A HAZARD OF HEARTS (36 page)

~*~

‘Your brother was here, but two moons have
passed since he departed.’ Ah Fung stroked his beard with long thin fingers and
examined Pearl’s face for reaction.

She knew she had betrayed her elation, quickly
cut short by dismay, but kept her voice steady as she continued to question the
old tong leader. They squatted together outside his tent, Ah Fung enjoying a
pipe, with an occasional sip from a porcelain jar beside him. A lone gumtree
spread its boughs overhead, where a party of sulphur-crested cockatoos
squabbled and screeched in the wintry sunlight. Around them the ground steamed
like a kettle after last night’s rain.

‘Is it in the mind of the venerable grandfather
to tell this lowly woman where to seek Li Po?’ Pearl kept her gaze correctly
averted and stared down at the creek banks, swarming with figures of all ages,
size and description, digging, puddling in tin dishes, carting water buckets
and wheel-barrows of dirt amidst the clacking of hundreds of cradles.

There were Englishmen, weedy products of
Whitechapel slums alongside gentlemen’s sons; perky Irish next to brawny Scots;
experienced Americans from the California fields rubbing shoulders with new
chums who hardly knew one end of a pick from another, blistering their hands
and exchanging news on the latest finds with ticket-of-leaves still pallid from
prison. Chinese, Indian, African and Middle-Eastern were all represented in the
melting pot of the rush, each man only as good as his word was found to be.

Thick yellow clay overlaid everything, smearing
clothes, tools and tents, colouring the water to a sickly gamboge. Hillocks of
discarded yellow soil pimpled the barren landscape, creating an ugly alien
world for inhabitants who concentrated only on digging more holes, shifting
more gravel in their endless search for gold.

The old man closed his eyes and puffed on his
pipe. He said, ‘Once this land was green, the grass and trees rooted in rich
black soil. Then men came to cut through the soil to find grey clay and red
gravel. They dug further and found the yellow clay. Sometimes they worked down
twenty feet to reach the thin layer of rich blue-brown clay that held the gold.
They raped the earth, left it despoiled, then moved on to do the same
elsewhere. Your brother is such a one.’

Pearl acknowledged the old man’s disapproval
with a nod, and waited patiently for him to answer her question.

He continued, ‘I accompanied the men of my
village, to be with them when they faced their struggles in a new and hostile
land. They came because their families starved, and they send their gold back
to China so that their wives and sons may be released from bondage to the rich
men who paid the passage money. Your brother hoards his gold for himself, yet
what he gains is never sufficient. He has been overcome by greed.’

Pearl bowed her head. She waited in a silence
which extended until the old man sighed and gathered his creaking bones to
stand up. She rose with him, knowing she was about to be dismissed.

‘Sister of Li Po, your spirit is as loyal and
tenacious as a man’s. Seek your brother on the field called Ballarat.’

He entered his tent and closed the flap.

Ballarat! Another fifty-five miles to walk! Why could
not Li-Po have chosen to go to the rich Bendigo diggings, just a little way to
the north? Then, feeling she tempted fate with her ingratitude Pearl hastily
amended her thoughts, giving appropriate thanks to any gods who might be
listening.

With her last coins, she replenished her stock
of food at a store where Asian customers were tolerated, then, with her bulging
pack over her shoulder, she set off for the road to Ballarat. Along the way she
saw trees signposted with misspelt private messages such as: ‘if This Meets the
I of James Crakinton, He Will ear of His Frend Tomass fawke at mistre Snars
Opposite The guvermint camp’. There were also placards shouting ‘No chains for
free Englishmen’, a reference to the wave of rebellion against the licence fees
swelling throughout the goldfields. Pearl mentally vowed to keep clear of the
disturbances. The licensing police were known universally as bullies and
blackmailers.

The weather stayed fine, although the nights
were so cold she found it hard to sleep on a bed of boughs under one worn
blanket. But the third day saw her stepping out the last few miles through a
section of dense bush reminiscent of the Dark Forest near Five Mile Creek.
Uneasy at the gloom and ominous stillness, she increased her pace, keeping to
the middle of the track. Her apprehension was justified when three men sprang
suddenly from between the trees and stood regarding her from beneath their
wide-brimmed hats. They were dressed like most diggers in moleskin trousers and
blue shirts with bandannas about their throats, but with the addition of
pistols pointed at Pearl.

She turned to run, but one man had moved behind
her. He lowered his pistol, saying contemptuously to his fellows, ‘It’s just a
scurvy Mongol. He’ll have nothing worth the taking.’

Pearl slipped into her submissive slave persona,
drooping in the dust of the track. Inwardly furious at the thought of losing
her precious medical kit once more, she felt the first stirrings of fear at the
expression in the eyes of the red-bearded man who had come up close to stare at
her. They were mud-brown in colour, with a spark at the pupil, like the eyes of
an unreliable animal.

‘I’ll cut off his pigtail for a souvenir.’ He
drew a Bowie knife from his belt and with the other hand swept Pearl’s cap off
onto the track. Before she could move, he had her by the plait, stretching it
high, cruelly dangling her with the tips of her toes on the ground. Watching
her face, he seemed angry when she didn’t plead for release, and gave a vicious
jerk that wrenched a scream from her. A smile split the bearded features,
revealing gapped and stained teeth. ‘Well, well. I thought you were a mite
tiny, even for a Mongol. Lookee here, lads.’ The Bowie knife swept down,
slitting through Pearl’s jacket, shirt and trousers, and a ruthless hand tore
them aside, exposing her woman’s body.

Seeing Redbeard’s companion lick his lips,
hearing the surprised grunt from the man behind her, Pearl knew what awaited
her. But her fears centred on Redbeard. She’d seen his like before, and knew
she’d be lucky to come out of this alive. Her thoughts flickered incoherently.
Could she wrench free without losing her hair? Could she hope to escape all
three men, even if the chance came to disable her captor with a kick? The pain
in her neck and scalp was excruciating; her skin was slippery with sweat. She
brought her arms up, flailing, trying to grasp the man’s wrist, but he held it
too high above her head. She scrabbled, vainly, for her knife. The pieces of
coat had fallen back from her shoulders, beyond her reach. Another tug tore at
her scalp and warm blood trickled down her face. An agonised cry was wrung from
her. ‘God, help me!’

‘Dear, oh dear. It’s a Christian,’ sneered
Redbeard, releasing her so suddenly she overbalanced and fell – onto a rib she’d
broken little more than a year ago in the shipwreck. She heard it snap as she
hit a ridge in the track. Her teeth met on her tongue and blood filled her
mouth. Dust rose in her nostrils as a breeze stirred, breaking the stillness.

The man behind moved her with his boot. ‘I don’t
want no truck with no dirty Mongol. I say we leave her be and clear out. There’ll
be better game along.’

Through a red haze of pain Pearl saw him pick up
her pack and begin rummaging through it.

‘Clean or dirty, yellow or white, what’s the
difference?’ asked the third man. ‘They’ve all got a hole in the right place.’

Redbeard sniggered. ‘You should know, Cato, out
with the sheep all those years. Or didn’t you choose between ram and ewe, eh?’

‘Shut up, and let’s get on with it before
someone else happens by.’

Half-senseless with the torment of her injuries,
Pearl was dragged in amongst the trees and thrown down on her side. Her eyes
rolled up but she fought to remain conscious, desperate to get to her knife.
She slid a hand under her body, feeling for cloth, too late. Her legs were
thrust apart and Redbeard was upon her.

She’d been right about him. He liked the
refinements of cruelty, and for the next few minutes he practised his brand of
sadism, using knife tip and fingers to exact the maximum satisfaction, leaning
back after each attack to enjoy the results as portrayed in her face. Agonised,
Pearl abandoned her stoicism and screamed with abandon, knowing his malignancy
would only increase if she did not. But all the while she clung onto her
purpose, holding off the pain with an enormous effort of will and edging her
left hand along the ground, feeling for the torn fabric of her jacket.

The breeze had become a wild wind tearing
through the tree-tops above. She fixed her gaze on the branches madly thrashing
against the darkening sky while leaves showered down on her upturned face like
ragged confetti. Half-delirious, she felt the earth shake from a stronger
blast. In her fancy the trees gripped the soil with their roots, hanging on
grimly while smaller branches were torn from their crowns and whirled away,
somersaulting, gyrating madly in time to some unheard devil’s orchestra. Her
fingers closed on cloth and edged their way beneath.

‘Here, when’s it my turn?’ The man Cato stood over
her, looking disgusted. ‘There won’t be nuthin’ left for me if you don’t
finish.’

His companion, standing some distance away,
shouted above the noise of the wind, ‘I don’t hold with killin’. It sets the
traps on. Are you two comin’ or will I go on alone?’

A lull fell, and the earth seemed to take a
breath. Redbeard’s voice broke the sudden silence. ‘What’re you after there?’
His hand descended, pinning Pearl’s wrist. The bones crunched and her fingers
opened involuntarily to release the bit of fabric. The torn lining fell away to
reveal a pair of gold earrings. Before her attacker could move, Cato bent and
scooped up the glinting gold.

With a roar, Redbeard surged up onto his knees. ‘Give
me that, you thieving swine. It’s mine.’ He teetered sideways, off-balance, as
the other man stepped back.

It was all the time Pearl had, and all she
needed. Her hand closed on the knife hilt. The gale struck again, blasting
through the forest, drowning Pearl’s cry as she plunged the blade with all her
strength into Redbeard’s belly. He gazed down in astonishment, his mouth a
gaping hole in his beard. Pearl wrenched the blade across, and hot blood and
intestines spilled out over her hands and body.

‘Bitch!’ he screamed. Two great hands met around
Pearl’s throat and began to throttle her.

‘I never seen anythin’ to equal it, not
ever. And in a Christian country.’ The voice reached Pearl like an echo from a
far canyon, reverberating, not quite clear, but with an undertone of outrage.

Another, slower voice answered, ‘Well it
happened to a heathen din’t it?’

‘A woman, Tom. If she was heathen as the Cham of
Tartary, what’s bin done to her is a disgrace to all men. Lucky for her we
found that cap on the track and had a scout around.’

Pearl became aware of a jolting movement,
racking her with each breath. It was almost unbearable. For a moment she lost
track of the voices, then heard the first man again.

‘I reckon it was one o’them Vandemonians come
over from Port Arthur to set up as a bushranger. The Geelong coach’s bin bailed
up twice this month, the driver and a passenger shot the first time; and a man
was robbed and left for dead on this stretch o’road only a week ago. Now this.
Do you think she’ll hold out ‘til we get to the Chinee doctor over Golden Point?
He’s her best bet, I reckon.’

The man named Tom must have expressed doubt,
because his companion said vehemently, ‘Well, she won’t do a perish if I c’n
help it. Come on, horse.’ A whip cracked smartly and the cart picked up speed. ‘And
you, Tom Rudd, wantin’ to stop to bury the flamin’ mad dog what did it to her.
I hope the dingos have ‘im for breakfast.’ The cart wheel hit a stone, and a
spear of agony went through Pearl and she fainted.

~*~

She awoke to a stinging sensation as if she’d
been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes, from head to foot, and a pungent odour
filled her nostrils. Above her lamplight flickered on canvas walls. The only
sounds were external: distant shouts; the occasional shot; snatches of music
accompanied by barking dogs. Her whole body flamed with pain, yet a strangely
damped down agony, as if she were detached from it, feeling it at second hand.
Her mind had gone mercifully blank. Turning her head she first noticed her arm,
impaled with silver needles fine as filaments. Nearby, a thin, upright figure
in blue blouse and trousers hovered, his slender fingers outstretched to twist
two of the needles. The fresh pain was negligible, although she did wonder why
this stranger inflicted it upon her.

‘What are you doing?’ She knew she’d spoken,
although no sound emerged. When she tried again, without success, she decided
her throat must be damaged.

An egg-shaped head, smooth and brown all over,
and a face embellished with a stringy moustache and beard loomed over her. A
voice said in Mandarin, ‘Lie quietly. Do not try to speak. You will recover if
you obey my instructions. Here is a draught to ease pain and induce sleep.
Drink.’