Blood in the Dust Page 4

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ McTavish cut in. He had a hawk-thin face with beaked nose and a huge walrus moustache that seemed to be constantly twitching. Heavily veined cheeks indicated the sergeant’s penchant for hard liquor. Toby had been lucky enough to locate the policeman before the night’s session could begin in earnest. ‘I need you to explain to me everything that happened here.’

  Toby took several breaths and began narrating the events of that afternoon, his voice a monotone in the darkness.

  As he listened, McTavish squatted and lifted the sheet covering the bushranger’s body. ‘Little jaundiced-looking fellow,’ he muttered. ‘The other bugger was a big man, you say?’ He dropped the sheet and looked at Toby who nodded. ‘I’ve heard reports of these two getting into mischief over on the north road, usually with two or three natives.’ He pointed at the lump under the sheet. ‘This one your pa shot was Jack Tanner. He had a reputation for rolling drunk sailors outside waterfront pubs in Melbourne, but disappeared a year or two back when things got a little too warm for him. The one who murdered your parents is Anderson, the most evil bastard you never want to come across. He ran off from a convict work party around five years ago and is rumoured to have lived with the blacks for a while. Showed up last year with his little band of followers and started robbing folks on the roads to the diggings.’

  The policeman moved towards the body of Sean O’Rourke. He lifted the sheet and Toby looked away, studying the stars over the hills.

  ‘I’m sorry, laddie,’ McTavish said on seeing him hold back. ‘I’m no’ a man to disturb the dead normally, but I’ll have to write a report for my superiors and I need to be sure of the facts.’

  Toby nodded his acceptance but kept his gaze turned away.

  McTavish spent several minutes examining the bodies of Sean and Ellen O’Rourke by lantern light. When he was finished, he said, ‘We’ll get your folks inside. Why don’t you go and see to the horses, laddie? Me and Barraworn can take care of your ma and pa. Then, if you can show me where these fellows rode into the bush, I won’t bother you any more tonight.’

  Toby nodded and hurried in the direction of the horse yard. He knew the horses were fine, but McTavish had noticed the look on his face and had given him an excuse to get away while his parents’ bodies were moved into the homestead. Tears were welling in his eyes and he didn’t want the policeman to see him cry. Seeing his parents, his once vibrant, happy, hopeful parents, reduced to two lifeless lumps under bed sheets, consumed his emotions. Six hours ago it had been a normal Sunday, like the one before it and the one before that. Right about now he should be helping his mother clean up after dinner, listening to his father tell a story from the wicker chair on the verandah. Six hours ago his life had been full. Now there was nothing but a hollowness growing inside him

  Blinded by tears, he ran headlong into the rails of the horse yard, hitting them hard and sprawling onto the ground. Winded, he struggled to breathe and pushed his face into his arms. The warm night felt oppressively heavy. When he had his breathing back under control, he tried to climb to his feet, but the grief hit him fully and forced him back down. His knees sank into the dusty earth and he tilted his head back, discovering the stars as if for the first time in his life. The evening seemed to taunt him with its display of peacefulness.

  Oh, Ma . . . Pa. What am I going to do now?

  The stars dissolved behind a watery veil of tears and he slashed at them savagely. Somewhere off in the distance a sheep let out a mournful bleat. The sound of it steeled him. Through his grief he wondered if another dingo was out there, stalking one of his mother’s lambs this time. The thought reminded him that he still had responsibilities.

  Standing from the rail, Toby squared his shoulders and wiped the tears from his face. By the light of the verandah lantern he could see that McTavish and Barraworn had taken his father’s body inside and were now carrying the dead bushranger to the tack shed. He glanced once more at the stars and started for the homestead.

  With lantern in hand, he led McTavish and Barraworn down to the slip rails. They climbed through the gap between and he took them to where the bush overhung the track.

  ‘About here I reckon. This is where I last saw them.’

  Barraworn took the lantern from him and began to cast back and forth. He worked quickly, pausing every now and then to squat and study a piece of ground by the yellow light. Eventually his path brought him to the edge of the bush where he stopped and called McTavish over.

  ‘Five horses. They went bush here.’ He pointed at a hoof print in the dusty earth. ‘This horse got a big fella on him.’ Barraworn looked up and gave his sergeant a huge grin, his teeth brilliant in the lantern light. ‘This the fella make the trouble, boss.’

  Trouble, Toby thought. My ma and pa are shot dead and he calls it trouble.

  McTavish looked at the hoof prints and then at the bushland, a wall of darkness beyond the light of the lantern. ‘We’ll sleep here tonight,’ he said. ‘At first light we’ll see if we can’t track these fellows down.’

  The Charlotte Elizabeth had dropped anchor three hundred yards offshore from a pristine white beach. Above the high-tide mark was a ramshackle hotel where Frank Hocking had paid an exorbitant price for lodgings for his family. Annie stood with her sister and mother in the shade of the hotel verandah as they waited for her father to return from the ship. The crew had wanted fifteen shillings to bring their belongings ashore, but Frank had been advised by the hotel owner that his son could retrieve their two chests in the morning for no more than sixpence, as long as Frank was willing to lend a hand. It would cost a further shilling if he wanted the trunks and his family transported the three miles to the migrant camp on the south bank of the Yarra Yarra.

  Her first footsteps on Australia had not been the romantic affair Annie had imagined. She and Betty had leaped from the rowboat the moment it grounded on the beach, both wanting to be the first to touch dry land. Their shoes had immediately filled with sand and their father forbade them from taking them off in public, insisting they wait until they were inside the hotel room. Now, both girls were content to wait on the boards of the verandah, not wanting to repeat the mistake of yesterday.

  ‘I believe this is him now,’ Maree said, pointing to where a small rowboat neared the beach. She spoke loudly enough to be heard over the rhythm of crashing surf.

  ‘Yes, that’s Father,’ Annie said, using a fan to shield her eyes from the glare and to chase away the swarm of flies that seemed intent on getting up her nose.

  At that moment a two-horse team pulling a wagon came from the far side of the hotel and made its way onto the beach. Annie watched as her father and a young man hauled two trunks out of the rowboat and up onto the load bed of the wagon.

  ‘I do believe that is our transportation to Melbourne,’ Annie decided, and wondered where they would all sit. The vehicle had only one seat across the front, and the driver occupied half of that. Once the trunks were in position the driver steered the wagon around in a loop and brought it alongside the hotel verandah. Frank came striding across the sand on his long legs, a sheen of sweat on his face from the growing heat of the day.

  Maree cocked one eyebrow at the wagon and turned to Frank. He must have noticed the look of disdain on her face.

  ‘You ride up on the seat with the driver, my love. The girls and I will make ourselves comfortable in the back.’

  Maree drew a sharp breath and Annie thought her mother about to protest, but when she spoke, she said, ‘I suppose this is the best we can do.’ She held out a hand and Frank steadied her as she climbed onto the seat beside the grinning driver and settled her skirts around her legs.

  It took them about an hour to reach the migrant camp. Here, a veritable city of tents had been erected on the south bank of the Yarra Yarra River. Annie could see no way into their midst and thought the driver would surely have to drop them off on the fringes, but the lad had obviously been here many times. He found a street of sor
ts that ran right up the middle of the settlement and steered the wagon onto it.

  Children played on the street and in the labyrinth of lanes formed by thousands of tents. Some of them stopped to look up at the wagon and wave at the occupants. Annie and Betty waved back, hugging each other and giggling with delight as the children laughed and ran off, playing a game, the rules of which only they understood. Some of the tents had signs erected over them, advertising the trades of their occupants. There were butchers, laundries and storekeepers and quite a few coffee houses.

  Near the centre of the camp their street met an even wider cross-street and it was here that the driver stopped. Annie looked down the street and saw that near the edge of the camp it crossed a bridge and entered the permanent structures of Melbourne town itself.

  Their driver must have noticed the direction of her gaze. ‘That’s Prince’s Bridge,’ he said, then turned to her father. ‘If I were you, sir, I’d buy my supplies on the other side. Prices on this side of the river can be a little hefty.’

  Frank thanked the man and paid him for the journey. The driver helped him unload their trunks then wheeled the wagon around the square and headed back the way they had come without looking back.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Maree asked.

  Frank stood between their trunks and pushed his hat back on his head. He pivoted in a circle, but could find nothing to answer her question. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Here comes someone now,’ Betty said, pulling at her father’s sleeve. They all turned to see a portly man wearing a blue velvet waistcoat hurrying in their direction between the tents. With some difficulty, he climbed over several guy ropes and stood on the edge of the street panting heavily.

  ‘Glad I got to you before someone else did,’ he said between breaths. ‘Saw you come in on that wagon. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Sylvester Styles. My partners and I are about to leave camp. Off to the diggings, you see, but we still have a week left on a tent in that direction.’ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. ‘No refunds, you understand. A whole week would go to waste unless we can find someone to take it on and pay us out.’

  Frank crossed to where the man stood and shook his hand. ‘Francis Hocking, sir. Am I to understand that you have a tent for rent?’

  The man shook Frank’s hand for a long time. ‘Ah! the lilt of southern England. Like music to my ears, sir. I’m a Devon man meself. Born and bred. Yes, I do have a tent. Well, not me exactly. The government has it. We were a bit rash and paid too much in advance, but the mayor of Canvas Town – that’s what we calls the government official what collects the money – told us no refunds, even though we said we was off to the diggings today. He did say that we could find someone to take on our tent and pay us out the remaining week, though.’

  Annie could see her father’s head bobbing as he tried to keep up with the torrent of information. ‘We could take on your tent? How much is the rent?’

  ‘The government charges five shillings a week per tent. Tell you what. You take it on and you can have our remaining week for four and six. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Your generosity is too kind, sir,’ Frank said. ‘But I wouldn’t hear of it. I shall pay you your entire five shillings. If you still want to be charitable, maybe you can find your friends and help me move our trunks to this tent of yours? Seeing as I only have the missus and my girls.’

  The handshake became more vigorous and the man nodded. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Sylvester Styles disappeared between the tents and reappeared several minutes later with five men. They greeted the newcomers by touching their fingers to the brims of their hats, then they slung the trunks between them and set off with the Hocking family in tow.

  The tent was about a hundred yards in from the northern edge of Canvas Town, close by the banks of the river. Annie was delighted that she was able to look across the waters into the town proper. There were men and horses and vehicles hurrying in all directions, and even women in white dresses with parasols on their shoulders moving on the streets.

  Frank paid Sylvester his five shillings. The men tipped their hats, took hold of the handles of a wheelbarrow, loaded high with a multitude of tools and belongings, and headed for the bridge. Children ran along beside the procession chanting:

  ‘Off to the diggings! Off to the diggings!’

  ‘I certainly hope we aren’t pushing wheelbarrows to the diggings, Frank?’ Maree sat on a trunk, one hand holding the tent flap open as she examined the space within. ‘How on earth did six men and all that stuff fit in here? There’s hardly room for the four of us.’

  Frank rubbed a hand over his face, a sure sign of the stress he was feeling, but he drew himself together with a great deal of willpower and smiled.

  ‘Let’s get our things inside, Maree. We’ll worry about how we are going to get to the diggings later. We have somewhere to stay. We’ll settle in and learn a bit more about this place. We’ve just spent seven months on a ship. How about we enjoy some dry land for a while?’

  Late in the afternoon the Hocking family walked across the bridge and into Melbourne. The streets weren’t as well formed as Annie had first thought. There were no boardwalks on most, and hoof-churned mud reached the edge of the buildings, but she wasn’t to be deterred. Taking her sister’s arm, they hurried along ahead of their parents, marvelling at each new sight and sound. When a clamorous screeching filled the air, Betty pointed at a flock of birds winging high over the buildings.

  ‘Look, Annie! Sulphur-crested cockatoos. I recognise them from my book.’

  ‘Yes, wonderful,’ Annie said, but her eyes had found something far more interesting in a window across the street. She dragged her sister by the arm, guiding them both, for Betty was still watching the noisy birds as they settled into the trees by the river.

  ‘Look, Betty! A dressmaker’s. And they have dresses on display.’ She hauled Betty up to the window and they both stood admiring the creations of crinoline, silk and lace adorning dressmaker’s dummies until their parents caught up.

  ‘Would you look at these, Mama. Aren’t they simply beautiful?’

  Maree had one arm looped through Frank’s. She stopped in front of the window and a smile crossed her face. ‘They are certainly things of beauty, my girl. I think the one on the right would be more suited to your figure though, Annie.’

  ‘Do you think so, Mama?’ Annie gave a small twirl in the street, flaring her skirts wide.

  ‘What about me, Mama?’ Betty tugged at her mother’s sleeve. ‘Which one would be best for me?’

  Maree placed a hand on her daughter’s head. ‘For you, my girl, I think the green one in the middle. It has the colour to bring out the highlights in your hair.’

  Betty blushed. ‘Really, Mama? What do you think, Papa?’

  Frank detached his wife’s hand from his elbow and stepped away. ‘I think I’ll leave you girls to admire the dresses.’

  Annie watched her father continue down the street, then turned back to the window. ‘Well, we have Betty and I sorted, Mama. Which dress shall we pick out for you?’

  They stood at the window for five minutes, admiring the dresses and inventing occasions to wear them to. When they moved on, they found Frank standing beside a window a few doors down.

  ‘This place is not quite the backwater I expected it to be, Frank,’ Maree called to him. He didn’t respond, but kept his gaze fixed firmly on whatever was on display.

  ‘Frank? I’m talking to you.’

  He looked at her then, and at all of them, a smile on his face. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘The stories are all true.’

  They came level with him and Annie could see into the building. It was a bank and there were iron bars inside the glass. Beyond the bars sat a table covered with a black velvet cloth. There was a rock on the table, shaped something like a peanut, but as long as her forearm. It seemed to catch the afternoon light and glittered like a fish seen in the depths of a stream. A printed card sat on t
he table in front of the rock. It read:

  The Harrington Nugget

  This large gold nugget was pulled from the soil of Canadian Flat at the Ballarat diggings.

  It has been valued at £139,000.

  As if the value of the nugget was not enough on its own, two stacks of gold sovereigns had been placed beside it. The sovereigns alone were more money than Annie had ever seen, yet they were only a fraction of the value of the nugget.

  Frank stepped back from the window and kept walking until he was in the middle of the street. He looked about him, like a lost man looking for a familiar landmark.

  ‘I have no idea where it is, but that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Where, Papa?’ asked Annie.

  Frank looked at her, the smile still on his face. ‘Why, to Ballarat, of course.’ Pointing at the nugget, he added, ‘There has to be more where that came from. When we get our gear together and have a means of getting there that doesn’t involve pushing a wheelbarrow; when we have everything ready, we’re off to Ballarat.’

  Paddy awoke in the cold chill of dawn and opened his eyes. At first he thought he was in his own bed in the little lean-to room behind the homestead that he shared with Toby. But, as the light strengthened and the walls and roof took on an ethereal glow, he realised he was in a tent, but he didn’t know where. Panic started to well up inside him.

  He turned his head to search for something or someone familiar, and a bolt of pain, like liquid fire, shot from the middle of his back to the top of his head. Bright sparks of light danced in his eyes and he wanted to cry out, but all that came from his mouth was a guttural grunt, and even that had the flames dancing in his head and sending him to the very edge of consciousness.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake!’

  The voice came from somewhere to his left. It took a long time before the sparks faded and Paddy was able to pick out the owner of the voice. A man he had never seen before sat in a camp chair beside the bed, a blanket draped around his shoulders. He wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles that had been knocked crooked while he slept.