Another pause. When Mr Ash spoke again, his tone was more desiccated than ever.
‘Is Mr Barton armed, Ma’am?’ he inquired.
‘No. At least—I think not.’
‘Then you must set yer mind at rest,’ said Mr Ash. ‘For I am.’
Hearing this, I immediately scrambled away to inform my siblings that Mr Ash had a firearm. And there was a good chance that he might shoot George Barton with it.
‘I hope so,’ James remarked. ‘I would do it myself, if I wasn’t afraid to hang.’
‘You should not say so, James,’ Emily reproved him. ‘Murder is a sin.’
Sullenly, James kicked at a stone. We were behind the dairy, where the grass had been let go. Clumps of it stood as high as our knees.
‘You might not hang if you were defending yourself,’ I speculated. ‘But you would still go to prison, I daresay.’
‘Well, I don’t want to go to prison either,’ said James. ‘And neither does Mr Ash, I expect. Has He come down yet?’ (We always referred to Barton as ‘He’ or ‘Him’, when we were talking among ourselves.) ‘Does He know about Mr Ash?’
‘Not yet,’ I replied. ‘But He will soon.’
‘I wish we could go away,’ Louisa suddenly observed. ‘Into the bush. I don’t want to be here when He comes down.’
‘There’s no need to fret, Louisa. I told you—Mr Ash is armed.’
Luckily, Mr Ash was not required to use his weapon. I myself was a witness to the first confrontation between the new overseer and the old one, and I can testify that Mr Ash handled it with quite astonishing poise. It occurred near the stockyard, late that afternoon. Though Mr Ash was newly arrived, and must have been very tired, he did not immediately repair to Swanton after interviewing my mother. Instead he commenced an inspection of the estate, beginning in the kitchen and proceeding through the dairy, the piggery, the huts and the gardens. My mother refused to accompany him. That, at least, is what I assume, for she remained in the house. Her children were of a different mind. We preferred to avoid the house when Barton was in it—and besides, we were curious. We thought Mr Ash rather small and thin to be defying our stepfather. Had he the strength of character to oppose such a violent and tempestuous man?
We soon found out. While Mr Ash carefully examined every inch of the stockyard fence, kicking it here and shaking it there, we stationed ourselves near the old ironbark, watching him. He paid us no heed, though I am convinced that he saw us. How could he have failed to? But we said nothing, and he said nothing. He simply continued to prod at the fence-posts, as if searching for evidence of ant damage.
He did not even react to the sound of distant shouting when it occurred, but proceeded with his inspection, while my siblings and I concealed ourselves behind a larger tree. We knew that Barton must be coming.
‘Mr Ash,’ I said, ‘can you hear that shouting, sir?’
‘I’d be deaf if I could not,’ he replied, without looking up from the fence-rail that occupied him.
‘It is my stepfather shouting, Mr Ash. It sounds as if he must be awake.’
‘It does indeed,’ said Mr Ash in a grave voice.
‘He can get monstrous angry, Mr Ash,’ Louisa piped up. ‘You must be very, very careful.’
At this, Mr Ash turned to regard us all. He was wearing a slouch hat pulled low over his forehead, and gave it a tug as he studied us with a pair of small, dark eyes like chips of shale. He did not seem to sweat like other men.
‘You must be the heirs of Mr James Atkinson, esquire,’ he said, and we nodded. ‘Are you afraid of Mr George Barton?’ he wanted to know.
Again we all nodded. More vigorously.
‘Well, I am not,’ he declared. Whereupon—to our astonishment— he returned to his work, moving along the fence in a meditative fashion, sometimes throwing his weight against it, sometimes standing back to squint at it, his thin lips pursed to cover his small, sparse teeth.
After a while, we heard my stepfather draw near. ‘Ash?’ he yelled. ‘Ash? Where the devil are you? Show yourself, damn your eyes, or I’ll hunt you down like a dog!’
Mr Ash straightened. Adopting a casual stance, he slowly unbuttoned his dusty blue coat—revealing the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. Barton must have spotted this from some distance away. For after approaching noisily, shouting and stamping, he suddenly came to a halt, and seemed to hesitate.
‘Mr Barton, is it?’ asked Mr Ash.
‘And what the devil is your bounce?’ Barton had turned pale. His eyes were fixed on the pistol butt. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Mr Alexander Berry, sir.’
‘To shoot me where I stand?’
Mr Ash blinked. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not at all.’
‘Don’t lie to me! You want me off this place, I know! You would do anything, God damn you to hell! You would leave me under a fallen log, like a dead convict!’
Mr Ash said nothing.
‘You think you can lure me out here to kill me?’ Barton raved. ‘Is that what you think, you murderous bugger?’
‘Not at all,’ Mr Ash repeated politely, and jerked his head in my direction. ‘Not in front of witnesses, at any rate.’
My stepfather had failed to notice the four pairs of eyes peering out at him from behind a tree. He turned, and started, and swore under his breath. Then he threw an empty gin bottle at Mr Ash before taking to his heels.
The bottle smashed harmlessly against a fence-post.
‘Hmmm,’ said Mr Ash. He regarded the shattered glass as he re-buttoned his coat, his expression unreadable. I have to confess, I felt hugely reassured. It seemed to me that, with Mr Ash about, we would all now be safe.
I was wrong, of course. In fact I discovered how wrong when George Barton nearly burned our house down.
Twenty-one
It was Louisa who woke me.
‘Charlotte!’ she coughed. ‘Charlotte, wake up!’
‘What . . . ?’ I threw off her hand, peering into the gloom as I lifted my head. ‘Go ’way . . .’
‘There’s smoke, Charlotte! Can’t you smell it?’
I could. At once. And I knew instantly that something was wrong.
‘Where’s Mama?’ I swung my legs out of bed, pushing back covers and curtains. There was smoke in the room, and a frightful stench. It set me coughing. ‘James! Emily! Get up!’ (How hard it was to breathe!) ‘Wake them, Louisa!’
When I opened the door, I saw only smoke. It was illuminated faintly by an orange glow, which seemed stronger to my right than to my left. ‘Mama!’ I cried, before the vapours caught in my throat. But someone else was yelling too. I could identify George Barton’s voice, though it was hoarse and high. ‘Fire! Fire!’ he shouted.
There was swirl of movement through the smoke. I heard thudding footsteps and the crackle of burning wood. My mother coughed a few feet away. ‘Charlotte!’ she choked. ‘Downstairs!’ She was beside me suddenly, hacking her lungs out.
I cannot convey to you how frightened I was. To be wrenched from a deep sleep and thrown directly into a scene of utter confusion—of raised voices and deep shadows and suffocating fumes—is a truly dreadful experience. I had very little understanding of what was going on. I recollect that Emily clutched me at one point, sobbing and retching. We must have been dragged or pushed downstairs, past the seat of the conflagration. My mother was with us. She screamed for help, though not with much force. The atmosphere was too thick; it strangled her cry.
We were fortunate that no nightshirts caught alight. There were cinders in the air, but they did not hurt us. The vestibule was full of smoke. The front door stood open and we stumbled through it, heaving and spluttering, our eyes awash. The air outside seemed immeasurably fresh and cool.
‘Mrs Barton!’ someone yelled. A dark figure approached us, faintly visible in the meagre moonlight. It was one of the servants; my mother grabbed his arm.
‘Water!’ she croaked. ‘Fetch water!’
He vanished into the shadows as
more servants came running. Some of them must have brought full buckets, because they plunged into the house. Raucous shouts were answered by further shouts. My mother turned to me.
‘Stay here,’ she gasped. ‘All of you. Do not move from this spot.’
‘No! Mama!’
‘Stay here! I’ll be back directly.’
And she hurried off, though not through the front door. Instead her dim white shape disappeared around the side of the house, heading for the kitchen. A lantern appeared then, swinging from the hand of James Barnett. But he took it inside with him.
‘Where is Louisa?’ Emily whimpered.
I reached out, groping, and found only two other bodies pressed against mine. Both were shivering violently. Here and there a tearful eye glinted, or a glossy lock gleamed—but none belonged to Louisa.
‘Louisa?’ I exclaimed, peering into the night. ‘Louisa!'
‘She came out!’ James said. ‘I know she did!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Louisa!’ Emily shrieked. ‘Oh no! Oh no!’
‘Shh. It’s all right . . .’
‘She came out!’ James sounded shrill. ‘I saw her! She’s not in there!’
‘MAMA!’ I bellowed at the top of my voice. No one seemed to notice. There was too much activity. ‘Stay here,’ I ordered. ‘Don’t move.’
‘No!’ Emily grabbed my sleeve. ‘No! Charlotte! She told us not to!’
‘Louisa is missing! She has to know!’
‘You mustn’t go, Charlotte,’ said James, clinging to my other arm.
‘MAMA!’ I put the full force of my lungs into this cry, and it attracted some attention. Charley, our native servant, seemed to materialise out of the shadows.
‘What, Miss?’ he said.
‘Louisa!’ I wailed. ‘Where is Louisa?’
He stared for a moment. ‘With the Missus?’ he suggested.
‘No! No, we don’t know where she is, Charley, you must tell her! You must tell the Missus! Quickly!’
He bolted, but in the wrong direction. We saw him go into the house.
‘No! No, Charley!’ I screamed. ‘She’s in the kitchen! In the kitchen!'
‘Perhaps he went to see . . .’ Emily sobbed. ‘If—if Louisa—’
‘Louisa is not in the house!’ James stamped his foot. ‘I told you!’
‘Shh!’
You cannot conceive of our fear and despair. Where was Louisa? I tried to comfort the others. I assured them that she must have become separated from us in all the fuss and flurry. Perhaps she had gone to the kitchen. Perhaps she was with Mama. More lanterns had appeared on the scene, borne by half-dressed convicts who must have run down from the huts. I saw my mother amongst these people. She had returned from the kitchen with a brimming bucket, which she handed to one of the men.
‘Mama!'
But she was occupied. Streams of hurrying figures were moving in and out of the house, forming a kind of irrigation chain. My mother stopped at one knot to consult Robert.
‘MAMA!’ I bawled.
This time she heard me, and abruptly broke off her conversation. She strode across the lawn towards us, her white robe flapping.
‘Where is Louisa?’ were the first words out of her mouth.
‘Mama, we don’t know!’ Seeing her expression, I began to cry. ‘Is she not with you?’
My mother caught her breath. She whirled around to face the house, while James insisted: ‘She came out! I saw her! She came out, Mama, she did!’
‘Robert!’ my mother called, beginning to run. We followed her. ‘Miss Louisa is missing! Oh God . . .’
‘Nay, Mam.’ Someone’s soft Irish voice wafted across the smoky air. ‘Nay, there’s not a soul up there.’
‘Are you sure? Did you check? Louisa!'
‘She bail inside, Missus.’ This was Charley, who had suddenly reappeared, coughing. ‘I look.’
‘Then where is she?’
No one knew. And no one could help, not with a fire to extinguish. It seemed at first as if our beloved home might burn to the ground, though we soon realised that the flames were not as voracious as we had feared. Even as we stood there, I noticed a certain easing of the frantic, scurrying activity that had been so apparent only minutes before. There was still a great deal of smoke, but blankets and buckets had been brought to bear on what was, essentially, a rather small fire. James Barnett said as much when he staggered out the front door, coughing.
‘We broke its back,’ he wheezed. ‘It’ll not be going further, God be praised.’
‘Did you see Louisa?’ Mama demanded. ‘Is my daughter up there?’
‘No, Mam.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure and certain. We cleared the beds, Mam.’
‘Then where is Louisa? Louisa!’ All at once Mama spotted George Barton, and hurled herself at him like an avenging fury. ‘What have you done?’ she screeched. ‘Where is my daughter?'
Barton had not burned to death in his bed. I must have been expecting something of the sort, for my heart sank when I saw him; subconsciously, I must have assumed that he had gone to sleep with a pipe in his mouth, dead drunk (as was his habit), and set his own bedclothes alight. Unhappily, though, he was safe. A later inspection revealed that the source of the fire must have been one of the many candles that he had placed on the upstairs landing. My mother, in trying to snuff them all out, may have inadvertently knocked down a single wax taper, or simply failed to extinguish it. Whatever the cause, it had ignited a portion of the Indian mat, which in turn had set fire to the finish on the skirting. A portion of wall, the door frame and some floorboards suffered badly, but the damage was contained. In general terms, the house remained sound.
Unfortunately, my mother was ignorant of all this at the time of the fire. Perhaps she believed, in her overwrought state, that George Barton had set it deliberately so as to kill us without fear of reprisal. Whatever the cause of her fury, it utterly transformed her. She rushed at her dishevelled husband and began to slap him around the head.
‘You cur, you sot, God damn you to hell!’ she raged. ‘What have you done, you—murderer! Assassin!'
It was an immensely stupid thing to do. Barton hit back; he punched her in the face, and she dropped like a stone. People rushed at them from all sides. I reviled him at the top of my voice as I threw myself onto my mother’s collapsed form. Barton tried to kick us both, but lost his balance instead, staggering sideways. James Barnett finished the job with a discreetly timed push.
Barton fell on one knee.
‘Who did that?’ he yammered. ‘Who was it? I’ll have you flogged!
Some of the men immediately melted away into the shadows. James Barnett, however, stood his ground. His fists were clenched and he was breathing heavily.
My mother sat up. ‘You’re insane!’ she lisped, through a stream of blood. ‘Your mind is gone! How could you do such a thing?’
‘I? I?'
‘You would kill us all!’
‘You’re trying to kill me!’
‘You are mad! You’re a madman!’
‘Shut your bloody mouth! ’ Barton roared. He went for her, and I went for him. When I tried to push him back, he knocked me aside as if I had been a curtain. ‘Ah, the bairns . . .’ someone muttered in protest. Still, however, nobody intervened. Nobody except my brother, that is; he picked up a heavy rock from one of the borders and hurled it against Barton’s ribs.
Then he ran. He simply ran. Without waiting for Barton to recover from the blow, he shot away into the night.
‘No! James! Wait!’ cried my mother. ‘Don’t you touch him!’
‘I’ll break his bloody neck!’ Barton howled, and fetched me such a box on the ear that I fell to the ground, stunned. He hit out again and again as we tried to restrain him. I remember curling up to ward off his flailing foot, which (to my eternal gratitude) was bare. Had he been shod, I might have suffered irreversible injury.
He lost his mind, I think. He became irr
ational at that moment, no doubt viewing his attack as self-defence. I have never seen such terrifying, unrestrained, inexplicable violence. At one point, reeling back, he encountered a small bush and trampled it underfoot, with deliberate yet uncontrolled venom, as if it had been his worst enemy.
Shielding Emily, my mother sobbed and screamed. I could hear James Barnett’s hoarse voice pleading: ‘Jesus, sir—you’ll hang for it if you kill ’em—ah Christ, Henry, what’ll we do?’
‘Where’s the gun?’ Henry drawled, from out of the darkness.
The word ‘gun’ had an effect like a pistol-shot. Barton froze. Then he bolted. One moment he was there, on the lamp-lit front lawn. The next moment he was gone.
James Barnett went at once to my mother’s side.
‘God have mercy,’ he protested. ‘Just look at you . . .’
‘Where is my son?’ Mama struggled to her feet, pushing Barnett away from her. ‘Charlotte? What has he done to you? Can you hear me, Charlotte?’
I nodded, unable to speak. The nod made my head pound like a drum.
‘Go and find my son!’ Mama ordered shrilly, addressing the convicts who stood motionless, watching us. ‘Find James! Find Louisa! You must find them before he does!’
‘Find the gun first,’ Henry suggested, and I knew that he was right. James Barnett instantly got up and disappeared. Emily was weeping without restraint. I turned to my mother.
‘Perhaps Louisa is hiding!’ I said brokenly, my hand clamped to my throbbing ear. ‘Perhaps she is scared to come out, Mama.’
‘Perhaps.’ My mother’s voice trembled. Pressing Emily to her, she looked around in a helpless fashion, her face a mess of blood and tears. ‘Yes, you may be right. Perhaps she is hiding.’
But we were wrong. And I will tell you what did become of Louisa, because the matter was soon enough resolved. It may not surprise you to learn that, when my siblings and I emerged from the house, Louisa kept running. She must have been so frightened that her feet refused to stop, carrying her across the front lawn, through the gate and into the bush. You will recall that it was Louisa who woke me with news of the fire. Before doing so, being a good and obedient child, she had put on her slippers. Consequently she was able to run without hurting herself on stones and thorns, though she was very lucky not to have rammed her head into a tree, or fallen down a slope—for despite the gibbous moon it was very dark.
The Dark Mountain Page 22
