Blood in the Dust Page 7

  Yes, he could remember that time.

  Pelham sipped at his tea. When he lowered the cup he said, ‘Your father still has two thirds of the loan outstanding to the bank. With his unfortunate demise, the bank would have no choice but to foreclose.’ He looked at Toby’s frowning face over the teacup. ‘You do know what foreclosure is, don’t you, my boy?’

  Toby shook his head.

  ‘The bank would seize this land and sell it off to cover their loss.’

  The uneasiness changed instantly into panic and Toby squirmed in his chair. ‘They can’t take our home, can they?’

  ‘They can and they will,’ Pelham shot back. Then a smile crossed his face. ‘Well, they would. But I was in a position to see this coming and I have put things in place so that it will never happen.’

  ‘So, the bank won’t take our land?’ The dread was still there, gnawing at his insides. Henry Pelham was not known for his generosity.

  Pelham produced a new document and slid it towards Toby. He looked down at it and tried to read the words, but some were so long he got stuck while sounding them out, and didn’t know what they meant anyway. He looked up at the old man opposite him.

  ‘To put it into simple terms, Toby,’ Pelham said, the smile gone from his face now, ‘I have bought out your father’s loan in order to stop the bank from seizing this property. What was owed to the bank is now owed to me.’

  ‘You want us to honour this debt?’

  ‘Oh, you will honour the debt all right, young Toby. As you can see from the original loan document, your father used this land as security for the loan. In the event of forfeiture, I am legally entitled to take this land to recover my losses.’

  Toby wasn’t sure what ‘forfeiture’ meant, but the thought of Pelham taking their farm was a worrying one. He studied the documents spread before him without really seeing them. All he could take in was the fact that his father owed two hundred pounds to the bank, and Pelham now owned that debt. If he and Paddy didn’t pay the owing money back, Pelham could take the farm from them.

  ‘We—we don’t have that kind of money, Mr Pelham,’ Toby stammered.

  ‘Of course not. Don’t look so worried, my boy,’ Pelham said, the smile back on his face. ‘I’m sure you’ll have the money after you drive your herd up to the diggings. Prices are double at the sale yards in Bendigo Creek. That should certainly see you clear the debt.’

  ‘You can count on it, Mr Pelham,’ Toby said, his mood brightening. ‘Pa, Paddy and me, we spent weeks putting that herd together for a drive to the diggings. That must have been Pa’s plan all along. To clear his debt.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Pelham scooped up the documents, retied them with the ribbon and slipped them into his pocket. ‘George and I have taken up enough of your evening.’ He stood and moved towards the door.

  Toby and Paddy walked them out onto the verandah and watched as they swung onto their horses. Grey remained silent, but Pelham bid the brothers a good night before the pair turned their mounts away from the verandah. They didn’t ride directly down to the slip rails, instead taking a more circuitous route that brought them out by the pond. Toby could hear their voices as they discussed something animatedly, Grey’s arms waving about in the moonlight, but the men were too far away to make out their words.

  As soon as Pelham and Grey reached the slip rails Toby took the lantern and hurried back inside to his parents’ room. He went through all the drawers and cupboards, sifting through the contents. Looking up, he saw Paddy standing in the doorway, a look of horror on his face. Their father had strictly forbidden the boys from touching anything in this room.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pad. We can’t get into trouble. This is our stuff now. Ol’ Pelham is up to something for sure. He shouldn’t give a toss whether the bank takes this farm or not. I don’t trust him.’

  He opened one drawer and discovered it was full of papers. Upending the contents onto the bedspread, Toby rummaged through them and found what he was looking for. He held the document up to the lantern. It was a duplicate of the original loan document showing the conditions for the loan and the amount borrowed. The next document in the pile was a duplicate of the repayments. Toby quickly scanned to the bottom of the page. Two hundred and five pounds four shillings and sixpence. All the amounts had been witnessed by both a clerk and his father.

  Toby felt his anger rising. He wanted to yell and scream, to curse this bad hand fate had dealt him. Instead, he gathered up all the papers and stuffed them back into the drawer. He slammed the drawer closed and, as he strode past Paddy, he could see the questioning look on his brother’s face, the worry in the depths of his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pad. If Pa was going to pay this back, then we can too,’ he said determinedly. ‘We’ll brand the cattle and take them to the diggings for sale. Then old man Pelham can kiss my arse.’

  Henry Pelham sat on his mount quietly while Grey pulled the slip rails closed. He waited until the stockman was back in the saddle and urged his horse forward.

  ‘That pond makes the O’Rourke farm practically drought-proof.’

  ‘The spring is still pushing out, despite the lack of rain,’ Grey said. ‘If they extended the pond they could run another thousand head. Those two brats have no idea what they’re sitting on.’

  ‘No,’ Pelham shook his head. ‘No idea at all.’

  ‘What do you suppose they’ll do?’

  Pelham was thoughtful for a moment. He had planted the right seeds in Toby O’Rourke’s head and knew exactly what the young man would do. ‘He’ll brand his cattle and drive them to the diggings for sale.’

  ‘But if he does that,’ Grey’s voice had taken on a questioning tone, ‘then he’ll be able to pay out the loan. You’ll have no chance of forcing a foreclosure.’

  Pelham chuckled in the darkness.

  ‘Only if he succeeds, George.’

  Frank was relieved to see his information had been correct. He had ventured through the town and out onto the western fringes of Melbourne where the Ballarat road entered bushland. Under a canopy of gum trees sat a group of wheeled vehicles, from buggies and wagonettes to wagons of all sizes. Beyond them was a horse yard where prospective buyers were walking animals about while casting a critical eye.

  While most diggers walked to Ballarat or Mount Alexander, usually pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with equipment, Frank knew he could not expect that of Maree and the girls. Those that could afford it purchased their own transportation, and he had learned of this sale yard of sorts from one of the men in the migrant camp.

  The first wagonette he looked at had seen better days. Both axles were worn and all the rims in need of re-riveting. Some had missing spokes and the load bed was worn and weathered with a few planks gone. Frank eyed the vehicle doubtfully and was about to move on when a man with greasy hair and a thin moustache approached.

  ‘Is it transportation to the diggings you are seeking, sir?’

  ‘I have my wife and two daughters with me,’ Frank pointed out. ‘I can’t expect them to walk to Ballarat, though I’m game to try myself.’

  ‘Ah, Ballarat! Land of dreams.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Alas, no,’ the man shook his head. He held out his hand. ‘Thomas Cruikshank, at your service. This wagonette here is one of the better vehicles I have. Made the trip to Ballarat and back on several occasions, I do believe.’

  Frank shook the offered hand then pointed out the wagonette’s deficiencies and Cruikshank said, ‘Yes, these tracks have taken their toll, but you’ll not find a better vehicle anywhere.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Frank replied, ‘but it will still need some work before it’s fit for the task.’

  ‘The planks are easy enough,’ the man said. ‘I can do that work myself. It is the wheels that are the problem. The only wheelwright for five hundred miles is in the employ of the government and they are loath to allow him to freelance, as it were.’

  ‘That won�
��t be a problem for me, sir,’ Frank said. ‘Wheels is my trade. Learnt it in the carriage works in Hastings, back in the mother country.’

  Cruikshank’s eyebrows rose a full two inches. ‘A wheelwright?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Frank nodded.

  He took Frank’s hand again and shook it vigorously. ‘Would you be interested in making a little money before you head off to the diggings? I will pay you handsomely for each wheel you fix.’

  ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement,’ Frank said. ‘Maybe the terms could include my choice of vehicle from your stock when it comes time for me to leave.’

  Cruikshank’s eyebrows dropped back down and Frank thought him about to refuse the offer.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, sir. I tell you what. How about a shilling a wheel and your choice of wagonette when you leave, as long as you give me a month of service? That doesn’t include the horse, mind. You’ll have to pay for that yourself.’

  Frank only hesitated briefly, just to show he was giving the offer some consideration.

  ‘I find your terms acceptable,’ he said.

  ‘When can you start?’ Cruikshank asked as he pumped Frank’s hand.

  ‘My tools are back in Canvas Town,’ Frank admitted. ‘How about I come back first thing in the morning and get stuck in?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Cruikshank said. He dropped Frank’s hand and gave him a little salute. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Frank headed back to the migrant camp feeling rather pleased with himself. Things were certainly falling into place. They had somewhere to sleep, he had found paying work and, when that was completed, he would have money in his pocket and a means to take his family to Ballarat. As he crossed Prince’s Bridge he wondered at his luck. Australia had so far proved to be the land of dreams everyone said it was. At the moment, they wanted for nothing.

  He paused by the railing and looked down into the muddy waters of the Yarra Yarra River and thought about his son. Tom had been the one who had wanted to come. The lad had convinced them all that a better life could be had here.

  ‘I’m sorry you never made it, my boy,’ he told the rippling water. ‘You were right. I know you would have loved it here.’ Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away with a thumb. Seven people had died on the voyage out from England before the shipboard doctor’s treatment and quarantine procedures had stemmed the spread of the disease. The doctor had called it diphtheria, or something like that. All he knew was that it had claimed the life of his son. He could feel a lump forming in his throat and quickly turned and continued on his way.

  He was still feeling low as he entered the main north–south thoroughfare into Canvas Town and made his way towards the cross-street where their tent was. Thoughts of his son were still in his mind as he neared one of the tents bearing a painted sign that proclaimed it to be a coffee shop. Frank had quickly learned that most coffee shops in Canvas Town were actually fronts for sly grog shops and this one had a few patrons squeezed inside or seated on chairs out front.

  He heard the clink of glass on glass and paused. All the men outside had drinks in their hands and were chatting amiably, some laughing loudly at a joke or ribald remark. Frank put his hand in his pocket and felt the couple of coins there, turning them over and over in his fingers as he watched the men drink.

  No, Francis, me boy. Don’t be starting that caper again. You’ve come a long way down the road since then.

  He let go of the coins and turned for his tent, walking as quickly as he could.

  Sitting on the top rail of the paddock fence, the brothers watched the cattle mill about them in the twilight. Toby massaged a bruised shoulder, where he had been too slow to avoid the kick of a cow struggling under the sear of the branding iron.

  ‘We’ll go into town tomorrow,’ he said, wincing at the pain. Over the past week they had worked hard, often finishing the day’s chores by the light of the branding fire. He felt the work had been good for them. With their hands and minds occupied by day and their bodies yearning for sleep by night, they’d had little time to dwell on their grief or the farm’s financial situation. Now they had completed the branding and most of the necessary preparations for the drive to Bendigo Creek.

  ‘We can’t manage a herd this size on our own,’ Toby went on. ‘We’ll need to hire some help.’

  Paddy frowned and held out his hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

  ‘I found Pa’s wallet while I was searching for those papers the other night. There’s about twenty-one pounds in it. More than enough to hire a couple of drovers and pay for some supplies. I reckon it’ll only take about five days, maybe a week at most to reach Bendigo Creek.’

  In the morning they hitched up the wagonette and drove into Bunyong Creek. Toby manoeuvred across the rutted main street and pulled up beside the store.

  Helga Gutten fussed about the boys. Within minutes of climbing off the wagonette they each had a pastry in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other.

  ‘So good to see you boys,’ Mrs Gutten said, with a huge smile.

  Hans had been serving a customer when they arrived, but he soon came hurrying over to shake them both by the hand. ‘Ah! Tobias und Patrick. I see Helga is filling your bellies. What brings you to town? You are needing supplies, ja?’

  Toby hurried to swallow a mouthful of pastry so he could answer the affable German. ‘Some flour, tea, sugar and baking powder, please, Mr Gutten,’ he said. ‘Oh, and some powder, shot and percussion caps. We’ll also be needing a few medical items, some iodine and castor oil.’ Toby rattled through his mental list.

  ‘Come, come,’ Hans gestured them forward. ‘You can eat as we go.’

  They spent the next twenty minutes going up and down aisles of mining and farm equipment, selecting what they needed and carrying it out to the wagonette. Hans had a pencil and piece of paper with him and he kept a tally of the boys’ purchases. Finally, they found themselves standing in a little alcove at the side of the store where Hans kept the firearms and associated items.

  Toby replenished the supply of powder, shot and caps for the Lovell and was turning to leave when he noticed the rack of firearms along the back wall. ‘How much have we spent so far, Mr Gutten?’

  Hans ran his pencil down the figures on his piece of paper, his lips moving as he added the column. ‘Exactly three pounds two and six,’ he said, looking up. ‘But I can put it on your account if you wish.’

  ‘No thanks, Mr Gutten. I’ll be paying cash. I was wondering how much one of those guns will cost me?’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘For Paddy,’ Toby said.

  Paddy was examining a gold-washing cradle nearby, but at the mention of his name he wandered over.

  ‘It won’t hurt to have another gun around,’ Toby explained. ‘Things might have been different if we’d had two guns the day Anderson paid us a visit. We still have enough money for the supplies and to hire the hands,’ he added.

  ‘For Patrick, ja?’ Hans asked.

  Toby nodded.

  Hans studied Paddy for a moment. ‘You are big solid boy,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘There is much of your father in you.’ Turning to the rack he selected a musket and took it down. ‘This is a short sea-service musket. It was designed especially for use by the Royal Navy.’ He passed the weapon to Toby. ‘It is nine inches shorter than your father’s musket and half a pound lighter,’ he said, slipping easily into the role of salesman. ‘It takes a three-quarter inch ball the same as your father’s weapon and has the same conversion to the Lovell percussion principle.’

  Toby ran his fingers over the polished wood and cold metal then swung the musket up to the firing position, aiming down the barrel. The weapon felt firm and balanced. He pulled the hammer to full cock and felt the tension in the trigger, testing its resistance until the hammer flew forward and struck the nipple with a reassuring thunk.

  ‘It is owing me four pounds,’ Hans said, ‘but to you I think maybe we can get awa
y with three pounds and I shall be throwing in thirty cartridges and shot.’ The German smiled. ‘But you must be promising me you will come back soon and help me eat some of Helga’s biscuits. God knows, I need the help,’ he added, grabbing his bulging paunch and laughing loudly.

  Toby handed the musket to Paddy who imitated his brother, aiming, cocking and dry-firing the weapon.

  ‘What do you think, Pad? You can carry it in a scabbard while riding Patch.’

  Paddy nodded, holding the musket at arm’s length to examine it. He had never received such an expensive gift before and was not entirely sure they could afford it. Although he had lost his voice, he had not lost his boyish love of guns and the noise associated with them. He smiled a thank you at his brother and carried his new gun out to the wagonette.

  Toby took out his father’s wallet and counted out the banknotes for Hans. When the account had been settled, he still had close to fifteen pounds, more than enough to procure the services of a couple of drovers for a week.

  Leaving Paddy to watch the wagonette and their supplies, he crossed the track to the hotel and went inside. The air felt a little cooler, but Toby wrinkled his nose at the smell of tobacco smoke mingled with the pungent aroma of unwashed bodies. Bright sunlight on the calico walls gave the room an unnatural glow which illuminated several rough tables and a bar.

  Dusty, dirty men crowded around the tables. Some were on their way to the diggings: hopeful, smiling, dreaming people who laughed and joked, the promise of instant riches uplifting their spirits. At the other end of the spectrum were the poor diggers who had laboured and toiled for weeks or months on a worthless square of land. These were the men who had ended up with ‘shicer’ claims – mines that didn’t produce enough gold to cover the high cost of living which inevitably followed a rush. When their money ran out, they were left with nothing but callused, broken hands and a useless hole in the ground to be filled with water when the winter rains came.