Blood in the Dust Read online

  Toby and Paddy sat on a log by the fire and began skinning the possums. Maree and Annie busied themselves with salting the fresh hides as they came off the carcasses. Every so often Maree would stop what she was doing and look down the path, remarking Frank’s absence and twisting her apron.

  Darkness fell and they were just finishing the skinning by firelight when Frank wandered back into camp. A very sombre-looking Betty plodded along a few yards behind her father. Frank had his bag of tools in one hand and a bottle in the other. He dumped the tool bag by their tent and walked over to the pile of possum skins.

  ‘You boysh were busy,’ he slurred.

  ‘Got enough for a couple of rugs and a good start on a third,’ Toby said.

  Frank nodded, a slow, forward motion of his head that almost brought his chin to his chest. He turned his attention to Maree. ‘And you’ve been cooking a lovely meal, my raven-haired beauty. I shwear I could smell my dinner all the way down at the creek.’

  Maree rounded on him like a featherweight boxer on an opponent. She had a large metal ladle in her hand that she waved under her husband’s nose.

  ‘Francis Hocking! You’ve been drinking. I thought we’d left this weakness for the bottle back in England.’

  Toby thought she was going to lay the ladle across Frank’s head. Instead, with what appeared to be a great effort of will, she pulled herself together, wiped the ladle on her apron and calmly placed it on a cutting board beside the cooking fire. She stepped up to Frank, took the brandy bottle from his hand and tipped the last of its contents onto the ground.

  Frank watched the golden liquid drain into the earth, a look of remorse on his face. He opened his mouth to protest, but the stony look from his wife quelled any complaint forming in his brandy-soaked mind. He let Maree walk him towards their tent.

  ‘Come on, Frank. You can sleep it off,’ she said, steering him through the flap. ‘I’ll save some supper for you to have later.’

  Some mumblings came from inside the tent and then a few moments later Maree appeared and went back to the cooking pot. The sound of snoring told everyone that Frank had accepted his wife’s offer.

  Betty stood quietly at the edge of the firelight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ she blurted. ‘I couldn’t stop Papa. The man with the gig wanted him to have a drink with him. I told him we should be getting back, but he stayed for another and another. When we finally left, he went to one of those grog shops and bought the bottle with the money the man gave him for fixing the wheel.’ Betty burst into tears. ‘It’s not my fault, Mama.’

  Maree placed the spoon down and walked calmly to her daughter, picking her up as if she were a much smaller child. ‘It’s all right, my little one.’ She stroked the back of Betty’s head as she carried her into the firelight.

  Watching, Toby had a feeling this scene had been played out in the Hocking household a few times before. He glanced at Annie, surprised to find her staring at him, her brow creased with concern. As soon as their eyes met, she stood up and spoke.

  ‘I suppose the horses will need a little attention after a long day. Did they have enough water, Toby?’

  ‘I should check. We did ride pretty far today.’ He stood and went to fetch the large canvas water bag from the end of the ridge pole, but Annie beat him to it. She lifted it down and turned towards the yard.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ she said, walking into the night.

  Toby followed her up to the horse yard. Annie seemed in a hurry to escape the camp. Her skirts swished about her legs as she tackled the slope in long strides. Halfway up the path she swapped the heavy water bag to her other hand, but her pace never slowed. She reached the rails and pulled the stopper from the water bag before Toby caught up, pouring the contents into the trough, which still brimmed with water. Toby let her empty the water bag, knowing she just wanted to be away from the emotion in the camp.

  Moonlight wandered out of the darkness and pressed up to the rail to have his muzzle stroked. When Annie had finished topping up the trough, she replaced the stopper, hung the water bag over a post, then moved beside Toby to pat Moonlight’s neck.

  ‘He’s a fine horse,’ she said absently.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Toby murmured.

  ‘You ride well. You look good together.’

  ‘We’ve had a bit of practice.’ Toby waited for her to say something else. The silence drew on as they stood in the darkness patting the horse.

  ‘He can’t help it, you know.’

  ‘Your pa?’

  ‘Mama says it’s a kind of sickness. She says that once a soul gets taken with the bottle it’s a sickness that stays with them for the rest of their days – even if they never touch another drop of the stuff, the sickness is always there, waiting for a moment of weakness.’ She spoke the words in a rapid, well-rehearsed stream.

  Toby had seen his fair share of drunks at the hotel in Bunyong Creek and at various sly grog shops dotting the diggings. He did not know the words to comfort her. His own father had not been much of a drinker except for the odd nobbler on special occasions. He couldn’t understand the pain and torment of having a family member blighted by the bottle. Annie took his silence for something else.

  ‘Please, don’t hate him, Toby.’

  ‘I don’t hate him,’ he blurted. ‘It was just a shock to see him in such a state.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave. Papa will stop now. He stopped before for such a long time, long enough for him and Mama to save the money to come to Australia. He never touched a drop for two years. Not on the ship, and not in the whole time we were in Melbourne and the journey out here.’ She began to cry and dropped her hands to the rail. She didn’t hang her head or hide her face, but stood holding the rail, staring off into the darkness as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Toby wanted to hold her to him and comfort her, tell her that everything would be fine. Instead, he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her skin felt warm and smooth. ‘I’m not going to leave,’ he said.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she whispered. ‘We need you and Paddy. We can’t do this on our own. Mama and Betty need you, so does Papa—’ Her voice trailed off, as she considered her next words.

  ‘I need you,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t ever want you to leave.’ She squeezed his hand and Toby felt his pulse quicken.

  No other words were spoken. They stood at the rail looking into the dark of night, content just to be near each other. Their hands still touched, neither wanting to let the moment end by breaking that one small piece of intimate contact. It wasn’t until a rustling noise sounded on the path and Betty emerged from the gloom that the spell broke.

  ‘Mama says you should both come back now. She’s dishing up supper.’

  Annie had a large pot of stew bubbling on the fire when the camp assembled for lunch. Maree and Betty were the first to arrive, strolling up from the creek where they had been washing dirt through the cradle. The women chatted idly for a few minutes until the men turned up and took their places around the fire. Annie ladled stew into bowls and handed them around. She scowled at her father as he took the choice piece of bread – the one she had been saving for Toby.

  ‘The pick is worn blunt again,’ Frank said. ‘It’s rounded too much to fix with a file. We still have the other one, but we’ll need to get Blacky Pete to put a point back on this one so we can start tomorrow with one sharp pick,’ he added, using his boot to kick the pick he had carried up from the claim.

  ‘I’ll take it over,’ Annie said, before anyone else could offer. ‘I’ve got dinner almost ready to go into the pot, so I’ve a little time on my hands this afternoon. It’ll be a good chance to stretch my legs.’

  Frank glanced up from his plate. Annie looked at him expectantly. Depending on his mood, the decision could swing either way.

  ‘All right,’ Frank said.

  After the others wandered back to work, Annie spent a little time cleaning up, then went to her tent. She combed o
ut and retied her hair into a tight bun then pulled on a pair of white cotton socks and a stout pair of shoes inherited from her mother. Finally, she put on a fresh, clean bonnet and tied it neatly under her chin, before checking her image in a mirror hanging from the ridge pole.

  ‘Presentable, Miss Hocking,’ she smiled at her reflection. ‘Presentable.’

  Blacky Pete had his blacksmith shop in a gully behind the hill on which they camped. Annie walked up past the horse yard and tossed a greeting to Moonlight and Patch then descended the narrow path into the gully. She revelled in the sunshine on her back and marvelled at a flock of bright-green parakeets that flitted and squawked in the branches over her head.

  At the bottom of the gully the bushland gave way to the unrelenting push of humanity. This gully was identical to the one they were camped in. The trail picked its way through a maze of tents and other dwellings.

  Blacky Pete had set up his shop on the only piece of flat ground for five miles in any direction. His premises consisted of a large tent with the sides rolled up to dissipate the heat from the forge. Beside the forge, a huge iron anvil sat on a tree stump. Blacky Pete stood at the anvil hammering a point onto the glowing end of a pick. He wore a large leather apron over canvas trousers which had been scorched and holed a thousand times by hot sparks. Every few moments he used a neckerchief to mop the perspiration beading on his forehead.

  A line of men talked quietly among themselves as they waited for the smithy’s service, but when Annie joined the back of the queue the conversation died away and every head turned to look at her. The hammering stopped and a deep voice boomed, ‘Good day, Miss Hocking.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ Annie called to Blacky Pete.

  ‘Where’s your pa?’

  ‘Oh, he’s at the claim. I had a little free time so I came down here myself with this pick for sharpening.’ And you won’t be sharing a nobbler of rum with him today, Annie thought.

  Blacky Pete went back to his work and Annie waited patiently in the shortening queue, content to watch the sparks fly from the forge.

  ‘Hello, Flower.’ A red-bearded miner joined the queue behind her. ‘Don’t often see a piece of fluff like you hangin’ round the blacksmith shop.’ Before Annie realised what he was about to do, the miner leaned close and sniffed her hair.

  ‘That’s enough, Simpson.’ Blacky Pete rounded the anvil, the hammer cocked over his shoulder. ‘I’ll not have a lady treated like that. Not on my premises, or anywhere else.’ He pointed the hammer at Simpson’s head. ‘I don’t want your business here, you can clear out,’ he said, pointing off up the gully with the hammer. ‘Go on. Piss off.’ He looked to Annie and added quickly, ‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss.’

  The digger looked as if he were about to argue with the blacksmith, but several men stepped up beside Blacky Pete, showing where their allegiance would lie if trouble developed. Simpson cursed loudly and stormed off through the trees, a broken windlass handle in hand.

  ‘I don’t need your bloody services,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry about that, miss,’ Blacky Pete said. He turned to the three men ahead of Annie in the queue. ‘Thank you for the support, gents. You don’t mind if Miss Hocking jumps to the front of the line, do you? I’m sure she is looking forward to getting back to her camp after such an awful display.’

  The diggers nodded their agreement and stepped aside to let Annie move under the canvas.

  With the resharpened pick in her hand, she wandered back up the hillside, the incident with the red-bearded miner all but forgotten. Her thoughts turned to preparing dinner and the time she would spend with Toby tonight as they sat together on the seat of the wagonette, their usual evening routine.

  ‘I think I shall kiss him tonight,’ she told the sky as she climbed the slope. ‘I’ve waited and hoped that he would kiss me, but he’s such a dunderhead. I think Papa has had one of his talks with him and scared him a little.’

  Annie turned at a noise on the path behind her. Simpson was twenty paces away. He stopped as he realised his presence was known.

  ‘Hello, Flower. I’ve come to finish what we started down at Blacky Pete’s. Only this time there ain’t no one to disturb us.’ He advanced up the hill, leering wickedly.

  Simpson closed the ground between them and Annie glanced about desperately. This side of the hill was as far as she could possibly be from any of the tents in this part of the diggings. Even if someone heard her scream, it would take them minutes to reach her. She adjusted her grip on the handle of the pick and widened her stance. Simpson saw her change in posture as she prepared to meet his advance and gave a little chuckle that made Annie’s blood run cold.

  ‘Get back!’ she spat at him and raised the pick.

  ‘Come, Flower. Be a good girl.’ He glanced at the pick and then back at Annie’s face, still grinning wickedly.

  ‘Get back, or I’ll have your head off.’

  ‘A delicate little thing like you? I don’t think so, Flower.’

  Simpson took another step and Annie swung the pick as hard as she could. Even though he was ready for it, the speed of the swing surprised the miner. He managed to get a hand up and caught the handle in mid-flight, but the freshly sharpened point opened the sleeve of his shirt and went deep into his bicep.

  ‘You little bitch!’ He twisted the handle and Annie was powerless to resist. It came out of her hands and Simpson tossed the pick into the bushes. He took one glance at his bleeding arm, at the blood dripping from his elbow and closed the gap between them.

  Annie screamed as loudly as she could and Simpson clasped a huge, dirty hand over her mouth as he grabbed her, stifling the scream to a muffled whimper. Simpson spun her about, pulling her back hard against his chest. The man’s grip was like iron, holding her fast despite her frantic struggles. The hand smelled of dirt and tobacco. A mass of red whiskers pushed into the side of her face and he whispered in her ear.

  ‘Don’t struggle, Flower. We’ll have a grand ol’ time of it, you an’ me.’ He used his teeth to pull the bonnet from her head and her hair fell free. Then he placed his face into the raven strands and drew a deep breath. The arm that held her about the waist shot up to her neck. A finger hooked into the neck of her blouse and yanked down, ripping the garment to the waist.

  Annie increased her struggles and kicked backwards with her legs, trying to deliver a telling blow. The miner was too quick and locked her legs between his own. They stood on the hillside, joined together like two performers in some brutal dance.

  Again the hand shot to her throat and this time the cotton shift she wore beneath the blouse tore down to her navel. She felt a rough, callused hand grasp her exposed breast and was helpless in the big man’s grasp as he rolled her nipple roughly between his fingers.

  ‘Lovely little titties,’ his voice rasped in her ear, husky with the force of his lust. ‘Let’s take a look at them.’ Annie felt the pressure on her head and chest relax and she was spun about to stand facing the bearded man. He took a twist of her hair about his right hand to keep her restrained, but now her mouth was free and she filled her lungs and screamed as loudly as she could.

  Simpson lifted his gaze from her breasts and scowled at the noise. He slapped her hard across the side of her face, snapping her head back.

  Dazed by the blow, she hung suspended by her hair. Simpson raised his arm and hit her again with more force than before. Annie’s vision starred and she felt her legs start to go from under her. Simpson let her fall to the ground and loosened his trousers. Dropping to his knees beside Annie he pulled her skirts up.

  ‘Can’t afford to have you off work with an infection, lad.’

  Toby held his right thumb firmly in his left fist, applying pressure to a cut from a sharp piece of shale.

  ‘Go and have Annie treat the cut,’ Frank added.

  He nodded at Frank then picked his way through the mullock heaps and climbed the hill towards the camp. As he neared their tents he noticed the fire had di
ed away to white ash. Annie was nowhere to be seen. Then he remembered she had gone to Blacky Pete’s with the blunt pick.

  He undid the flap to Frank and Maree’s tent, removed the small wooden box of medical supplies and carried it to the tailboard of the wagonette. He found the bottle of iodine solution and poured some onto a clean rag. The biting sting caused him to hiss sharply and he looked about quickly to see if Annie had returned and witnessed this childish display. Replacing the bottle in the box, he used a strip of iodine-soaked rag to bind the cut. He pulled the knot tight using his teeth and was about to return the box to Frank and Maree’s tent when he heard Annie scream.

  The vagaries of distance masked the direction, but Toby knew Annie would have crossed the hill and gone down past the horse yard on her way to Blacky Pete’s. He dropped the medical box back onto the tail-board and started up the hill. As he passed his tent Toby thought of the muskets lying under the cots, but they were unloaded and useless. Thinking fast, he ran to the wagonette and pulled the stock whip from under the seat.

  Moonlight and Patch trotted nervously about the yard as he ran past and onto the head of the track that led down to Blacky Pete’s.

  He heard Annie scream again. This time the soul-wrenching sound was close, past a small spur of rock that hung above the track. Toby rounded the rock and came to a stop, breathing hard.

  A large, red-bearded man knelt between Annie’s exposed legs. He had her skirts lifted as he positioned himself, so engrossed in his actions that he failed to notice Toby.

  Toby let the coils of the whip drop to his side, flung his arm back and flicked the handle past his ear. The tail of the whip shot out in a blur of speed that whistled shrilly as it parted the air. Despite being a little out of practice – he was once able to clip individual leaves from a tree while on horseback – the broad back of this man kneeling over his precious Annie posed no problem to his aim. The end of the whip flicked onto the miner’s back with a sound like a gunshot. The shirt parted as if slashed by a razor and opened the skin beneath.