Daughter of Australia (31 page)

Mrs. Malloy, composed, strode with defiance. “I know this is not easy to watch, Mrs. Harrington.” She closed her eyes for a moment as if praying for patience. “But you must remember that the natives don't think as you and I do. They are a simple people. They soon forget that they even had children. I've seen it hundreds of times before. They scream and yell like animals and then they forget.”

Deacon Malloy nodded solemnly. “It's true.”

Leonora looked at them, one and then the other. “It's inhuman!”

“On the contrary!” The Deacon recoiled. “Savages raising savages, living in squalor without decent clothing or education, is what's inhuman. Taking the children away from their parents is the most charitable thing to do.”

“Ah, Deacon and Mrs. Malloy!” came Alex's voice from behind. “I would have been out to meet you earlier, but my ride took longer than I expected.” He kissed Mrs. Malloy on the cheek. “You should have come in for breakfast.”

A sick, rotten taste filled Leonora's mouth. “You knew about this?”

“Of course.” He looked at his wife as an enigma. “I told you the church was doing us a good favor.” Alex noticed the child in her arms and scowled in disgust.

The sickness grew and made her weak. Leonora stepped aside and put the child to the ground, held the frozen cheeks between her palms. “Macaria.” Leonora's voice quivered as she tried to pull the tone straight. “It's going to be all right. Do you understand?” Leonora tried to catch the child's prancing gaze, held firm to the cheeks. “It's going to be all right, Macaria.” She released the face and the child ran under a bush, hid within its scraggy branches.

The group watched Leonora with pity. Alex rolled his eyes. “You have to excuse my wife. She doesn't know the troubles Australia has had with the natives.” The Malloys nodded. “What's that pounding?” he asked.

“We had to lock the women in the barn. I hope you don't mind,” the Deacon said. “Thought it safer for everyone until the ordeal was over. But we're just about loaded. We'll be out of your hair in a moment.”

Leonora's mouth went dry. The window was closing. A policeman locked the back of one of the trucks, pushed a little black head away from the opening. He strode to the driver's seat and waited, his fat red arm slung over the open window. The smell of urine and vomit wafted from the caged door of the truck. The screaming died down—tortured whimpers took its place.

“Alex, may I have a word with you?” Leonora asked desperately.

He winked at the Malloys. “Excuse me for a moment.” Alex stepped away and smiled for show, but his voice hissed, “Don't do this, Leonora! The Malloys know everyone this side of Australia. I won't have you causing a scene.”

She had one chance, one argument. It had to be right. Leonora took his arm. “Alex, I don't think you've thought this through.”

“No?” He folded his arms across his chest. “And why is that,
darling?
”

She swallowed. “How many Aborigines work as stockmen here?”

“Twelve. Why?”

“How much do you pay them?”

“Not much.”

“And they're hard workers?”

His eyes narrowed. “I suppose.”

Leonora pulled him closer and murmured, “Seems to me that right now the Aborigines are a benefit. As long as they are employed and left alone, they seem harmless enough. But if we take their children away, they'll leave and you'll need to hire all new stockmen, white ones at that.” He was digesting her words and she grew bold. “Beyond that, there's no telling how the men will react when they return and find their children gone. I've heard stories, Alex. They may burn the barns, the house. They'll cut the fences. They might even kill the horses.” Alex dropped his arms to his sides, his eyes steely.

The door was cracked but not open. She gripped his arm, dug her nails into his shirt. “You do this, Alex, and it's simply too dangerous for me to stay here alone.”

He straightened his shoulders and patted her head. “The men would protect you.”

“They're out in the paddocks all day; you know that.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “I'd have no choice but to come to the mine with you, Alex. I don't mind, really. I can stay in the owner's quarters and we can have dinner together every night.” She smiled and caressed his arm, her insides ill. “Might be nice actually.”

The door flew open. Alex cleared his throat. “You make some good points.” He pinched her chin. “Perhaps you have some of your uncle's logic in you after all.”

Her skin cringed with his touch and she smiled wider. Alex passed a look over her shoulder. “The Malloys will be disappointed.”

“Just tell them we'll take responsibility for the children. Then give them a large donation and they'll think you the most savvy and generous man around.” Leonora linked her arm into his and rested her head on his biceps—hated him.

The Malloys listened to Alex, assented with bent heads, the air pumped out of their worthy cause. The policemen grunted as they unlocked the trucks, let the fruit of their labor escape. Children spilled out and rushed the barn, fled to the bush with tears and jerky movements. A policeman slung his gun to his back and helped the children raise the bolt on the barn. Mothers spilled into the open, blind with sun and grief, fell atop one another and crawled in the dirt for their children. New wails alighted as children clung to necks and hips.

Leonora turned away as she held tight to the sobs, swallowed them as one would a horse pill, one after the other. The horror, the cruelty, of it all nearly knocked her to the ground.

The empty, fetid trucks lumbered away. The Malloys left the station, their greedy pockets thick with cash, to save another round of children at another station, to steal another round of natives from their homes, to rip another round of lives from their mothers' breasts.

Alex came up behind her and kissed the top of her head. And she wished him dead.

G
han rubbed his shoulder, stiff from lying on hard ground.
Seems age comes to the bones first,
he realized—
thickens the bone marrow and hardens the joints like they're aching for oil. Blood turns to gelatin; skin dries and cracks and spots; hair falls out.
He slid his tongue along his gums. Teeth mostly gone except for a few tombstones lining the bottom. Eyes and ears age, too, making the world wavy and distant. Cold feels colder; heat feels hotter—between the two lie the ache and the weariness.

Ghan fixed his wooden leg, grabbed his lunch—half a loaf of bread and a can of sardines. He left the tent, hobbled with the rest of the ants toward the rising sun and the descending pit. Today was good-bye to the light and down to the dark, back to where he belonged, to the place deep in the basement that hid him from the pretty world upstairs.

With each step, the ground vibrated and sent shock waves up his good leg and rattled his wooden one. Iron cars bumped and shoved along the line; pistons and steel hammers pounded from the smelter. The air choked with oil and ore—the stink of the inner earth fighting against clean oxygen. Ghan passed enormous woodpiles of eucalyptus: dead trees, torn and ravaged, waiting for their turn in the pit or pyre. He looked back at his footprints. The camp was far away now. A great fear crept up his spine, one vertebra at a time.

“Name?”

Ghan was at the dark entrance of the shaft. The checker held pen to clipboard. “Name!” he shouted again.

Ghan wanted to go back. “Ghan.”

“Lower in!”

He wanted to turn away from the noise, the smell, the gaping black hole—run to the light, to his tiny canvas tent. But his legs moved forward, stepped into the cold iron skip. Another miner shared the shuttle. The man's skin more green than white, swarthy, probably Romanian. And the green man watched Ghan with black eyes, stared through him, his brows set so low as to be wicked. Ghan turned his head, but the miner's eyes were still on him, shifted to the crippled leg and turned blacker. Ghan knew the look. No miner wanted to be reminded of the dangers that lurked underground.

“Send 'er down!”

The skip lurched in less than an instant, shoved Ghan's stomach to his throat and stretched his lips away from his clenched teeth. They plunged into solid black; the miner inches away from him disappeared with a switch. The skip rattled and bounced and cursed and sped. A thrust of cold, damp air drove over his flesh, followed by the stinking humidity of trapped, heated bodies and lamps. In a matter of seconds, which could have been hours, the skip stopped and they were more than a mile underground.

Miners flowed out of the carts. Ghan settled his insides and pulled himself out last. It would look bad to dawdle. It would be worse to vomit and he swallowed the bile back, gagged. The men who had turned to ants now turned to moths as they walked in a straight line toward the carbide lamps down the shaft. The timber-latticed ceilings, like upside-down railroad tracks, were low and the men stooped as they walked. The sound of picking and digging hid somewhere beyond the halo of light.

The walls, floors and ceilings were thick with oil—moving oil. Ghan's jaws began to shake. He had forgotten about the cockroaches. Hard wings tap-danced across each other as the bugs crawled over every inch of space; a wet crunching emanated under the men's boots. The rats, fat as cats from the roaches, scurried between the men's feet. Only their pale tails showed in the light like giant, flicking earthworms.

A cockroach fell from the ceiling onto Ghan's shoulder, then scurried across his face before he could smack it away. The vomit burned his throat again. The mine was Hell as sure as any existed. His limbs quivered. He didn't know how he had ever done this work before—felt like it had been another life, another man living it.

The men crawled through a hole and emerged in the work zone, the picking now deafening between enclosed walls. The roaches and rats were gone. The lights blinded after the former darkness and couldn't be looked at directly. The foreman directed the miners to their stations and their tools. Then he saw Ghan. “Whoa! Whot the 'ell yeh doin' down here, mate?” The foreman was an old man, spoke with concern, not anger. “Think yer in the wrong place.”

Ghan was in the wrong place. He was in Hell. “I can work,” Ghan answered.

“Guess they don't care who they send down here anymore.” The voice held a long sadness, an apathy to it. He scratched his head with black sooty fingers. “Take the stoop over there. Yeh can sit while yeh pick.”

“Don't need to sit,” said Ghan gruffly.

The foreman pointed hard at the area. “Yeh'll sit if I tell yeh to sit!” But then his voice softened. “Ain't pity. Sometimes a fella earns a seat. By the looks of it, yeh've put in yer time in the pit, paid yer dues.” He handed a pick to another miner just arrived from the skip. “Just take the seat, yeh stubborn bastard.”

T
he house was quiet with trapped, stale heat. Flies were bold and thirsty for sweat; windows needed to stay closed. Leonora folded clothes in the bedroom, spread out the wrinkles, placed the clothing in neat stacks within the bureau. Suddenly, the eaves rattled. The pictures vibrated, the frames smacking lightly against the wall. The floorboards shook under her heels and the iron bed hopped. She gripped the edge of the mattress, her insides throbbing with the noise that seemed loud enough to tumble the house. But then she knew. She ran to the window. A cloud of dirt rose and spread across the distance as thousands of hooves pounded toward the homestead. Leonora held her face, smiled until her eyes watered. They were back.

She left the clothes and hurried down the steps. Clare and Meredith blocked a window each with their figures as they glued their faces to the glass. Meredith turned, her face grim. “Someone's been hurt.”

Leonora shimmied between the women and followed their pointed fingers. Two figures limped toward the house. “Boil some water!” Leonora ordered as she ran to the door. “Get clean towels and the medicine case.”

Outside, Tom had one arm slung around James's shoulder while his other hand clutched his side, half his shirt soaked in dirt and blood. James held him upright, staggered under the tipping weight. Leonora ran to them, flung Tom's other arm around her neck as they made their way to the verandah, the man's face twisting in pain with each step.

“What happened?” she panted.

“Gored. About a mile out,” James said. “Horn stuck him deep. Not sure how far.”

They dragged Tom into the house, his teeth gritted against the agony.

“Put him on the couch,” Leonora directed.

“Don't put me here.” Tom struggled as James set him down. “I'm bleeding.”

“I don't give a rat's tail about the couch, Tom. Lie down.” Leonora lifted his heavy dust-covered boots onto the spotless sage velvet. Blood flowed freely from his side and dripped down the couch onto the rug.

Carefully, she unbuttoned Tom's shirt, the cotton already hardening with dried blood.

Clare brought the medicine case, a pile of bandages and a hot basin of water before fleeing. Leonora pulled the fabric from the wound. A fresh bubble of blood erupted from the black hole.

Tom felt the gush, looked down, tried to scoot away from it. “Aw, Gawd!”

“It's going to be all right, Tom. It looks worse than it is,” she lied. “Lie back. It will slow the bleeding.” She met James's worried gaze. “You need to go to Gwalia for a doctor. Take the car. The keys are on the seat.” Then, as an afterthought, “Should probably have someone wire Alex and let him know.”

James nodded, eyed her gratefully for a moment, then turned to Tom. “Stay put and listen to what she says.”

Clare brought a pile of towels, saw the wound and began to cry, “Aw Lord! Aw—”

Leonora shot her a look that made her suck in her lips. “Bring me a bottle of whiskey.”

“Sure you should be drinkin' at a time like this?” Tom's grin broke to a tortured grimace.

Leonora turned to the bubbling wound and squared a section of gauze, placed it against the opening. Tom shot up with the pressure. “Please, Tom. You need to stay down. We've got to get the bleeding to slow.”

Within seconds, the gauze was soaked and she replaced it with another, twisting Tom into a rail of pain. She brought the whiskey to his lips. “Drink as much as you can.”

Tom drank as ordered, his body unclenching slightly.

“This might sting a little.” She cleaned the area around the wound with hot water, bit her lip as he writhed. “I'm sorry. I know that hurts.”

“Tickles is all,” he lied through clenched teeth.

“How'd this happen?”

“My own stupid fault. Damn bull! Agh . . .” He breathed through the pain. “I was tryin' to separate him, put him in the pen. He's in heat.”

“Guess you aren't his type,” she teased.

He laughed, then grimaced. “Don't do that.”

“Sorry.”

The bleeding slowed from a stream to a trickle but still soaked every new gauze strip. With the hot water she wiped the blood off his chest and arms, the basin turning bright red with one squeeze of the soft cloth. She pulled out the bandage. “Tom, you'll need to lean up so I can get this bandage around you. I'll go as quick as I can.”

He moaned while she wrapped him tightly. “This will hold you until the doctor gets here. You probably have some broken ribs, but overall you got off lucky. Any higher and that horn would have got you in the stomach; any lower, well . . .” She smiled timidly. “Well, just be glad it wasn't. You can still carry on the Shelby name.”

“Crikey!” He grinned. “Be a fate worse than death.”

She leaned him back onto the pillow, the tight bandages keeping his ribs from shifting. “How'd you learn all this?” he asked. “You a nurse?”

“No. Would have liked to be, though.” She held up the whiskey to his lips again. “I volunteered with the Red Cross back in the states when the war broke out. I liked working with the soldiers. Tried to help out the nurses as much as I could.”

“James and I were gonna sign up. My brothers went instead. Lucky bastards.”

“Don't say that, Tom. This war is awful. People say they've never seen anything like it.” Tom's eyes turned soft and she added lightly, “Of course, your brothers are probably faring better than you right now.”

Tom grinned. “They'd be giving me a good ribbin' if they saw me. Bunch of foolhardy brutes, those two.” A great missing took over his features. “Almost feel sorry for the Turks.”

“You have two brothers?” she asked.

“And five sisters.”

“Eight children! Your mother deserves a medal.”

“She does.” Pride etched the lines of his face. “Hell of a lot of mouths to feed. I don't know how Mum does it by herself.”

Leonora touched his bandages. “How about some tea? Or soup?”

“Can't drink anything. My stomach's all swirly.”

“You did okay with the whiskey,” she teased again.

“Never tasted whiskey so smooth.” Then he winked. “Alex got good taste.”

She took the compliment and smiled, tried to keep his mind off the wound. “Have you and James known each other long?”

“Since we were kids. Like a brother to me.” Tom gave a strong nod. “Do anything for that bloke. Gawd knows he's always been there for me.” Tom watched her for a long time. “I can see why he likes you so much.”

Leonora met his gaze. “Did he tell you about me—about us?”

“Told me before he was even sure himself. I won't tell a soul. Promise.”

“I'm glad you know. And I'm glad he's had such a good friend in his life.” The blood spread in the seams of the bandage. “Sorry, Tom. Time to change out the dressing again.”

“Can't keep your hands off me, eh?”

She laughed and unwrapped the line from his ribs. “So, any ladies in your life?”

“Me? Lots of ladies.” He smiled devilishly, then winced as the gauze pulled at his wound. “Too many ladies. That's the problem. Can't just pick one. They're all so damn pretty.”

“Don't you want to settle down someday?” She put the soiled dressing on the floor and cleaned the wound with warm water again. “Have a wife and eight kids of your own?”

“Eight! Never. One or two at the most. Who knows, maybe someday I'll get tired of playin' an' let one of the sheilas tie me down.”

“How generous of you.”

He gave a tight laugh, tried not to spurt out more blood.

“And what about James?” She tried to sound disinterested. “Is he a ladies' man as well?”

“The ladies love James.” He rolled his eyes. “Think he's dark and mysterious.” Heat grew to her ears, the look not lost on Tom. “But,” he said slyly, “James is a hard nut to crack. Like he's always comparin' the poor girl to someone else.”

Her fingers slipped and she dropped the bandage. Tom grinned. Quickly, she wrapped him tight and handed him the whiskey bottle. “All right, Casanova. That's enough talking out of you,” she scolded gently. “One more sip and then get some rest before the doctor arrives.” She stood slowly to leave, gathering the bloodied basin and rust-colored gauze strips in her hands.

“Yes, Mum,” he answered drowsily. “Whatever you say.”

Four hours passed before James returned with the doctor, a hunched, sturdy little man with red-rimmed eyes. Leonora met them on the verandah and extended a hand. “I'm Leonora Harrington. Thanks so much for coming out.”

“Dr. Meade,” he greeted quickly. “Know your husband.” He shuffled past her, the smell of mothballs wafting from his worn suit. “Where's the patient?”

“On the sofa. He's asleep.”

The man entered the house. James turned to her. “Is he all right?”

“I think so,” she answered. “Lost a lot of blood, but luckily the horn didn't hit an organ. He'll be laid up for a while.”

They sat on the verandah steps, sank into the even, warm air. James leaned his back against the porch post, rubbed one raised knee. “Thanks for helping him.”

She smiled. “He's a good man.”

“He is.” James turned his face to the door. “We owe you a new couch, by the way.”

“I don't care about the couch.” She stared at her hands. “I don't care about the couch, the mirrors, the rugs or anything in there.”

James watched her carefully and she fell into his gaze as if it were a pillow. “You've been riding for nearly two months,” she noted, resting her head against the sun-drenched wood. “You must be exhausted.”

James smacked the dust off his shin. “Need a long, warm bath. Might soak in the tub for a couple of days straight.”

Her mind blinked to him immersed in the tub, his eyes closed in the comfort of the steam, his arms wet. She blinked the image away just as quickly and busied her hands in the folds of her dress. “How do you like the managers' quarters?” she asked.

“All the comforts of home and then some.” James shot her a grin. “You should come over for tea one day.”

“I'd like that.” She laughed. “Maybe I'll make you some curtains.”

“Curtains!” he scoffed playfully. “Stockmen'll run me off the ranch.”

“All right, all right.” She smiled. “No curtains. How about a pie then?”

He grinned broadly, showing the edges of his white, straight teeth. “I like pie.”

The silence settled easily this time without a rim of tension. They blinked and breathed lazily among their thoughts.

“How are the horses?” James asked.

“Good. Alex has been watching them like children.”

“Anything else happen around here while we were gone?”

For a moment, she wondered if he knew about the Aborigines—wondered if he had been aware, even supportive, of the horror. The very idea hurt like ice pressed into the skin. She swallowed, pushed it away, couldn't think of it. “No,” she said softly. “Nothing new.”

They grew silent again. James raised his chin toward the cloud of dust coming from the distant road, his brows inching together almost angrily. “Your husband's back.”

 

Sweat dripped down Leonora's nose as she plunged the hoe hard between the lines of vegetables. The plants thrived in the shaded spot. Without rain, the ground dried, but she didn't mind carrying a watering can from the rain barrel. Alex didn't know about the garden; he was gone for full weeks at the mine. When he returned, alcohol hung on his skin like cologne. At times, his face was warm and bright with its effect; at others, cold and dark—either way, unsettling. Often his clothes reeked of women's perfume; lipstick smeared the collars of his white shirts, but for this she only felt relief.

A slow gallop came from the west. Leonora stopped her work, wiped her hands on her dress and looked up through the trees. A nervous flutter rose in her chest as James rode up through the clearing, strong and graceful, his body lean and shimmering with good health. He pulled up the horse and leaned forward casually. “Thought I saw someone moving over here.” Then, with an agile twist, he was off the horse and walking her to the shade. “House garden not big enough?” he asked.

“Haven't gardened in so long.” She propped the hoe against a tree. “I've missed it.”

“Manual labor suits you.” He smiled, then came close, so close his frame blocked out the sun and carried its warmth with his body. He reached over her shoulders and picked up the hat that had fallen against her back, resettled it upon her head. “You're getting sunburned.”

She stepped back flustered, fixed her hat. “I should probably get out of the heat.” She sat on the cool ground under the shade, shifting her knees to the side.

James followed, leaned his back against the tree near his horse, his body sturdy and tan next to the light bark. “Garden much in America?” he asked.

“No.” She peered into the branches. “Let's see—there was piano, French lessons, literature, watercolors and, oh yes, sometimes a little sewing or tea with the old society ladies, but gardening, no.”

“Too bad. You're good at it.” James squinted from under his hat. “So, what's America like?”

“Hmmm.” She thought about this. “It's a beautiful country. The Rocky Mountains, the California coast, the Florida Keys. I lived in Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh. If you don't mind the soot, it's lovely, and so green with rain it looks like Ireland.” She turned to him then and asked tenderly, remembering, “Did you ever go?”