Dark Torment (21 page)

Sarah spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, defiantly
reading a very lurid and very enjoyable novel. It was so seldom that she had
time to read that she felt guilty, but she continued nonetheless, hoping that
the plot’s melodramatic twists and turns would take her mind off the many
things that troubled her. It did; for a couple of hours Sarah forgot Gallagher,
Percival, Lydia, her father, the breeding papers she should be going over, the
mending that needed to be done. . . . She read until at last, thankfully, she
felt sleepy. Then she washed her face and hands and put on her nightrail, a
plain, prim affair of sleeveless white cotton. It buttoned clear up to her
neck, but in deference to the heat Sarah left the top two buttons undone so
that what little breeze there was could reach her throat. She brushed her hair
and braided it in a single thick plait, which she secured with a bit of yellow
ribbon before twisting the braid into a loose coil on the top of her head. The
night seemed even hotter than usual; only the merest suggestion of a breeze
stirred the lengths of peach silk that draped the sides of the open windows.
Sarah blew out the lamp, then crossed to stand by one of the windows, looking
out over the garden without really seeing it. She was remembering the morning
in the attic when she had leaned out another window, clad even more skimpily
than she was tonight. Even from a distance of three stories, Gallagher’s
eyes as they had raked over her body had been incredibly blue. . . . Sarah
shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly feeling cold despite the
heat. Why Gallagher’s disappearance should so upset her she did not know.

Sarah was turning away from the window when an orange glow caught
her eye. She turned back, her eyes widening as she saw flames, vivid and
pulsing as they burst forth, reaching for the black velvet of the night sky.
The stable!

“Fire!” The scream tore out of her mouth. Whirling,
she barely paused to snatch up her wrapper before flying from the room.
“Fire!”

She ran along the hall to her father’s and Lydia’s
bedroom and hammered wildly on their closed door.

“Pa, Pa, come quick! The stable’s on fire!” she
screamed. She heard his answering shout, and didn’t wait for anything
else.

Dragging on her wrapper as she ran, not even conscious of her bare
feet, she tore down the stairs and out the back door. Dried stalks of grass cut
into the tender soles of her feet as she went; she could feel the heat of the
fire on her face before she was halfway there. The screams of the horses
trapped inside mingled with the roar and crackle of the flames.

Men were pouring out of buildings all around her; free men,
convicts, and aborigines alike rushed to fight an enemy all understood: fire.
Sarah rushed toward the stable, the smell of burning acrid in her nostrils,
feeling the terror of the horses as if it were her own. They had to be gotten
out: Malahky, Clare, Max, and the others. . . .

“My God, the breeding barns!” The hoarse cry, in what
Sarah barely recognized as her father’s voice, came from behind her.
Automatically Sarah glanced to the west, in the direction of the breeding
barns, as she ran. More seething flames raged in the distance. The sheep barns
were burning, too.

“Leave the stable! Get to those barns! My sheep!” Her
father was shrieking, beside himself with dread, as be mustered the men. With
the horses all trapped in the stable, and the bullocks rolling their eyes and
lunging against the fence in a nearby paddock too slow, the men, following her
father’s urgent call, began to run. Under Percival’s hoarse
direction, they grabbed up buckets and blankets and shovels and pitchforks.

“What about the horses?” Sarah was screaming at their
departing backs. The horses were shrieking; the terrified cries tore at
Sarah’s heart. They would all perish. . . .

They would not! She would save as many as she could. Tearing off
her wrapper, Sarah ran to the stable door. It was closed; the wood felt hot
against her tugging hands. It would not budge. She nearly despaired, then she
felt the door give. Other hands added their strength to hers.

“Mrs. Abbott!” Sarah cried, looking around to see the
woman’s plump, determined face. Mrs. Abbott’s nightcap was wildly
askew, and her voluminous nightgown flapped behind her in the breeze that
showered them both with sparks. In the background, Sarah could see Liza and
Lydia huddled together on the porch, watching.

“Let’s get them horses!” Mrs. Abbott yelled.

Sarah had no time to speculate on the gallantry of this woman who
would risk her life for animals that belonged to a man who had done nothing to
prevent his wife from openly scorning her. She rushed through the open door,
her wrapper still clutched in her hand. The tremendous outpouring of thick
black smoke nearly sent her reeling back. Ducking low to the ground, she forced
herself forward. Already she knew that, with only the two of them, they would
not be able to save all the horses. Clare’s was the first stall. Sarah
opened it, and the terrified mare lunged past her and bolted out the stable
door.

“Open the stall doors! Maybe some of the others will run out
on their own!” she called to Mrs. Abbott, barely getting the words out
for the smoke that threatened to choke her. But Mrs. Abbott heard, and obeyed.
Coughing, Sarah ran down the opposite row of stalls, throwing doors wide. Some
of the horses bolted past her, running for safety. Others reared and plunged,
trumpeting their fear, but were too terrified to leave their stalls.

Max—Max was out. Sparks were dropping on Sarah from the
roof, which was now almost fully ablaze, as the big horse galloped by, nostrils
flaring, eyes rolling, mane and tail flying, hooves pawing the earth. There was
no way to know how many horses remained. Some did; panicked screams told her
that. “We’ve got to get out!” Sarah shrieked at Mrs. Abbott,
who had just reached the end of her line of stalls. Mrs. Abbott lifted an arm
to show Sarah she understood. Sarah could barely see her for the thick smoke
that was stinging her eyes, making them water, choking her. . . . Overhead, the
roof gave an ominous creak. There was no time to do any more. The roof could
collapse at any time. She was not foolish enough to stay any longer.

Malahky! Sarah saw the bay rear and lunge in the corner of his
stall as, crouched low, she ran past. Her wrapper, which she now had wrapped
around her mouth and nose, was the only thing that kept her from suffocating on
the thickening smoke. She could not leave Malahky. Sarah stopped, trembling
with fear as the roof gave another warning creak. Sparks showered all around
her, along with charred bits of wood and ash. She waited until Malahky was down
on all four legs, then darted into the stall, praying that he wouldn’t
rear again before she could grab his halter. She made it just in time. She
could feel the great strength of him as he tried to go back on his hind feet.
Practically swinging from the halter, Sarah held him down. He backed and
plunged, whinnying frantically. If he chose to run for it now, he would trample
her.

He did not. Sides heaving, he stood still while she tore the
wrapper from around her own nose and mouth and wrapped it around his eyes.
Coughing, she led him from the stall.

The smoke was denser now, the heat more intense. Sarah had been
holding her breath. She could do without air no longer; her lungs felt as if
they would burst. Taking a deep, shuddering breath without volition, she felt
the hot, thick, malodorous vapors swirl into her lungs and gagged. Her head
began to spin. Sarah knew that she was going to faint.

With the last remaining bit of her strength, she heaved herself up
on Malahky’s back. Leaning forward, she whipped the wrapper from around
his eyes and clapped her heels hard to his sides at the same time. She could
only pray that he would run for his life.

Sarah felt him sweating and trembling beneath her as he plunged
for the open door. Her hands clung to his mane and her knees locked into his
sides as she leaned low over his neck.

Sarah was barely conscious, her whole being focused on keeping her
seat on that slippery back, as Malahky leaped forward. No sooner had they
cleared the door than she heard the crash of the roof collapsing behind them.
Immediately they were awash in a rain of sparks and flying, burning debris.
Panic-stricken, Malahky lunged out of the stable yard for the dark mystery of
the scrubland to the east; clinging to his back, Sarah’s last coherent
thought was how very human were the sounds of horses’ screams.

There were rifle shots to the west, in the direction of the sheep
barns. Sarah heard the sharp, staccato bursts and surmised that whoever had set
the fires—there were too many for them to have started
accidentally—had encountered the guards Percival had posted. It sounded
like a small war. For an instant, Sarah considered riding over to see if she
could be of help, but then her common sense told her that she was more likely
to be in the way. Her best course of action would be to return to the house.

She was a few miles from home. Malahky, crazed with terror, had
run until he could run no more. Finally he had slowed his headlong gallop to a
canter, then a trot, and then a walk before stopping altogether. He stood now
with his head down as he drew in great gulps of air; his sides heaved with the
aftermath of exertion, and he was trembling. Sarah, still astride with her
nightrail hiked up around her thighs so that most of her long, slim legs were
bare, leaned over to pat his reddish-brown neck soothingly. He shuddered in
response; his eyes rolled wildly, showing the whites. Sarah knew that he was
still terrified; horses feared fire more than anything. Only exhaustion had
made him stop running. If she had been wearing shoes, she would have walked him
back to Lowella. But the rocky ground with its sharp sticks and razorlike
blades of dried grass would crucify the soft skin of her bare feet. She would
ride Malahky back, but very, very slowly.

They were in the middle of the bush, with great, eerily bare ghost
gums rising up out of the sun-cracked earth to tower overhead. Sarah remembered
that the aborigines wouldn’t pass a grove of ghost gums at night, and
shivered. They believed that the souls of the dead occupied the trees, and that
it was this that accounted for the trees’ distinctive gray-white color.
This was very easy to dismiss as nonsense—during the day. At night,
without another human for miles around . . . Sarah listened to the soft groans
of the branches swaying in the wind and resolutely forced her mind to more
mundane matters.

Without a bridle, it was difficult to pull Malahky’s head
up. Sarah pondered the problem for a moment, then reached down and tore off the
small flounce that edged the hem of her nightrail. Securing each end of the
strip to either side of the halter, she made a crude hackamore. Then she hauled
Malahky’s head up, and, kicking him lightly in the sides, pointed him
toward home. Sweat-soaked sides heaving, he obeyed her command, walking slowly
forward. Sarah rewarded him with a whispered word of praise in his ear and
another pat on his neck.

Sarah guessed that it was nearly an hour before they passed the
dried-up gorge from which the homestead was just over the next rise. The night
was spookily silent; the gunshots had ceased some time before. Instead of being
allowed to roam freely as they generally were, the sheep had been herded into
pens and barns so that they could be watered more easily during the drought;
Sarah missed their incessant baaing, which had been part of her life for as
long as she could remember. The birds slept at night, so their cries were
silenced too. The only sound was the distant, echoing howls of a pack of
dingoes on the hunt. The moon, mistily white, floated near the horizon behind
her. The hot wind blew small particles of dust with it.

Before they topped the rise that would bring the homestead into
sight, Sarah became aware of the acrid smell of burning. Along with the more
familiar pungent scent of charred wood and ashes was another, stronger odor
that Sarah could not immediately place. The stink was nauseating.
Malahky’s head was up now; his eyes were rolling again, and he was
tossing his head from side to side as he sidled, refusing to go forward. Sarah
had to fight him for a moment before he gave in. Only then did she realize what
the smell was: cremated horseflesh. Her stomach twisted violently, and she
gagged.

Malahky was misbehaving again, and Sarah had to concentrate on
controlling him. He gave every evidence of wanting to flee back the way they
had come. It was only as they reached the crest of the rise and Lowella lay
spread before them like a miniature city that Sarah realized they were no
longer alone. To her right, some little distance away, surged a dark tide of
men, some holding blazing torches, some carrying shovels and pick axes, a few
shouldering rifles. Sarah pulled Malahky to a halt, staring. It was a veritable
army, and it was headed down the rise toward Lowella. The only sound she heard
was the thud of dozens of marching feet; the men’s very silence was
ominous.

An uprising! Sarah felt her breath stop as the only possible
explanation popped into her mind. As had happened on Brickton, Lowella’s
convicts had taken up arms and meant to wreak bloody vengeance on their
masters. But there were too many of them to be just from Lowella; the station
had only about three dozen. Neither Percival nor her father particularly liked
employing convicts. They maintained that they were dangerous. Instead, they
preferred to hire on the bands of itinerant workers roaming the countryside.
And now Sarah saw how right they had been: if this mob made it to Lowella
unhindered, her family wouldn’t stand a chance.

No sooner had the thought occurred to Sarah than she clapped her
heels hard to Malahky’s sides. The horse was exhausted, but she had to
ride, to warn the station. . . . Malahky neighed a protest even as he leaped
forward. Heart thudding, Sarah looked over her shoulder to see if she had been
spotted. She had! The torches were turning in her direction; the faces beneath
them were ugly. Angry muttering rose from the mob as they stared at her. A few
individuals broke into a run. Suddenly more were running, toward her—and
Lowella. . . . Sarah clapped her heels to Malahky’s sides again,
wrenching her attention away from the threatening horde and forcing herself to
concentrate instead on reaching the homestead, which was peaceful now in the
aftermath of the fire. As Malahky stretched out beneath her, his sides heaving,
Sarah felt fear constrict her throat. If that mob should catch her . . . But of
course they wouldn’t catch her: she was mounted, while they were on foot.