The Gold Seekers (37 page)

And she had been happy, Dora thought with sudden wonder. Francis was her adored husband and lover; his strength of purpose and his determination to succeed had sustained her and kept her hopes alive, even though, day after endless day, there had been little tangible reward for his toil. In his arms, lying on their bed of boughs and canvas in the warm darkness, she had been fulfilled, worshiped, and wanted, secure in the steadfastness of Francis’s devotion and daring to believe that, when he made his strike, they might return to civilized living with their heads held high and no sense of guilt left to be purged.

She had given Commander Broome’s father the written statement he had asked for, and he, to her intense relief, had told her that Benjamin Lucas’s death had left her free to wed

the man she loved. Somehow—looking back now, Dora wondered how she had managed to overcome the shame she had felt—she and Francis had broken it to the Yates boys that they were runaways, not the respectable married couple they had pretended to be. But both boys had taken the disclosure well and had. offered neither reproach nor criticism. For all the strict upbringing they had had in a missionary household, neither of them had uttered a word of censure, but had continued to treat her with respectful courtesy, and Francis with something approaching veneration. Nowadays they were on terms of warm affection, all four of them, and— despite her anxiety, Dora managed a shaky smile—it was as if she had acquired not only a husband, but two splendid brothers as well.

She gained the cabin at last and went inside, its well-scrubbed neatness affording her a feeling of pride. It was primitive enough, in all conscience; a structure of roughhewn logs and an earthen floor, with a shingle roof, shaped and fitted together most skillfully by Rob Yates from tree bark, after a pattern, he had told her, devised by the first settlers before bricks or slates had been available.

There were two rooms—hers and Francis’s, and the boys’ sleeping quarters, which doubled as a living room for them all—and her kitchen, a lean-to at the rear with a stone fireplace.

Dora set her water cask down by the door, too spent, after the bouts of pain, to carry it to the kitchen. As always, there was work to be done: clothes to wash, worn garments to be patched or darned, bedding to be aired, and preparations for the evening meal to be begun. Simon had caught two sizable fish the day before; he had gutted them for her, but … the thought of having to touch them nauseated her. She would lie down for a little while, she decided, try to sleep, perhaps, in the hope that the child she carried might, after all, settle down and wait for its proper time to be born. But the pain came again, more severe than it had been before, and lasting longer this time. Lying on her back in the bed, Dora writhed in helpless agony, her body drenched in perspiration. When at long last it eased, she knew instinctively that her baby was clamoring to make its entry into the

world and that there was nothing she could do now to postpone its coming. But she had to have help; she could not give birth alone—she was too ignorant of all that was entailed, too afraid that she might commit some terrible error that would deprive her child of its life.

“Labor, in a first confinement, can be of many hours’ duration, Mrs. De Lancey,” the Sofala physician had told her, in response to one of her nervous questions. “The pains come initially quite a long time apart. When they are virtually continuous, then that is the end of the first stage, and the passage of the child through the birth canal will commence with what, in layman’s terms, is called the breaking of the waters.”

As yet the time between the pains was, as nearly as Dora could judge, fifteen to twenty minutes, which should permit her a little leeway. Not long enough for her to try to walk to the diggings, but sufficient, in all probability, for her to signal her need for help. If she lit a fire in the open, on the highest part of the creek bank, the rocks would prevent it from spreading, and the smoke—if she piled damp grass or brushwood on it—would rise above the screening trees. And surely Francis or one of the Yates boys would see it and understand its significance. They would know that her kitchen fire was never lit until late in the afternoon… .

Controlling her rising fears, Dora dragged herself from the bed and then out to the kitchen. Another spasm racked her as she sought materials with which to start the fire, but she endured it stoically and, when it ceased, started to make her way at a shambling run toward the site she had chosen.

But she did not reach it. Halfway up the slope, the sound of voices brought her thankfully to a halt, and she cried out, praying that whoever was there, hidden from her by the trees, might hear her faint cries and come to her aid. It seemed that they had, for the voices faded into silence and then sounded again, and she heard footsteps approaching her and the voices coming nearer.

“Oh, thank God!” she whispered, and sank down on the muddy ground, her strength ebbing away. “Thanks be to God!”

Her relief was cruelly short-lived. Three figures emerged

from the concealment of the close-growing gums, and Dora shrank back in terror when she saw that they were blacks, seminaked, and that two of them, their faces hideously daubed, were carrying spears. The third was a woman, with a small child clinging to her back.

There had been no trouble with the aborigines in this area, Dora knew; they were there but were seldom seen, for they avoided the vicinity of the diggings and only occasionally descended on an isolated farm, to beg for food or ask for seasonal work, if the owner was known to them. In spite of this, she was afraid, the warlike appearance of the two men adding to her fear, and, unable to restrain herself, she started to scream her terror aloud.

The men came to a halt, exchanged a swift glance, and then, with one accord, turned their backs on her and started to lope away. The woman, however, recognized her predicament and stood her ground, looking down at Dora with pitying eyes. After a brief hesitation, she called out to the men, set her child down, and moved to Dora’s side, a finger to her lips. She was short and squat, of indeterminate age, and her dark-skinned body, with its pendulous breasts, was liberally plastered with dried mud, which exuded a musty odor. But she bared two rows of white teeth in a disarming smile, and her hands were gentle as she laid them on Dora’s straining belly, whispering something that, for all it was unintelligible, was at once kindly and reassuring.

The two men stood silent, keeping their distance, but one of them—evidently in response to a call from the woman— moved a few reluctant paces and picked up the child. That done, they waited, squatting down and leaning on their spears, with the child between them.

Dora was conscious of an agonizing pain, longer and more excruciating than those that had gone before. Her teeth closed convulsively over her lower lip in a vain attempt to suppress the cry that was wrung from her. The woman turned her firmly onto her back, thrusting her legs into a bent position, and she felt the warm rush of fluid and knew that, as the Sofala doctor had told her, the waters had broken and her child’s birth had begun. She had no strength to resist, and the aborigine woman

took charge, loosening her clothing, pressing something hard into her mouth for her to bite on, and then, with strong, sure hands, aiding her to bear down when the pains came, somehow—without words that Dora could understand— making her meaning clear and telling her what she must do.

Even so, the birth was not easy, and Dora’s agony lasted for a long time. The sun was sinking in a ball of crimson fire behind the distant tree-clad hills when at last it was over and the baby’s first, feeble cries were borne to its mother’s ears, bringing a joy whose like Dora had never before experienced. The woman was beaming at her, she saw, sharing her pleasure and her relief, the dark eyes aglow.

“Allira, ” she said, and repeated the word several times. “Dandaloo ? “

A low-voiced command from one of the men distracted her; she gave him no answer but rose with sudden haste, her smile wiped abruptly from her round black face and fear replacing the delight her eyes had reflected a moment before. The baby, wrapped in the petticoat Dora had been wearing, was placed gently in her arms—a tiny bundle, with a crown of black, silky hair.

“Kateena, ” the native woman whispered. She raised Dora into a sitting position and, giving her no time to utter her thanks, took to her heels and ran, to snatch her own child from the bearded man who held it.

All four vanished into the gathering darkness, merging like ghosts with the gnarled trunks of the gum and stringybark trees in which they had sought concealment, leaving Dora to wonder if they had ever been. Then the reason for their swift and unexpected flight became clear as she heard Francis frantically calling her name and Rob and Simon echoing his call.

“She’s gone,” she heard Francis say. “She’s not in the cabin! In God’s name, where can she be? Dora—Dora my love, answer me!”

Dora attempted to respond, her voice a thin whisper of sound that did not carry, and it was the baby’s sudden, lusty crying that guided the searchers to where she was. Her husband was the first to reach her, and he flung himself down

beside her, gazing in stunned bewilderment at the tiny, bawling infant in her arms.

“God in heaven, it’s born! And you were alone. Oh, my sweet darling, I should never have left you! Rob said he spotted some abos, two men with spears, and I—darling, I was so afraid. I feared they might have harmed you.”

Dora shook her head, summoning a tremulous smile. “They didn’t harm me, dearest. There was a woman with them … she helped me.”

Francis rose, his face reflecting his concern, and then, bending quickly, he picked her up in his arms and started to carry her back to the cabin. The baby’s sobs were stilled; Dora held the tiny creature close to her heart, and with her free hand she drew the crumpled linen covering aside. The child was female. She said softly, “We have a daughter, Francis—a lovely little daughter.”

Francis, intent on picking his way over the rough ground, did not answer her at once, but Rob Yates, catching up with them, offered his warm congratulations.

“Have you thought of a name for her?” he asked. “Or is it too soon?”

Dora turned to look at him. He was carrying his hunting rifle, she observed, shocked; but of course, that must have been why the aborigines had run away—they would have seen and feared an armed pursuit.

She hesitated, going over in her mind the words the black woman had said to her. Allira, dandaloo, and … yes, kateena. She did not know what they meant, but they were musical words, words that would remind her, if she were ever likely to forget, how much she owed the dark-skinned young mother, who had left her own baby in order to help a white stranger in the hour of her need.

“I shall call her Kateena, Rob,” she said decisively, savoring the word as she uttered it. “Kateena … unless her father wishes it otherwise.”

Francis looked down at her. He was smiling, but she saw that his eyes were moist. He nodded and did not speak until, reaching the cabin, he set her carefully down on the bed they shared. The cot he had fashioned, some weeks before, stood

at its foot; he picked up the small bundle that was his daughter and laid it in the cot.

“There, Kateena,” he said, a catch in his voice. “You’re home, safe and sound. Sleep in peace, little daughter.” Almost as an afterthought, he added quietly, “This will not have to be our home for very much longer. We struck a rich gold-bearing vein today, Dora my love. It will take us a week or two to work it out and have the ore crushed. After that we can go back to where we belong—all of us.”

He did not know whether Dora had heard him, for when he looked at her, she had fallen asleep.

Tenderly, Francis pulled the blanket over her, and after tucking it in, he bent to kiss her white, exhausted face.

“It will not be easy, going back,” he said, more to himself than to his sleeping wife. “But with God’s help, we’ll face up to it, darling. That I promise you.”

In the adjoining room, Rob was cleaning his rifle, and he asked, as Francis joined him, “Is it true—did Dora say the blackfellows helped her?”

“That was what she said,” Francis confirmed. “I’ve no reason to doubt it. There was a woman with them, it seems.” Rob Yates shrugged his broad, muscular shoulders. “Odd, that—seeing the folk here reckon they’re all savages. What they did was worthy of our Maoris.” He returned the rifle to its rack on the wall and added wryly, “It was lucky I didn’t pull the trigger when I had them in my sights. But when we found that Dora wasn’t in the cabin, I was afraid, Francis. Scared out of my wits.”

“So was I, Rob,” Francis confessed. “A hell of a lot more scared than you were! I had a nightmare vision of becoming a rich man without the one woman in all the world I want to share it with me.”

“Shall we be rich men?” Rob questioned. “Do you really think the seam we’ve struck is that good?”

“That remains to be seen. I think it is. But if it’s not—” Francis sighed. “I’m still going back to Sydney, Rob. It’s not fair on Dora and the child to keep them here. And I might be able to eat humble pie and persuade Commander Broome to let me serve under him again. He could take me as a mid, if he were so minded. What about you and Simon?”

Rob grinned. “Oh, we’d soldier on here, I reckon. I promised Dad I’d make enough to build him a new mission hospital, you see. And”—his grin widened—“that I’d follow in his footsteps and go to medical school. I’m not sure what Simon will do.”

Simon came in at that moment, carrying a plate of cooked fish. Hearing his name, he said gravely, “I’d like to go to sea. Serve my apprenticeship in a clipper, like Captain Van Buren’s Dolphin, and then do what he did. Have Mr. McKay of Boston build me one of my own.” He set his plate down on the roughhewn wooden table. “Supper’s ready, and if you two aren’t hungry, I am.”

Jasper Morgan sat down in the entrance to his tent, lit his pipe, and permitted himself to relax. A few yards away, the two young brothers he had engaged to join him in partnership—Angus and Lachlan Broome—busied themselves with preparations for the evening meal, talking in low voices to each other.