Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Damn and blast, if a man wasn’t wet enough already.’ Still, he could have fallen on a log and twisted an ankle or worse. Scrubber trudged against the weight of the water, away from the insects massing on floating bits of timber and on the trunks of trees. Branches were weighed down with bird life, and crawling with centipedes and ants that would fall onto him if he brushed a laden tree limb. Reaching higher ground, he proceeded to offload Samsara. He lifted Dog onto Veronica’s back and dumped everything else, including the saddle, in knee-deep water. Finally the bridle was off.

  ‘Well, you’ve played your part. I’m figuring it’s everyone for themselves.’ Scrubber gave the mare a pat on the nose as Samsara twitched her ears, her brown eyes unblinking. Dog whined. ‘Yeah well, life’s like that,’ Scrubber replied sullenly, heaving his backside into the saddle. Samsara turned and walked away in the opposite direction. ‘Always was the smartest in the pack.’ He dipped his head against the driving rain.

  They’d been moving all morning, barely stopping over the last twenty-five hours. The creek gurgled alongside them, spilling its banks in lower places to join the water already lying across the sodden landscape. Scrubber was beginning to doubt if he’d be able to navigate the creek at the crossing the publican talked about. Reaching another ‘give and take’ he dismounted, and pushed and pulled at the wooden upright. So far they’d managed to get through three of these fences that stretched across the winding creek forming a boundary between neighbours. With the ground saturated, the posts bowed under his strength, at least at enough of an angle for him to carefully walk Veronica over the wires. This post was a little more difficult, and it was with a feeling of utter exhaustion that Scrubber managed to get over the fence to the other side. The pain was building again, rippling through him, reminding him that time was shortening.

  ‘Could be worse. I could be tucked up like the rest of the terminals in a white-walled room, hey, Dog?’

  Dog didn’t answer – he was too busy sniffing the wind.

  The water came slowly at first, lapping at the edges of her clothes, swirling and prodding at Horse so that Cora’s body moved ever so slightly. With the rain’s return Cora sensed a change in the creek’s movement. The water became muddier in colour. Branches, bottles and a child’s toy bobbed on one side of the crossing, caught by the mound. Soon a surge of dirty flood water mounted the crossing. The pressure of the water grew quickly, pushing at Horse’s lifeless body, slowly dislodging it. With the movement a shocking pain crept through Cora’s trapped leg and she screamed in agony. Then the water was upon her, over her, under her, pushing at her in every direction.

  Cora tried to grasp the saddle, her head bobbing briefly above the water before slippery hands tugged her down into murky depths. The current yanked her free of Horse and, gasping for air, she gave herself up to the unknown. She pictured Jack Manning, longing to cradle his head as she had all those years ago, to feel the warmth of his touch.

  There he was. Cora could see Jack standing before her, his reflection distorted by the water. Joy welled within and she floated in the dream of him, her fingertips quivering with expectation as she swam through a silvery tunnel. Engulfed by an intense stillness Cora fixed her eyes on Jack, on the stream of light silhouetting his body, on the smile that was only for her. Cora sensed she was only a heartbeat away from being reunited with the man she’d always loved, so why was he suddenly turning from her? Telling her it wasn’t time? Telling her to go back?

  Lungs bursting, Cora splashed her way to the surface. She thrust her arms towards a log and made a grab for it. The pressure and jolt that followed knocked the remaining breath from her body and she spun sideways, her arms pinned down.

  Cora woke lying on the creek’s bank. Disorientated, she spluttered up muddy water, half-expecting to see Jack Manning by her side. Instead, a grey-headed man was untying a rope from around her chest. A mangy collie was prodding at her bad leg with a paw, and a horse was snuffling her hair. The man gave a chuckle and then collapsed onto the ground beside her.

  ‘I should have known you’d be in some sort of scrape.’ His voice was barely audible, his words a mess of tangled letters and hoarse wheezing. ‘Recognise you anywhere, I would.’

  He patted her arm. The dog licked her cheek. Cora sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in her leg. ‘Do I know –?’ There was a filthy scarf loose about his neck, and where the smoothness of a throat should have been, a crinkly neck with a hole in the middle of it. Cora thought she’d seen a ghost.

  The dog barked. The man gave him a rough pat.

  ‘She knows me, Dog. I knew Squib Hamilton would never forget old Scrubber, her mate from Waverly Station days.’ With a grimace he managed to stand and, extending a hand, helped her up. ‘We’ll get you up on old V and save that leg of yours, eh? I’m sure glad you didn’t turn out to be one of those useless women types.’ The woman was still staring at him. ‘Cause we’ve got to get you to higher ground. Lucky for you, Squib –’ he tipped a sodden hat, gave a long wracking cough that shook his bony frame ‘– I can help. I’m in my prime.’

  Chapter 56

  Stringybark Point, 1924

  It wasn’t really a lie, Jack kept thinking as the papers were drawn up. Grateful that Mr Grey only asked the most essential of questions, Jack remained convinced the immaculately three-piece- suited gentleman knew he was not being truthful.

  ‘I’m not altogether comfortable burdening a young woman with property. We know how fragile the fairer sex are.’ Mr Grey perused Mr Farley’s title deeds and the agreed letter of contract signed last year for a second time. ‘However, considering the terms of the contract and your assurances that the staff in place at Absolution Creek are capable of carrying on in your absence, I’m happy to oblige.’

  They were sitting in an office not dissimilar to Mr Farley’s, although the quality of the furniture was unmistakable. The polished desk was covered in green leather, and two substantial bookcases bulged with the letter of the law. A mahogany sideboard carried an amber-filled glass decanter with two crystal tumblers. Jack doubted he’d ever told so many lies. Absolution Creek’s workforce now included two station workers and a lady’s companion for his orphaned niece.

  ‘You will have to inform your niece, however, that this is not a permanent arrangement. In the event of your own premature demise, Mr Manning, one must hope that the young lady finds a suitable husband. Mr Farley’s generous terms only last for ten years.’

  ‘But can be renegotiated, and Mr Farley has no kin,’ Jack reminded Mr Grey.

  ‘Indeed it can. However, everyone has kin somewhere, Mr Manning: a second cousin, an uncle. Notwithstanding the appearance of such a relative, the contract only stands as long as the agreed twice-yearly payments can be made. Should the unfortunate position arise where the management onus falls on your niece, I would imagine a payment default to be a very real possibility,’ Mr Grey stated with gravity.

  Jack signed his name on the document. The timbered walls of the office were hung with pictures of men clustered in groups, and it was on these portraits that Jack concentrated. Mr Grey leant back in his chair, the wooden seat squeaking in complaint.

  ‘Race Club Committee, Rugby Club Committee, Memorial Hall Committee. It’s a pity Absolution Creek is so far from town. We could use a man such as yourself in Stringybark Point.’

  Jack twirled his hat in his hand. It had been a long dusty ride and he wasn’t up for conversation, especially when guilt hung like a cloud about his head. ‘It’s a touch busy for my liking.’

  Mr Grey patted an overly long moustache. ‘A touch busy – and you a Sydney lad. Well, the troopers are out of town this week following up on a lead, so I guess the town is a might rowdier than usual. So, you don’t miss Sydney?’

  ‘Never did take to the North Shore,’ Jack admitted.

  ‘Even with that marvel being built?’ The solicitor interlaced winter-white fingers.

  ‘Especially because of the bridge,’ Jack answered. ‘I think peo
ple forget folk lost their homes so that others could prosper.’

  The solicitor coughed into a folded pocket handkerchief. ‘Hardly patriotic, my lad.’

  ‘The truth rarely is.’

  Mr Grey’s magnanimous attitude dissipated. ‘Well, I see you’ve firm opinions, Mr Manning. Of course, at your age I was more inclined to less provocative conversation.’

  ‘The world’s changing, Mr Grey.’

  The solicitor folded the documents, slipping them into an envelope. A twist of pink string held the letters intact. ‘Yes, well. Everything’s in order. I should tell you that there are any number of stories doing the rounds here in Stringybark Point with regards to children of mixed blood. If you see or hear of any you’ll do your duty.’

  Jack’s fingers were on the outstretched end of the envelope. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ Mr Grey released his grasp. ‘Good day to you, then.’

  Jack high-tailed it as fast as he could from the solicitor’s office. Obviously Adams had been blabbing, and although Mr Grey’s parting comment gave cause for unease, Jack sensed the man’s words were more a gentle warning. He kept his head down and walked along the path leading to the intersection where three hotels stood facing each other. While a room and a feed were his immediate concerns, Jack knew it more important to stay out of sight. Adams still roamed the area and Jack doubted a bit of paper would content his one-time friend.

  There were only a handful of tasks to attend to. One was to buy a new horse and stock up on some basic household stores – maybe even a length of ribbon for Squib – and another was to purchase bullets for his Winchester Carbine. Later he would visit the Bank of New South Wales and note Squib as a signatory on his checking account. After that, all that remained was for Jack to come to terms with his intentions.

  There was a peculiar feeling Scrubber got in the pit of his belly when things didn’t go to plan. It was like being winded by a well-driven punch. Combine that with a feeling of illness and he wasn’t surprised to be sicking up last night’s mutton. He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth, flicking away a stream of dribble. A man was doubly blessed when his woman wasn’t about to see such weakness. Scrubber edged the night pot under the bed with his boot and walked out onto the veranda. The balcony at Green’s Hotel and Board gave a splendid view of Stringybark Point’s main street, such as it was – in particular its comings and goings.

  The goings showed itself in the form of Adams and an associate who had ridden out nearly four days ago. The publican hinted they were off on business under the advisement of the local constabulary. Mullins, the dead-eyed returned soldier, added that Adams didn’t mind a little revenge when it could be condoned under cover of the law. The eventual comings presented itself in the form of Adams again. He rode in late yesterday with extra baggage: a filthy mood that led to a fight. Scrubber quickly chose self-eviction from the bar, though his swift exit was based on nothing more than a hunch. After twelve hours of his self-imposed exile, there was still no sign of Matt Hamilton.

  So here Scrubber was, rubbing a hole through the boards with the heel of his horsehair boot, waiting for Veronica to show with a bit of bread and milk to ease his stomach. The street below was busy with drays and riders. There was even a T-Model Ford parked on the opposite side of the street. Three children were prodding and poking at the shiny automobile, one scooting underneath to gawk at the mechanical innards. Out of boredom he counted the hitching rails – there were six of them, and eight water troughs interspersed along the dusty street. There was also an assortment of chickens, which clucked across the road, their wings akimbo, as a scraggly looking child corralled them onwards. A number of women were walking towards the grocer’s, baskets over their arms. They lingered under the town’s single lamp to chat with a mother who wielded a black pram with a screeching child within.

  Beneath the balcony a dray came to a halt outside the entrance to the hotel. Two white Clydesdales stomped their hoofs impatiently as the back board was dropped and a couple of men alighted to heft a carcass swathed in bloody canvas. Dinner, Scrubber assumed. He was not in the least interested in food of any type and would be pleased when this ordeal was over. There was far too much noise and action at Stringybark. The entire town streamed with people during the day and quite often the public bars were open long after the regulated closing hour of 6 pm. And over all this clamour was the lumberyard a couple of blocks away, from which came the ear-splitting sounds of chopping, and the rumble of the steam engine that drove the great saw.

  ‘Where have you been then, woman?’ Scrubber asked.

  Veronica sat the glass of milk and hunk of bread on the rattan table and fell tiredly into a chair. ‘There’s a couple that arrived a day ago, a man and woman. Rode all the way, they did, from some property out west.’ Veronica gestured north and Scrubber rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway, they called the doctor on account of her collapsing and being with child, but the woman was so affronted by the doctor that she told him to leave off and go help a sheep, which she felt sure he was more aptly trained for.’

  Scrubber always did take to high-spirited women.

  ‘They’ve taken rooms here. Oh, and so has he.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Scrubber wasn’t quite up for one of Veronica’s strung-out chinwags.

  ‘Your Matt Hamilton, of course. The girl’s father.’

  Scrubber gobbled up the bread and gulped down the milk. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Well then, I’ll be needing that clean shirt I’ve been saving. Have you patched my jacket and –’

  Veronica’s hand stilled his words. ‘Everything’s laid out on your bed, lovey, just as you wanted. The shirt’s near almost white, it’s been washed so well, and your coat is all patched up, the stains spotted with soap and water.’

  He brushed her chin. ‘You’re a good girl to me, V.’

  Veronica gave a dimpled smile. ‘Can I come then? I’ve tidied my things too.’

  ‘No,’ Scrubber replied firmly, closing the balcony doors in her face.

  Scrubber shook Matt’s hand. ‘I was wondering when you’d show. How long have you been in town for?’ There was the stench of something raw and acidic.

  ‘A day.’ Matt began rolling a cigarette. He gummed a paper to his lip and rubbed moist leaves of tobacco between his palms.

  ‘A day? Do you know how long I’ve been holed up here for?’ Scrubber knew one tight punch would loosen Hamilton’s attitude. The man acted as if he were doing him a favour.

  Matt rolled the tobacco in the paper and patted his pockets for a light. ‘Damn it.’

  Scrubber tossed him the box of matches sitting by the candle. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’ Matt caught the box one-handed, and struck three of the flinty heads before success. He sucked on the cigarette. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? Against my better judgement, I might add. Lost my job to meet up with you, and all for what? To tell you in person that I don’t want to see my Squib in a bloody institution.’

  ‘An institution?’ Scrubber repeated.

  ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? Squib and Ben’s mother was a half-caste. Abigail is my second wife.’

  Scrubber leaned heavily on the washstand, the action rattling the ceramic pitcher sitting in the wash bowl. ‘Squib’s got darkie blood in her?’

  Matt took a long drag of his smoke. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, that accounts for Adams,’ Scrubber answered thoughtfully.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Matt asked.

  ‘A man here by the name of Adams is interested in her. The fella who found Squib has her safe at a property called Absolution Creek. This Adams, though –’ Scrubber scratched his cheek ‘– he’s after Squib. Somehow he knows she’s got darkie blood. There was this notice in the local paper and the owner of Absolution gave Squib’s name and everything …’

  Matt stomped his cigarette out on the timber floor. ‘Bugger him. Is this Adams a trooper?’

  ‘Postal and Supply rider.’

  ‘And part
-time snitch,’ Matt said tightly. ‘No doubt on the bank roll of the government.’

  Scrubber knew what the smell was. Matt had partaken of the bottle last night, and by the stench the result wasn’t pretty. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Matt shook his head. ‘You know I only came here to tell you to forget this scheme of yours. My stepdaughter, Jane, put my Ben into the authorities after Abigail went to gaol – that’s why I couldn’t risk finding Squib. I knew she’d be taken as well.’ He prised open the tobacco tin and plucked at the loose strands. ‘So much for family love.’

  ‘So that’s why you stayed away,’ Scrubber replied. ‘I wondered.’

  Matt nodded and rolled another smoke. ‘I know you did and I appreciate you trying to find Squib, but you understand now, don’t you, I had to lose her to save her.’

  ‘Well, now we’re going to have to find her,’ Scrubber said firmly. ‘Cause if we don’t, Adams will. Why are you looking at me like that?’

  Matt gave the slightest tilt of his chin. ‘Guess I figured once you knew the truth you’d walk away. Most whites don’t have much time for the mixed bloods.’

  ‘Purcell did,’ Scrubber reminded him.

  Matt snorted. ‘Old man Purcell was only ever interested in a good worker. As long as a man kept his nose clean he’d look the other way. And he knew enough toffs in government to ensure his business and his staff were left alone. My family was safe while we were there, especially as Squib and Ben looked like me and not their mother. Evans was the one with the problem. Always hated me, he did, especially when I made overseer. It was him that stole that necklace, I reckon. Ain’t nobody else could have done it.’

  Scrubber kept quiet.

  ‘Set me up real good and proper. Ruined my life, that Evans. Anyway, you’ve done enough, mate, and a person can get into a mile of trouble . . .’