HAWKINS’ GROVE
By
Graeme Bourke
Published By
HAWKINS' GROVE
Copyright 2010 Graeme Bourke
Contents
Hawkins’ Grove
A Fortunate Destiny
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
HAWKINS’ GROVE
Tasmania
1855
Most of the time the steel-banded, wooden coach wheels followed the ruts in the track like a train to its rails. But every now and then the four horses veered causing the coach to buck and jump as the wheels dragged over the ridge in the centre of the mud-encrusted track. The coach was being driven way too fast for the conditions. The driver, a tall thick set man around thirty, with a bushy-black beard, cursed and swore as he cracked the whip over the horses’ heads. It was getting late and soon it would be dark. Jim Hawkins didn’t like being on this section of road at night as bushrangers were rife in the district. He cracked the whip again, hearing its piercing echo through the trees above the tramping hooves of the horses.
Creeping shadows from the ghostly gums stretched out across the uneven track as the sun settled lower in a crimson sky and the hideous laugh from an unseen kookaburra reverberated through the stillness. A kangaroo, grazing on the grass beneath the trees, raised its head with twitching ears at the rumbling sound of the coach as if to enquire what all the noise was about. The kangaroo resumed its feeding after ascertaining that the noise was attached to nothing it should fear.
The coach was only three miles from the safety of the town when two men, one big and one small, appeared on the road in front. They were riding chestnut coloured horses and were blocking his path. Strips of coarse-green cloth covered their faces beneath grey, wide-brimmed hats. The smaller of the two men held a pistol. Hawkins pulled at the reins and stopped the horses only feet from the riders. He silently cursed under his breath.
“What do you want? I have nothing of value aboard,” growled Hawkins beneath his black beard.
The larger of the two men kicked at the sweaty flanks of his horse and rode down one side of the coach, his red beard clearly visible beneath the cloth that only partially covered his face. The man wore a black, three-quarter coat, well worn calf-length tan riding boots, and grey-striped trousers. His clothing did not reflect that of a bushranger who had been hiding out in the wilds of the hinterland.
“We just need to relieve you of your passenger,” said the man with a distinct Irish accent.
Jim Hawkins would know this man if he met him again. He had only one passenger, a petite young woman of around twenty or so, with sparkling blue eyes and long dark hair. The man dismounted and opened the door.
“I’m not going back,” said the girl. There was stubbornness in her voice.
The man said nothing as he took hold of her left arm and dragged her from the coach. She was fighting him as he threw her into the black sludge on the side of the road. The beautiful blue dress she was wearing was now covered in mud.
“Hey arse’ole,” yelled Hawkins. “If you want a fight, why don’t you try it on a man?”
The other rider pushed forward. The pistol pointed at him. Hawkins was too angry to be scared.
“This is none of your concern,” he said, in a mild mannered voice, reminiscent of a cultured upbringing. “Where is her luggage?”
“On the roof,” scowled Hawkins.
The man reached up into the baggage rack and took the girl’s suitcases. He seemed to know exactly which ones they were. He then waved the pistol at him. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Hawkins looked around at the young woman as the big man stood over her. She was staring directly at him. There was no fear in her eyes, only anger and defiance. At that moment Hawkins saw a woman to be admired, both in beauty and courage. He hoped they didn’t break her spirit. He turned away, eager to leave as he cracked the whip above the horses’ heads, the echo reverberating once again through the stillness of the forest. The hooves bit hard into the muddy road as they moved off, neighing and protesting at the same time, as if they too, were anxious to be free of this place.
Big Jim Hawkins eased back on the horses once clear of the tall timber. He cursed and spat out onto the side of the road as he saw the first rough-sawn timber building in front of him. “The Smith’s house,” he muttered to himself. As the coach passed the dwelling he noticed the soft yellow candlelight through the windows.
Occasionally, he stopped and had a swig of Smith’s home-made brew, not tonight though. It was already dark and he wanted to report to Constable Harrison at Gladstone on what had happened on the road. He feared for the young woman’s safety.
Gladstone was only a small town. It was centrally situated and was on the highway so most of the rural traffic had to pass through the town to get to Hobart. A lot of traders and buyers from the city gathered at Gladstone and purchased grain, vegetables, and fruit from the farmers which saved them the problem of having to cart their produce all the way down to Hobart. Some of the bigger farms shipped their own goods down to the city and made a handsome profit, and thus, became richer in the process.
Jim finally reined in the horses at the depot and livery stable at Gladstone, much to his relief. His back was aching and his legs were stiff after the long jaunt from Cockle Creek.
Grabbing the almost worn out leather mailbag from out under the seat, Jim climbed down from the stage. Old Abe Tanner, who was wearing a pair of black trousers held up by some red braces over a grubby grey shirt, sauntered out from the gloomy bowels of the livery stable.
Abe was on the wrong side of sixty, with thin grey hair and white whiskers. The leathery-brown skin of his face reflected the years exposed to the harshness of the sun. He walked with a stoop, and there was a certain lethargic motion in his step. Originally from England, Abe had fallen foul of the law and had been transported to Hobart to serve out his seven-year sentence. Being a young man with high spirits and pride to match, he resented officialdom and had escaped into the bush around Hobart. He was lucky, as he was captured not long after, and in a way it saved his life. Others who had escaped with him became bushrangers and most of them eventually met their death on the gallows.
Abe clambered up into the seat that Jim had just vacated and took hold of the reins. “Nothing out of the normal needs doing, Jim?” asked Abe, through his thick-white beard and rotting teeth that had seen far too much rum. The normal routine was to take the coach around the back of the stable, unhitch the horses, brush them down, feed them, and then shut them in the stalls for the night.
“Just the usual, Abe,” replied Jim, making his way into the dimly lit depot that doubled as a general store. He weaved his way around a stand of brooms and ducked his head as he walked under the hanging pots and pans. The sound of his boots on the rough- wooden floor seemed to fill the void left by the lack of late-night patrons.
Perkins, the owner, was standing behind the wide counter which was crammed with jars of condiments. There was only a narrow gap between the jars for serving. He was adding up his takings for the day. All the coins were stacked neatly in their individual heaps, shining shillings and sixpences, dull copper pennies, and farthings amid the low light from the oil lamp.
Owen Perkins looked up through his gold rimmed glasses as Jim strode towards the counter. He was a small thin man with a bald head and a hawk like nose which epitomized the character of the man. He was at most times rude, untactful, and a scrooge.
“Where have you been?” asked Perkins with his predominate, high-pitched voice that had a hint of anger in it. “I should have been closed an hour ago.”
“Was waylaid a few miles back on the other side of Smith’s place by masked riders.”
A surprised Perkins stopped counting his money. “Did they take anything?”
“No, I had nothing of value aboard.” Hawkins threw the mailbag on the counter. “But they took my passenger, a young woman.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I guess it was a family thing. She seemed to know them. Still, I’m going to report it to Constable Harrison.”
“Are you going to do the run into Hobart tomorrow?” asked Perkins as he proceeded to put the money into a white calico bag.
“I reckon Constable Harrison will want me to take him back out to where they took the girl.”
“You had better find out for sure and let Abe know. He will have to take the coach down to Hobart in the morning, if that is the case.”
“All right, I’ll see you later.” Jim left the store and walked down the wooden sidewalk until he came to the police station. He turned right and went down the dark alley to the doorway leading to the house which was attached to the rear of the station. He knocked on the door and almost immediately heard footsteps. The door with its squeaky hinges opened to reveal a busty Mrs Harrison.
“Mr Hawkins,” said Mrs Harrison with a surprised look on her round face.
“Mrs Harrison, I would like to see your husband.”
“Come in, Mr Hawkins. It’s cold out there.”
Jim took off his dusty, wide-brimmed hat and stepped inside. “Probably be a frost in the morning.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mr Hawkins,” replied Mrs Harrison, closing the door behind them. She led Jim through to the kitchen where there was a pot of sweet smelling stew bubbling away on the wood stove. “Sit down and make yourself at home.”
Jim sat down on the wooden chair at the table. It was a pleasure to feel the warmth of the room. Constable Harrison was seated at the kitchen table reading some official looking papers in the candle light. He was a big man, with a ginger handlebar moustache, large side burns, and a ruddy complexion. He was a military pensioner, and had come out to Van Diemen’s Land or Tasmania as it was now known, and soon found that working the land from the grant he received was not for him. Men of his background were sorely needed. Constables were needed in Victoria too, due to the increased crime rate caused by the discovery of gold. Most of the military pensioners arriving in Tasmania had ended up as Constables in Victoria. Charlie Harrison had preferred to stay, not wishing to move on again, especially when the job of Chief Constable at Gladstone was offered to him.
Constable Harrison looked up from his reading, his military demeanour obvious. “I will be with you in a moment, Mr Hawkins,” he said as his eyes returned to the documents in front of him.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Hawkins?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Harrison.”
Jim looked over at the big black kettle that sat on an equally blackened stove. He knew that it would be kept continually on the boil just in case any visitors such as he arrived. A cup of tea could be made in an instant. Mrs Harrison poured the hot water into a silver teapot on the table. ”Just give it a moment to draw and then help yourself, Mr Hawkins.” Mrs Harrison then put a bowl of sugar and jug of milk on the bare table in front of him, followed by a plain white cup and saucer.
Jim watched Mrs Harrison as she loaded some more wood into the fire box from the pile stacked on the side of the brick hearth. She was a big woman, with broad shoulders, wide hips and a round face. Her straight brown hair with flecks of grey was tied back tightly over her head. She wore a dull-brown dress and a red apron. She was a kindly woman, and always bid him good-day when she met him in the street. All the town folk liked her.
“Have you eaten, Mr Hawkins?” inquired Mrs Harrison, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting down at the table.
“No, I’ve only just arrived back in town with the coach.”
“Then you must stay for dinner.”
“I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble, Mrs Harrison,” said Jim, in faint hope that she would press him further and will him to stay. There wasn’t much to eat in the little shanty where he lived with Abe at the rear of the livery stable, except for some dry bread and cheese.
“Nonsense, we have a big pot of stew here, more than enough for all of us.”
“Well, if you insist.” The aroma of the stew and added herbs wafted past his nose. His stomach pined for something solid.
“I do, Mr Hawkins.”
Constable Harrison pushed the papers he was reading to one side and then unbuttoned his blue tunic and took it off. “It’s a bit warm in here.”
Jim was feeling the heat as well. He took his thick overcoat off. Mrs Harrison stood up, gathered her husband’s tunic and Jim’s coat and hung them on the wooden pegs behind the door. “Had some trouble tonight,” said Jim taking a sip of his tea.
Constable Harrison raised his bushy eyebrows. “What sort of trouble?”
“Was bailed up tonight, a couple of miles the other side of Smith’s house.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Only my passenger, a young woman.”
“Bushrangers?” quizzed Constable Harrison.
“No, I don’t think so. They were too well dressed to be men on the run, and their horses were in good condition. It seemed as though the girl knew them, even though they wore masks.”
“Family most likely,” said Constable Harrison as he took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco.
“That doesn’t explain the masks and the big bloke with the red beard giving her a hard time.”
“You don’t know who she was by any chance?”
“No, but she was a well-to-do woman. Her clothes were expensive looking and she seemed to be well mannered.”
Constable Harrison struck a match and put it to his pipe, he inhaled and the tobacco flared. “Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. I suggest we take a look where you were bailed up in the morning, just in case there is some skullduggery going on.” He drew on the pipe with a couple of quick puffs to make sure it was lit. “It might pay to take Billy along with us,” he added.
Billy was a young aboriginal, who lived in a bark hut on the edge of town.
He liked living near the town because he could access the demon rum more easily. He was an excellent tracker, and Constable Harrison often used him to pursue petty criminals when they fled into the bush.
Jim continued to sip at his tea. He wasn’t a smoker, but he did enjoy the fragrance of fine tobacco. As a child he loved nothing more than to join his father when he went to the barber shop. Here the tobacco was stored in big jars and the aromas completely filled the store.
Mrs Harrison came over to the table with a white table cloth. Jim lifted the sugar bowl and his cup and saucer as she spread it across the table. Then she proceeded to set out the knives and forks. The homely atmosphere in the kitchen brought back suppressed memories of England for Jim, the endless odors, the hot meals, the bickering of his siblings, and the stern authority of his father, and the meekness of his mother. They were a family then, but now they were torn apart by fate, death, and the judicial system.
It all began when his father was killed in a coal mine collapse. Jim, at sixteen, was the eldest of the four children and the burden of responsibility was heaped upon him as the new breadwinner. Times were hard and the family struggled to make ends meet. His younger sister Ellen, at fourteen, was a dark haired beauty. She was married off to the local merchandiser. It eased the burden on the family. But then the sickness came, and it swept the land, taking his mother and youngest brother.
He was left to look after his younger brother, Jeb, who was a blond haired, cheeky, twelve-year-old with no fear. The only problem with Jeb was that he mixed with the wrong people, and it eventually led to him ending up in the courts for stealing a gentleman’s wallet. He was found guilty and transported to Van Diemen’s Land, as it was then called, on the other side of the world
.
After ten years, and no word from his brother, who would have been released after his seven-year sentence, Jim decided to go to Tasmania. There was nothing to keep him in England. There, he hoped to find some work, save some money, and maybe buy a small farm. So, he sold up everything and came to Tasmania. But Jim never found his brother; he seemed to have vanished into thin air on completing his sentence.
Along with many others he had drifted looking for a quick path to riches. He tried gold mining in Victoria for a while, but this proved to be too much work for too little. As for the farm, well, that was only a dream.
“Here you are, Jim,” said Mrs Harrison, sliding a big plate of stew down in front of him.
Later, Jim sauntered off to the shanty with a full belly. His body still retained the lingering heat from the wood stove in the Harrison kitchen. He opened the stiff paling door to the one-roomed shack with a stone fireplace at one end. The dying embers just giving off enough light for him to find his way to his bunk on the left hand side. Abe was sound asleep in his bunk on the other side. Jim sat down on the bed and took off his coat and boots. Then he stood up and shook the old mattress. A rat scurried out from within its folds. He lay down on the mattress and pulled his one and only blanket up around his shoulders and was soon asleep.
Hawkins' Grove Page 1
