This Golden Land (34 page)

     Hannah murmured, "Merciful Heaven."

     And Jamie said, "What is it? Have you found gold down there?"

     "Oh God," Maxberry said, "it's a bad break, boyo. Gone straight through the skin. Bone sticking out. When did that happen?"

     "This morning," Jamie said. "I got down from the wagon and something didn't feel right."

     "You broke your leg a
third time?"
Maxberry cried, and Hannah was shocked to see tears in the man's eyes.

     She knew why. Compound fractures were always fatal. Any doctor would tell Mr. O'Brien that the only treatment at this point was amputation.

     "Can you do it?" Maxberry asked Hannah.

     "I have neither the tools nor the skill, Mr. Maxberry. You must take your friend back to Adelaide."

     "No turning back," Jamie said. "Besides, what's losing a leg? I've still got another. Can you do it, Miss Conroy?" Blue eyes looked at her with frank honesty.

     Hannah had assisted her father in an amputation when a Bayfield farmer had broken his tibia, and she tried now to recall exactly what he had done. "Compound fractures, where the bone protrudes through the skin," John Conroy had explained, "always results in gangrene and an infection so severe that it invades the entire body and kills the sufferer. The only prevention is to amputate at the knee and cauterize the wound with a firebrand so that the infection does not spread."

     As his voice sounded softly in her ear, and O'Brien's men looked sad and lost—as a flock of ravens suddenly and noisily invaded a nearby gum tree—Hannah's focus moved away from amputation and fixed upon her father's words as she listened to them now with a fresh understanding.

     At the time, it had not occurred to her to ask why infection could be
prevented in the wound from an amputation but not the wound of a compound facture. But now that the question presented itself, she wondered: What is the difference?

     Hannah had gone so silent that Maxberry gave her a sour look and said, "You ain't gonna faint on us, are you?"

     She looked at him, an ugly man to be sure, but she saw pain and fear in his eyes as he knelt at his friend's side.

     Hannah brought her eyes back to Jamie O'Brien who was watching her with a devil-may-care smile on his lips. "No worries, Miss Conroy," he quipped. "This won't change my plans one bit. I reckon a man with one leg can be just as rich as a man with two. Besides, I was getting tired of putting boots on that foot."

     Hannah studied the bloody wound, with broken bone ends glistening in the sun. Already, flies were buzzing about it. As she shooed them away and felt the weight of the sky upon her, the weight of the emotions of these men, as she studied the terrible situation and tried to think of what her father would do, or Dr. Applewhite, or Dr. Davenport—amputate, certainly—Hannah thought of the iodine compound in her bag.

     Retrieving the small bottle of purple fluid, she felt her heart race. The formula had only been tested on normal skin, never in a raw wound (Jacko Jackson's blister hardly counted). It was a
hand-washing
solution. Her father had never mentioned applying it directly to torn flesh, or exposed bone! Mightn't this tincture also poison Jamie O'Brien's blood and kill him as surely as infection would?

     Her fingers tightened around the bottle. What right had she to experiment on this man?

     "Mr. Maxberry," she said. "Will you please change places with me?"

     Maxberry jumped down and helped Hannah up into the wagon where she knelt next to Jamie O'Brien. As she started to uncork the bottle, Maxberry said, "What're you doing?"

     "It's medicine," she said, suspecting he would not understand about microbiotes and antisepsis.

     "You ain't making Jamie drink that."

     "It's not to drink, it's for the wound."

     "Let her do it, Mikey," Jamie gasped. "I trust her." He was having trouble breathing, Hannah noticed.

     Hannah soaked her handkerchief with some of the tincture and then cautiously dabbed it on the bloody wound, washing it as well as she could. Instructing Mr. Maxberry to hold the ankle in mild traction, Hannah delicately manipulated the broken bone ends until they were re-aligned and back under the skin. With Michael Maxberry's eye upon her, and the wide eyes of the onlookers, Hannah stitched the wound with silk suture and a curved needle. The closure was neat and tidy, but the bandage proved a problem. Medical theory held that wounds were dirty and so it didn't matter what one bandaged them with and that using anything other than dirty rags was a waste of good clean cloth. But, in keeping with her father's theory, Hannah decided to go against popular belief, and so she cut strips from her own petticoat and bandaged the wound with them, leaving her iodine-soaked handkerchief underneath.

     The men strapped the boards to Jamie's leg and tied them securely, this time immobilizing ankle and knee. Hannah checked the pulse in his foot, and although fast and thready, it was there.

     She looked at O'Brien. He had passed out.

     "I'll take you back to the Australia Hotel now," Maxberry said.

     Hannah looked toward the south, where unseen green fields and civilization beckoned. She scanned this forbidding wilderness that was a wasteland with a few trees and some scrub, hilly and full of flies. She espied a low range of hills to the west which, recalling Neal's expedition map, she knew were named the Baxter Range, and it lay north of a place Edward Eyre had named Iron Knob. Hannah thought of Neal, long gone with Sir Reginald's expedition, making wondrous discoveries and photographing them. Finally, looking at the injured leg she had just subjected to a highly experimental medicine, and knowing she had a responsibility to this man and to the outcome of her test, she said, "I will stay. I want to make sure Mr. O'Brien is all right."

     "Suit yerself," Maxberry said, then he addressed the others. "All right, you lot. We'll stay here the night and get a move on in the morning."

     As they headed back to the camp, Hannah said to Maxberry, "You can't move Mr. O'Brien! He has to remain immobile for at least two weeks."

     "Sorry, lady, but we have to keep a move on. Jamie himself'd be the first to say so. We've a long way to go yet."

     For the first time Hannah noticed the other wagons heaped with supplies, the horses and firearms. She estimated there were twelve, thirteen men, as well as Nan. "Where are we going?" Hannah asked.

     Maxberry gestured in the direction of the northwest. "But," Hannah said in disbelief, "there is nothing out there."

     He laughed and sauntered to the campfire where a billy can boiled over the flames.

     Hannah turned her face into the wind, in the direction Mr. Maxberry had pointed. Northwest. Not the route Neal was taking, who was traveling west with Sir Reginald. They, at least, were holding to a parallel route to the coastline, should they need to resort to a ship in an emergency. Mike Maxberry had pointed to an unknown expanse that not even so seasoned an explorer as Sir Reginald Oliphant would dare to attempt.

     What on earth could be out there that was worth risking Mr. O'Brien's life,
all
their lives?

N
EAL
S
COTT AWOKE TO A NIGHT OF TERROR.

     He was brought out of a black void by the chanting of voices, and as he slowly regained consciousness, the voices grew louder, and then his other senses woke up. There was a pungent aroma in the air, familiar and yet unidentifiable. And he was hot—very hot. But it was a moist heat, as if he were enveloped in steam. A foul taste filled his mouth, and his head throbbed. And the singing—it grew louder until he was finally able to open his eyes and see where it was coming from.

     He stared in horror.

     Black devils, their naked bodies painted with white stripes, were dancing crazily around a blazing fire. Others sat in a circle, hitting sticks together in a frenzied rhythm.

     Neal realized in shock that he, too, was naked. And he was tied down. His back prickled. He lay on something strange—made of sticks, and he was hot and damp.

     And then he realized: he lay over a pit.

     
Dear God, they are going to eat me!

     Neal struggled against his bonds, but he was too weak. All he could do was lie helplessly in his restraints, like a sacrificial beast, and watch his captors perform a savage dance while Neal Scott, late of Boston, slowly cooked . . .

     Blackness swallowed him as he sank back into the merciful void. And then he felt pain in the eyes. Sharp, like knives. And his mouth—so dry! The singing had stopped. Was this the moment they started carving him up? Weren't they going to wait until he was dead?

     Wait! I am still alive!

     Neal opened his eyes to bright, stabbing sunlight. He squinted until his sight adjusted to the daylight and the sharp pain went away. He blinked up at a face looking down at him.

     "How do you do, sir?"

     Neal frowned in confusion. He was no longer tied over the roasting pit but lying on the ground under a shelter of branches. And beneath his bare skin he felt soft fur. He stared up at the face. She was smiling. "Jallara," she said, tapping her chest. "I, Jallara. How do you do, sir?"

     Neal could only stare. Jallara was the most exotic girl he had ever seen. Although she was clearly Aboriginal, her unusual features bespoke a mixed ancestry. Back in America, Neal had encountered people who were half African and white, and half Indian and white, but this girl was like none of those. She stood over him and she seemed tall, with long limbs. Her face was round with dimpled cheeks, thick black eyebrows above large black eyes, a soft nose and a sensuous mouth. Not exactly beautiful, but intriguing. Her skin was a dusky brown, her hair silky-long and black. She wore a strange costume, Neal noticed—a grass skirt that ended at her knees, and a loose covering above the waist that eluded identification. Was it a woven mesh tunic of some sort? A loose bodice, perhaps, made of the fibers of a white plant? Neal tried to get his eyes into focus when it struck him that it was no garment at all, but body paint, applied in lines and dots and swirls and with such density that it appeared to be a garment.

     The girl was bare-breasted and it so shocked him that a startled sound escaped his throat.

     "Sick?" Jallara said in concern, dropping to her knees. "Pain?"

     She smelled of animal fat, and her sudden closeness stopped the breath in his lungs. Jallara could be no older than seventeen. Her skin appeared to be smooth and supple, her eyes sparkled with dark lights, and when she smiled, twin dimples framed her lips so perfectly—

     Neal turned his head, startled by his thoughts and his physical reaction to her presence.

     He was further shocked when she slipped an arm under his neck and brought a possum-skin bag to his mouth. At the feel of the few drops of water, Neal immediately drank. At first he was aware only of the blessed water, cool and sweet, filling his mouth and running smoothly down his parched throat. And then he was aware of two bare breasts, firm and creamy brown, near his face.

     His thirst slaked, Neal said, "Thank you," and then said, "You speak English."

     Jallara's smile broadened to reveal strong white teeth. "How do you do, sir?"

     Neal returned the smile.
"Limited
English, I see." As his head began to clear and he detected the delicious aroma of meat being cooked, as he stirred his limbs and found that he could prop himself up on an elbow, he shook his head to clear it, becoming aware that he was under a shelter that was part of a camp. He saw men, women and children. He looked around the lively encampment of thirty or more Aborigines—a makeshift settlement of lean-tos and shelters and campfires beside a water hole. The clan ranged in age from babes in arms to old gray beards, with the men engaged in making and repairing weapons, while the women nursed babies, crafted baskets and nets from string and fiber, and the children played with dingo puppies. Neal saw the leafy gum trees that stood at the water's edge—he knew they were ghost gums by the white trunks and peeling bark—with galahs and cockatoos in the branches, and on the ground, wildflowers and patches of grass. A veritable Garden of Eden in the midst of a barren wasteland.

     "Where am I?" he asked.

     Jallara frowned, as if struggling to recall words long-forgotten. Taking in the facial features that indicated possible white ancestry, Neal wondered if the girl had spent time at a Christian mission school, or possibly had lived on a cattle station. Finally she said, "You here, Thulan."

     "Thulan? That's the name of this place?" Neal swept his gaze over the dusty boulders rising from the red sand, the few struggling gum trees beside the water hole, and beyond, vast desert as far as the eye could see.

     She shook her head and tapped his chest. "You Thulan."

     He frowned. "Why do you call me Thulan?"

     "Thulan take us to you."

     "What do you mean?"

     She thought hard, searching for long-lost words. Then she said, "We hunt. We follow Thulan. He find you . . . asleep . . . eyes closed."