The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Break my neck,’ Mama spat, ‘and you’ll never find them!’

  This time, when he lunged, she was unfortunate. The rocking horse blocked her way, and he seized a handful of her thick, dark hair. My mother’s cry was drowned out by the shrieks of her offspring.

  ‘Give me my keys!’ he bawled, shaking her. At which point I sprang from my bed, and grabbed my brother’s home-made cricket bat. It was small but solid—and it made a satisfying crack! upon hitting Barton’s knee.

  He dropped my mother with a furious oath.

  ‘You’ll get your keys when I get mine!’ she panted, snatching the cricket bat from my grip. Wielding it like a club, she edged towards the door while my stepfather hopped about clutching his injured knee. ‘Out! All of you!’ she cried. ‘Eliza! Take them! Now!'

  Everything happened so quickly that I can scarcely remember the exact sequence of events. But all at once we were on the landing—my mother, my siblings, Eliza and I—while Barton was yelling on the other side of the nursery door.

  My mother had locked him in.

  ‘You bitch!’ he screeched, and the whole house shook as he slammed against the door-panels. ‘Let me out, you bloody mott!'

  ‘Go downstairs,’ my mother told me.

  ‘Mama—’

  ‘Do what I say!'

  ‘Come,’ said Eliza. ‘Come, children.’

  We went downstairs, but only as far as the bottom step. From there we could see very little, since the only light was coming from the back bedroom, where Barton must have left a candle burning. But we could hear my stepfather’s thunderous roars, and feel the impact of his mighty blows. It was fortunate that my father had built the house so well; all the joinery was made of thick cedar, impervious to most forms of assault.

  As Barton ranted and raved, I thought to myself: where shall we sleep tonight? In Mama’s room? In the guest room? I had no wish to occupy Barton’s chamber. Not while it still smelled of his pipe-smoke and hair-oil.

  Finally he became tired. There was a lull in the noise. My mother immediately took advantage of it.

  ‘Will you listen to me now?’ she said.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ was his hoarse reply.

  ‘Will you listen to me, or do you wish to spend the whole night in the nursery?’

  ‘If I do, there’ll be no nursery left by morning. Do you hear?’

  Louisa clutched my hand. No doubt she felt exactly as I did. Our toys were being held hostage up there. Our dolls. Our rocking horse. Our miniature tea set.

  ‘Tell me where my keys are,’ Mama continued, ‘and I shall return yours.’

  ‘You damned whore!’

  ‘I shall not let you out until you agree to see reason.’

  There was no immediate response. My mother waited. We waited. Then we heard the sound of a window opening—followed by a terrible crash!

  It was not the sound of Barton’s body striking the portico. Instead, he had decided to throw all of our most precious possessions onto the front lawn, beginning with the rocking horse.

  Its pale and shattered remains were just visible in the twilight when we stumbled outside.

  ‘No!’ Louisa screamed. James burst into tears. Emily hid her face.

  But my mother would not be persuaded. While her children stood weeping, she set her lips and refused to buckle. Though slates and books and wooden animals fell like snow, she simply folded her arms and waited. And waited. Gradually, the shower of beloved possessions ceased—perhaps because my stepfather could find no more toys to throw.

  At last, after a very long silence, he called out.

  ‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I am,’ my mother replied.

  ‘Free me, and I’ll tell you where yer keys are.’

  ‘Tell me where my keys are,’ Mama rejoined, ‘and then I shall free you.’

  Another silence. Shorter, this time.

  ‘They are in the dung-heap,’ George Barton announced, from the nursery window.

  My mother sighed. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Do you truly think that I would look there myself?’ (There was so much contempt in her tone!) ‘I will have the men search for me. They will be at it all night. And where will that leave you? Exactly where you are now.’

  ‘Very well.’ Suddenly, my stepfather surrendered. Perhaps his head was troubling him. ‘They are in the old ironbark near the stockyard,’ he revealed. ‘There’s a hollow halfway up.’

  My mother absorbed this information. Then she turned to Eliza.

  ‘Go and look,’ she said. ‘Use a lamp, and take James Barnett with you.’

  It was a victory, of sorts. But my siblings and I were not well positioned to appreciate the fact. As we followed my mother into the house, Louisa was praying, her eyes screwed tightly shut. James was shaking uncontrollably. Emily was sobbing as if her heart would break, because the rocking horse had been her favourite toy.

  ‘Stay here,’ said my mother, at the foot of the stairs. Then she proceeded to climb them.

  ‘Mama!’ I cried.

  ‘One moment, Charlotte.’

  She vanished from our sight; then the boards creaked above us. We heard her moving across the floor towards the back bedroom. After a few minutes, she retraced her steps.

  ‘Mama!’

  This time she leaned over the balustrade. ‘What is it?’ she said.

  But I could not risk being overheard by George Barton. Instead I beckoned to her, anxiously.

  ‘Very well,’ she murmured, and within seconds she was at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette.

  Glinting in her hand was the barrel of Barton’s pistol.

  We were fortunate, in many ways. My stepfather had appeared at the nursery door in his nightgown. Clearly, he had been preparing for bed when it became apparent that his keys were missing; perhaps he had been at the point of locking himself in. So he had left his clothes and his boots and his pistol beside his bed, and had gone looking for my mother.

  Now he was trapped in the nursery, and my mother was armed with his pistol.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, descending the stairs. She was trying to conceal the weapon beneath her shawl. ‘Quickly, now.’

  ‘You—you shouldn’t let him out, Mama,’ I whispered. ‘He will be so angry.’

  ‘He cannot stay in there, Charlotte. He must come out at some point.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Have no fear.’ My mother’s eyes looked huge in her white face. Her neck seemed as taut and fleshless as a bow-string. ‘He will not hurt you.’

  Louisa began to wail. ‘Mam-a-a!’ she howled. My mother stooped to stroke her cheek with one hand, while nursing the gun with her other.

  ‘Don’t cry, my love,’ she said. ‘Charlotte, take them out to the kitchen.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It will be better away from the house, dear.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I shook my head violently. ‘No! We have to stay with you.’

  ‘Charlotte—’

  ‘We have to stay!’ I was not about to yield, and my mother must have seen it. I suppose, in some ways, we were not dissimilar.

  In some ways.

  ‘Very well.’ She straightened. ‘Go and get into my bed. All of you—go with Charlotte. You may sleep in my bed tonight.’

  We all stared at her, our jaws dropping.

  ‘Go,’ she instructed. ‘You’ll be safe in my bed.’

  You can imagine how I felt about mounting the stairs again.

  With Mama directly behind me, however, I managed to reach the landing without stopping once. For a moment I stood mesmerised by the nursery door, which had assumed a truly awful aspect in my mind. Then my mother gave me a little push, and I was in her bedroom.

  It had never been a very welcoming chamber. The dark oak hanging cupboard, the liver-coloured marble on the washstand, the massive carved pillars of the high, white bed in which my father had perished—a
ll of these things affected me with a wary, uncomfortable feeling at the best of times. Now, in the evening dimness, they seemed especially formidable.

  Louisa must have been filled with a sense of unease similar to mine, for she clutched at my mother’s skirts.

  ‘Don’t go, Mama!’ she squeaked.

  ‘I shall be directly outside,’ she said. ‘Directly outside, Louisa.’

  ‘Please don’t close the door, Mama,’ I begged, in a trembling voice. Whereupon my mother agreed to leave the bedroom door open.

  ‘But you must get under the covers,’ she insisted. ‘At once, Louisa. I don’t want you catching a cold.’

  So we climbed into her bed, and sat there shaking. Barton had been ominously silent for a good while. My mother began to pace up and down, sometimes pausing to examine the pistol, sometimes listening at the nursery door. I was able to see this because her bed was positioned directly opposite the entrance to her bedroom, from which there was a very good view of the nursery landing.

  I do not know how long we waited. Louisa was actually beginning to fall asleep when at last we heard the sound of heavy footsteps from the floor below.

  ‘Mam?’ said a voice.

  It belonged to James Barnett.

  My mother darted back towards the stairs, so that I could no longer see her. There was a long, low, murmured exchange somewhere nearby, followed by more heavy footsteps. My mother appeared again just as I was preparing to get out of bed and set off in pursuit. Behind her hovered James Barnett, carrying a colza lamp.

  Mama approached the nursery door, jingling. I noticed that her keys were in her hand. I also saw that her other hand was wrapped around the butt of Barton’s pistol.

  ‘Mr Barton!’ she said loudly. ‘Do you hear me, sir?’

  No reply.

  ‘My keys have been returned to me, Mr Barton,’ she continued. ‘You have kept your word, and I shall keep mine. I shall unlock the door now. But before you make any rash decisions, be aware that I am armed. Mr Barnett is here, and he has shown me how to load and prime your pistol.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Mr Barton?’ My mother frowned. ‘Do you understand me? I am willing to defend myself, though it is my earnest desire that we come to a mutual agreement concerning the welfare of this—hello?’

  Some noise from within must have alarmed her, for she stepped back suddenly, raising her weapon. Then she jerked her head at James Barnett.

  ‘Unlock it,’ she ordered. ‘Quickly.’

  On reflection, I can only assume that my mother, upon taking possession of her own keys, must have surrendered her husband’s set to James Barnett. At any rate, he advanced to obey her. Before the door-knob had even been turned, however, there was a terrible scream from outside, accompanied by a sickening thud.

  Bang! With one sharp push, James Barnett flung back the nursery door. He and my mother stood for a moment, transfixed. Then my mother whirled, and ran for the stairs.

  ‘Ahh! Ahh!’ The distant scream had become a high-pitched groan, less audible but equally disturbing. I could hear other voices, too. James Barnett hesitated a moment, before following my mother.

  He left the nursery door standing open behind him.

  ‘What happened?’ said Emily, in a dazed fashion. ‘Charlotte?’

  ‘He has fallen from the window,’ I replied, with absolute conviction, pushing back the covers and sliding to the floor.

  ‘Mr Barton?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ James demanded shrilly, but I was already out of the room. In the nursery I paused only for an instant to survey the damage, which was considerable. My mother’s watercolours had been torn or knocked from the wall, and some of the bed-curtains had felt the full force of Barton’s temper. Barton, however, was gone.

  I saw why, when I reached the window. It had been shoved open to its fullest extent. My stepfather’s plan, evidently, had been to drop onto the portico—which was directly beneath the window-ledge— and from there slide down one of the two wooden pillars holding up the little roof over the front door. There had been nothing unreasonable about this plan. The drop to the portico was no more than a couple of feet in length, and the slide down the pillar, though tricky, could have been accomplished quite easily by someone tall and nimble.

  But it was dark, and my stepfather’s sense of balance was impaired. Though he had reached the portico roof without mishap, he had somehow lost his grip while swinging himself over its edge—and had landed on top of a rose bush.

  I could hear him groaning. Moreover, by scrambling onto the sill, I was able to look down and see him. He was rolling about in the light of James Barnett’s lamp, swearing and clutching his ankle.

  The fall had not been long enough to kill him. Nevertheless, he must have fallen on one foot, which was either broken or badly sprained. The rose bush, too, had inflicted a good many minor injuries. I could see bloody scratches even from my vantage point.

  Only a complete madman, I decided, would have attempted such a climb in bare feet and a nightshirt.

  ‘What were you doing?’ my mother exclaimed, as if she had read my thoughts. She stood directly beneath me, the pistol still in her hand. ‘Eliza, take these keys. Go to my medicine chest. Bring back the little blue bottle of laudanum powder, do you hear?’

  I realised, then, that there were servants gathered about on the lawn, many of them half-dressed. Their pale shirts glimmered in the shadows.

  ‘What happened?’ James was pushing me from behind, trying to squeeze onto the sill. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Ouch! Stop shoving!’

  Below me, my mother surrendered her weapon to James Barnett. It startled me to see this, but I suppose that she must have weighed her options; better to arm a convict, after all, than to risk having her husband snatch the pistol from her when she approached him.

  For she did approach him. Her courage was incredible. Though her pale, outstretched hand shook so violently that its tremor was clearly visible from the nursery window, she nonetheless went over to her husband and crouched beside his cowering form.

  ‘What have you done?’ she said. ‘George? Where does it hurt?’

  He tried to crawl away. The immediate agony must have abated a little—from which circumstance it would have been obvious to my mother that no bones were broken. Certainly, Barton was still able to move his injured leg. He even began to pull himself up, using the stone wall of the house. But his nightclothes had been shredded by the rose bush, and the pain in his ankle was still disabling. He cried out when he attempted to put any weight on his right foot.

  ‘Oh, George . . .’ My mother also rose, and reached for him. Whereupon he flung out an arm to protect himself.

  ‘No!’ he croaked. He seemed terrified. ‘Don’t touch me!’

  My mother hesitated. She looked towards James Barnett, as if seeking an explanation.

  ‘If you shoot me here, they’ll all see! All of them!’ Barton cried, making a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire front lawn and every one of its occupants.

  My mother stepped back, as if struck by a blow. There was a brief pause. Then she addressed James Barnett.

  ‘Take the pistol inside,’ she ordered. ‘Leave the lamp.’

  ‘Aye, Mam.’

  ‘Ahh. Ahh.’ My stepfather was almost crying with pain as he tried to limp away from her. He kept falling to his knees. With every clumsy step that he took, the shadowy arc of watching servants retreated slightly.

  Not one of them made a move to assist him.

  ‘George? Do you hear? We want to help you, not hurt you. Look—here is Eliza, with some laudanum. It will ease the pain. George?’

  I shall never forget that scene. I viewed it as God must have viewed it, from high above, and perhaps for that reason it remains engraved on my memory. At the centre of it all was the colza lamp, shedding a golden ring of light. To one side of the lamp, my mother stood with both hands spread, her hair tumb
ling across her shoulders. Not far from her, a bleeding, white-clad figure was crawling across the grass, between the broken remains of the rocking horse. And on the very edge of the ring of light, silent figures remained as motionless as the black shapes of the eucalypts that reared up behind them.

  I remember every detail. I also remember the way I felt, looking down at George Barton. Do you know, I nursed not a single shred of pity in my heart?

  If he had been within my reach, I probably would have spat on him.

  Fifteen

  In Tom Hellicar’s Children, there is a certain Mrs Heland who spends most of her day sitting in an arm-chair under a greasy chintz, with her feet encased in slippers run down at one side. Fancying herself an invalid, she doses herself at eleven o’clock every morning with a glass of porter, and at night with a glass of hot gin.

  When first I read this description, I recognised it as an almost perfect portrait of my stepfather after his accident. My stepfather was very much subdued by the fall. Though his injury was not serious, it required several drops of laudanum for three days running, and the laudanum worked on him in two ways. At first, it made him sleepy. Then, after it was withdrawn, he became costive. Being now well acquainted with opium in its various guises, I must say that its effects on the bowels should always be taken into account. At the time, however, these symptoms were less well known. There was some concern that damage might have been inflicted on my stepfather’s internal organs. Certainly he was in a great deal of pain; I even wonder, now, if the problem was partly a nervous one, for I have known nervous tension to aggravate the bowels and stomach to an enormous degree in some people.

  At any rate, George Barton became ill. My mother fed him soda water, beef tea and arrowroot, which he immediately brought up. She then tried croton oil, and would have given him calomel if he had accepted it. But by this time his physical discomfort was affecting his mind. He refused to be treated by my mother. I heard him crying out in the back bedroom, accusing her of trying to poison him.

  In the circumstances, I would have shut the door on his agony and gone about my business.

  My mother, however, had already applied to the Throsbys for help. You will recall my mentioning Mr Charles Throsby’s sister, Mary, who had disapproved of my parents’ romance aboard the Cumberland. She had married Dr Patrick Hill, the Superintendent of Liverpool Hospital, and the couple were visiting Throsby Park at the time of Barton’s illness. My mother, in desperation, sought Dr Hill’s advice—for she had very little faith in the local doctors. Dr Allen, who treated the prisoners at Berrima Gaol, was a renowned drunkard, and Dr Montgomery was an emancipated convict who had no formal medical training at all, though he was said to be a gifted herbalist.