pole to a trivet. Lifting the lid, she stirred the vegetable mixture and then hefted it back over the heat. John would be hungry when he got home.
An ache
jabbed at Hannah’s lower back. She straightened and rubbed at the sore muscle. Using a corner of her apron, she wiped perspiration from her face. A peculiar noise carried in from outside, and her nerves leaped. She hurried to the window and listened. A murmuring, complaining sound filled the air. What was it?
Suddenly she knew. “It’s sheep! John!” She ran to the door, gathered up her skirts, and sprinted down the drive.
A burst of wind swirled dust into an eddy. Hannah gazed through the earthen cloud. Where was he? A breeze caught at her hair and billowed her skirts.
She saw the first of the sheep and then more. They moved placidly through a dirt cloud. John appeared, sitting confidently atop his dark bay. He spotted Hannah and waved, smiling broadly.
She waved back and fought the impulse to run to him. She dare not startle the sheep for fear of scattering them. “Lord, thank you for bringing him home to me,” she whispered.
Bleating and searching for mouthfuls of grass, the mob moved past. They barely seemed to notice her. When John reached Hannah, he stopped and caught hold of her outstretched hand. “Hannah,” he said, his voice full of devotion.
“Thank the Lord, you’re home. I was worried about you. Now my heart can rest easy.”
Gazing at her, he clasped her hand more tightly, then returning to a more businesslike demeanor, he asked, “Can you open the corral gate?”
“Of course.” Hannah moved cautiously past the sheep, then hurried to the stock pen. After opening the gate, she lifted a lead rope from a post and moved to Patience. Snapping it to her halter, she led the cow out of the pen and tied her.
Returning to the gate, she swung it wide open and stood between the enclosure and the house, wondering just how John and Quincy planned to steer the flock through the gate and into the pen. Hannah spotted a broom on the porch and ran to get it, hoping it would provide her more than an extra arm’s length. She quickly returned to her post and extended the broom to block any attempts at defection.
Quincy kept his horse on the other side of the mob, and John continued to herd from behind. The animals seemed content to remain together and ambled into the enclosure. They crowded around a water tub, burying their noses in the blessed liquid, while John climbed down from his horse and closed the animals in.
