Heart of the Country Page 11

  There was more movement; he risked a peek. Now there were three women, all carrying wooden objects and all naked. Thomas looked down again. Once more there was movement. This time they were close enough for him to see from the corner of his eye. He eased himself up to a standing position and risked another look. The women were halfway between the trees and his hut. He studied each of their faces. They looked down but didn’t retreat. The wooden objects they carried were shaped like oblong bowls.

  “Hello.” Thomas spoke quietly.

  The smallest of the three women giggled. She was stopped by a muttered command from the oldest woman. She was much older, Thomas thought, if the creping of her skin was any indication. Then he felt the heat in his cheeks as he took in the sagging of her breasts compared to the plumper rounded bosoms of the other two.

  The older woman said something to him then watched him expectantly.

  “My name is Thomas,” he said and took a small step forward, reaching out a hand.

  The younger woman screeched and hid behind the other two, who held their ground.

  “Thomas,” he said again as his hand dropped to his side. What was he doing out there in the middle of nowhere, trying to make conversation with three naked ladies? The thought of it struck him as so funny that laughter erupted from his throat and he was unable to stop it. The cackle echoed around them. He wondered if this was what it was to go mad. He stopped as suddenly as he had started.

  Once again the older woman spoke. He couldn’t understand her but the tone of her words were like his mother’s when she’d rebuked him. No doubt this native woman thought he was mad as well.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I have no idea what you are saying.”

  She muttered at him and pointed. He looked down at the fruit drying on the bag.

  “Would you like some?” He bent to gather up several of the leathery morsels.

  The woman spoke again, much louder. He looked up to see her tipping her bowl forward. It was full of the bright red fruit. The woman beside her indicated her own bowl. They must have been picking from the tree Lizzie had found.

  The older woman muttered again and the three of them turned away.

  “Wait,” Thomas called. He held up his hand. The older two kept walking but the youngest looked back at him and spoke. Her companions stopped and watched him.

  “Wait,” he said again and rushed into his hut.

  He took a small calico bag and scooped some flour into it, and then he picked up the plate with the last piece of Lizzie’s pie and went back outside. He was pleased to see the three women still waited. He lifted the pie for them to see then held out the bag with his other hand.

  The oldest woman spoke and the middle one moved forward. She looked at the pie and poked it with her finger then she took the bag from his hand and retreated to the other two where they all looked inside.

  “It’s flour,” Thomas said, “to make a pie with your fruit.”

  The three of them looked from the bag to Thomas. Once again the oldest woman spoke in the tone of a reprimand but this time the youngest woman’s lips turned up in a shy smile. For a moment her deep brown eyes held his gaze then she looked down. The three of them turned and walked back into the trees, where they merged with the shadows and disappeared from his sight.

  “Nice meeting you,” he called, then struggled to stop the laugh that gurgled in his throat. “Perhaps I am going mad,” he muttered and proceeded to shovel mouthfuls of the last piece of fruit pie into his mouth.

  One thing Thomas felt quite sure about. Duffy was wrong about natives all looking alike. The three women had looked quite different. He suppressed another urge to laugh out loud and strode off to chop more wood.

  Three days later, after more time in the saddle checking the sheep, Thomas was returning to his hut in the hope he’d find the men waiting to build the yards. He’d spent his rounds observing the sheep rather than trying to shepherd them and found, without his interference, they maintained a pattern of grazing and rotating back towards the nearest water supply. Thomas was beginning to think AJ was right about not needing to shepherd.

  Derriere snorted as they rounded the last of the trees to the clearing where Thomas wanted to build the yards. He reined the horse to a halt. Standing beside the pile of timber for the drafting yards was a black man. In his hands was Thomas’s axe.

  Thomas felt for the firearm attached to his saddle. He’d fired it to try to kill one of the hopping animals that shared the country with the sheep but he’d had no luck and only managed to scatter the flock. The only hope he’d have of defending himself with it would be to use it as a club.

  The black man put the axe down and stepped away from the wood. Thomas was relieved to see he had a small animal skin hanging from some kind of string around his hips to cover his private parts.

  “Hello,” Thomas said and dismounted.

  “Hello.”

  Thomas lifted his head at the response. “You speak English.”

  “Little bit.” The man moved closer.

  Thomas stepped forward himself and extended his hand. “I am Thomas.”

  The native reached forward and, as he took his hand, Thomas noticed the weeping broken skin around his wrists. He repeated Thomas’s name but only the first part was recognisable. They barely gripped before their hands dropped away.

  “Gulda,” the black man said.

  The way he made the sounds was strange but Thomas surmised this was the native Duffy was determined had thrown a spear at him. He glanced around. This man didn’t appear to have any weapons, but there could be other natives hiding in the trees. He remembered how easily the three women had blended into the shadows.

  “Hut?” Gulda pointed at the lengths of timber.

  “No. I am going to make drafting yards and a shed.”

  Gulda looked from the timber back to Thomas. There was no understanding in his deep brown eyes.

  Thomas drew a square with the toe of his boot in the dirt. “For the sheep.”

  Gulda’s head shot up and his face split in a grin. “Sheep. Mr Tom, sheep.” He pointed to his chest, which Thomas now noticed was marked with thick scars. “Help.”

  Gulda turned and went back to the axe. He threw it over his shoulder and moved to the timber still to be split. Straight away Thomas could see the native knew what to do. It didn’t seem right to sit down and eat while another worked, although he was tired from three days away and looking forward to eating something other than dried meat. He went to the hut and took another axe. For the next couple of hours the two men worked side by side with no conversation.

  Suddenly, Gulda stopped. He placed the axe by the pile of timber he had split and nodded at Thomas. He didn’t even look tired.

  Gulda pointed at the large orange moon that was rising swiftly over the hills, then traced an arc through the air with his finger. “I come back.” He nodded at Thomas and moved away through the trees.

  Thomas looked at the pile of timber Gulda had cut and pondered the man’s motives. Had he stolen sheep from Duffy’s employer? Had he been the one to throw the spear? Thomas shook his head. Weariness seeped through his body.

  He made his way to the stone-cold campfire and busied himself lighting it, desperate for a mug of tea. Finally he sat in the dirt. He rested his back against the log bench and chewed some of the dried red fruits. He had no energy to prepare other food. Once again his isolation threatened to envelope him.

  He’d been here for several weeks and yet felt he’d achieved very little. Thomas was grateful for Gulda’s work, but even with the native’s help, the yard was going to take too long to complete. The sheep needed drafting now and many of them would need to be shorn. That was another job Thomas couldn’t do alone. Weary and despondent, he dragged himself to his bed.

  The sound of chopping woke him the next morning. He listened for a moment. Either there was an echo or both axes were being used. Thomas stepped out from the trees to see Gulda and another native wielding the axes.<
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  When Gulda saw him he stopped and called out, “Cousin,” pointing to the man next to him.

  Thomas waved and both men lifted their hands to him in a stilted response, then went back to chopping. With both of his axes in use, there was nothing he could do to help so he set about preparing some damper. He was starving and if these men were going to work for him he would need to provide them with food.

  Gulda wolfed down the damper. His cousin, who he called Tarka, wasn’t so enthusiastic but both men seemed to appreciate the gesture. They drank the sweet tea Thomas made for them then returned to their chopping.

  Before he knew it they had settled to some sort of routine. Thomas selected the trees he thought would make the best rails and took short trips to check the sheep. Each day the natives came back and Thomas grew used to their help and their few words. In the mornings they shared damper with him but they were always gone before the sun set and he ate his evening meals alone.

  Sitting by his fire one night, he wondered if the natives would be able to help him draft the sheep. Then there was another problem. How was he to pay them? He suspected they had little understanding or use of money. They’d already done so much for him and all he’d given them was a small amount of food in return. He was getting used to Gulda’s broken speech and Tarka’s silence, but he recalled how both men’s eyes lit up whenever he mentioned the sheep. Perhaps that could be their payment. Maybe they would accept a sheep for all their hard work. Thomas didn’t think AJ would object to that. He would try to talk to Gulda about it.

  But when the next morning came there were no sounds of chopping and no sign of the natives. Thomas picked up the axe again himself and began to work but his heart wasn’t in it. Even though they spoke very little, he had enjoyed the presence of other human beings around the homestead. Still, he was not their employer and he’d given them no payment. He couldn’t expect them to work for him for no return. Maybe they’d decided to leave him to it.

  The pile of timber they had made was large although nowhere near big enough to build the yards that were needed. Thomas decided it was time to measure out and plan the layout. He spent the morning stepping out and driving in marker sticks. Once again the day had become hot very early and by mid-morning the sweat was trickling down his chest and back, inside his shirt.

  Thomas lifted his head when a different sound reached his ears. A crack like that made by a whip echoed from beyond the hut. His spirits lifted: maybe George and Lizzie were paying him a visit. He heard the heavy clump of hooves and the sound of male voices. Definitely visitors, although he remembered George didn’t use a whip on his bullocks.

  “Coo-ee.”

  The loud call echoed along the creek. Thomas strode around the hut. Coming towards him was a bullock dray and several men on horses.

  “G’day, mate.” The lead man called. “We hear you want some building done.”

  Thomas could feel the grin burst across his face and the weight of the work ease from his shoulders.

  The man in front stepped down from his horse. He was taller than Thomas, a big solid man with a thick, full beard. He stood straight and surveyed the area. There was no denying he was in charge. His gaze swept back to Thomas and he thrust out his hand.

  “Captain’s what they call me,” he said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “These men don’t look like much but they’re good workers.”

  “Thomas Baker,” Thomas replied as he accepted Captain’s firm grip. “You’re welcome. All of you,” he called to the assembled group.

  Captain kept Thomas’s hand in his grip and leaned down. Thomas took in the lines on his brow and the narrowing of his eyes.

  “I don’t ask where they’ve come from,” he said in a steady voice just loud enough for Thomas to hear. “I expect that they follow my rules and work hard. In return I treat them fair. They get fed and earn a wage and we all get along fine. No need to get too friendly with them.” Captain let go of Thomas’s hand and slapped him on the back. “Where do you want us to make camp?”

  Thomas led him to a clearing in a patch of bush not far from where he hoped the new shearing shed would be built. Captain’s manner reminded Thomas of the man who’d captained their ship to Australia. His commanding presence was reassuring. Thomas’s spirits lifted. With Captain in charge and so many men, they would get the job done in no time.

  Sixteen

  Harriet pushed one foot in front of the other. Her darting gaze scoured the bush for the place where she hoped the bright moonlight would illuminate the wheel marks from the wagon. Septimus had made the journey in and out of Burra several times. She knew so many trips would leave a track to follow but she had only been along it once. Perhaps she’d missed the place where he turned off the road. A wave of anguish washed over her. She was so tired. The moon, which had risen over her shoulder, was now low in the sky. She was running out of time.

  Every sound she’d heard in her desperate rush back along the track away from Jones had sent her heart racing. She’d imagined the big man chasing her but there’d been no pursuit. She’d made it back to Burra and picked her way around the huts and shelters where she’d heard and smelled the evidence of people eating their evening meal. The damper she’d made for breakfast was a vague memory but she’d kept going. It was best if no one saw her in case Mr Jones did come looking.

  Now that Burra was well behind her, she felt safe from pursuit, but she still had to find the camp and hope that Septimus had stayed the night. Harriet knew he wouldn’t be pleased, but if she could just get to the wagon before morning she could once again hide inside. By the time he discovered her they would be too far away to return her to Mr Jones.

  A small branch dangled from a tree in front. It hung at an angle like a finger pointing. There below it were the tell-tale signs of wheels leaving the road to make their own track through the bush. Harriet’s tired feet hurried her forward. This was the path that wound through the trees and across a couple of dry creek beds to the place where they’d camped.

  The night was still and, even though the track was well lit, she staggered over the ruts made by the wagon, tripped on rocks and got hooked in the branches that reached out to slow her progress. Finally she paused. She must be getting close to the camp. She’d crossed one dry creek bed and knew there was another soon. Not far beyond that was the creek with water where they’d camped. Septimus had good hearing. She would have to travel much slower and take care if she was to secrete herself in the wagon without him knowing.

  She set off again more carefully. The nickering sound of a horse close by pulled her up. She turned her good ear to the track behind her. Surely it couldn’t be Mr Jones after all this time. She heard the nicker again: the horse seemed to be ahead of her, but it was too close to be Clover at their camp.

  Harriet’s frightened mind swirled with the possibilities. Mr Jones had somehow got ahead of her and was waiting to pounce, or one of those men who had taken to robbing people as they travelled through the bush was camped nearby, or maybe Septimus had moved and was ready for an early start.

  For a moment Harriet froze. Fear threatened to engulf her. How had she got to this point? From her idyllic bush childhood to her and her mother’s exile and still further to Pig Boy’s attack and this precarious existence with Septimus, who would rather sell her to a barbarian than love her?

  “The only one who can look after you is you, girl.” Harriet’s whisper was loud in the still night. She put a tentative foot forward. There was no help behind her. The only way was in front of her. She had to face whatever was ahead.

  She placed her feet carefully and followed the track again. Each step gave her courage. She continued around the bend, even when the horse snorted quite close. The sight before her drew a gasp from her lips. The dry creek bed was bathed in moonlight and nearly to the other side was a horse and wagon. She glanced around, wondering why Septimus would leave Clover attached to the wagon in a creek.

  A moan sent her heart racing. Then sh
e saw the shape of a man stretched out in the sand between her and the wagon.

  “Septimus.” She scurried down the crumbling bank to his side. “Septimus,” she said again. “Where are you hurt?”

  He was stretched out face down, as if he’d been trying to reach the wagon. He turned his head slightly to the sound of her voice. Sand and sticks were stuck to his face. He tried to lift himself. A moan gurgled from his throat and he collapsed.

  Clover nickered and the wagon shuddered.

  Harriet looked from Septimus to the horse. “Septimus!” She shook his shoulders.

  This time he opened his eyes. “Harriet?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” She clutched his face between her hands. His skin was cold even though the night was mild. “What happened, Septimus? Where are you hurt?”

  Clover snorted and stamped and the wagon lurched away a few feet.

  “My leg,” Septimus said. “It’s broken.”

  Harriet’s heart hammered in her chest. She glanced along his body to his legs spread out behind him. Now she looked she could see the odd angle of his left leg and the drag marks in the sand. He’d crawled some distance.

  A hand clutched at her dress. “Help me, Harriet.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  He must have been lying there for some time. Without help he would probably die. Harriet’s mind flashed back over her own agonising injuries. She had a fair idea Septimus had known she was still alive when he threw her in the creek, but his actions had saved her. She was sure their lives were linked and this was proof. He needed her help now. They only had each other.

  She brushed the sand from his face with her dress and used the trousers from her bag to make a pillow for his head. All the while her mind raced. She had no idea what to do. Septimus’s eyes were shut again but she could hear the rasp of his breathing. Perhaps he had other injuries. The only thing she could think of was to get him to a doctor. She knew there was one in Burra, though there was no way she wanted to go back to that town. Mr Jones could be there waiting to pounce! But she couldn’t let Septimus die: he was her future.