Heart of the Country (13 page)

Septimus looked at the dirty scrap of paper with crude letters scratched across it. “Harriet is not a woman of huge needs, Bill. She will make do and be happy about it.”

“She'll have to manage quite a while without these extra things though. My hut's a couple of days' journey from here and I won't be back to Burra until … How long do you think it will take you?”

“Why don't you draw me a map of how to get to your place?” Septimus said. “I'll come on out to you when I get back. I will be anxious to see my sister is doing well, so I will be as quick as I can.”

“Very well,” Bill said and he drew rough directions on the back of the supply list. He gave it back to Septimus, and they shook hands. Bill let forth with another loud, smelly belch. “Beg pardon,” he said and edged to the door. “I've been in town longer than expected so I really must get on my way. My horse and cart are round the back.”

“Why don't you go and get organised? I will bring Harriet round to you.”

Bill nodded and Septimus stayed at the crude bar, his mind racing over the words he would use to get Harriet to go with Jones without making a fuss. Finally the perfect scenario formed in his head, as he had known it would. He smiled to himself, drained the last of the fiery liquid and stepped outside.

Harriet smiled politely as the big man came out of the hut again. He barely acknowledged her before turning and hurrying away around the side of the little building. She shivered and nestled into the beautiful shawl Septimus had given her. It had taken all her strength to remain calmly in the wagon and smile when the man had first come out and looked at her. He was so tall that his face was nearly level with hers, and the size of him and his silly grin had immediately reminded her of Pig Boy. Thankfully he'd only inspected her for a minute before returning to the hut.

She had no idea if she was the right size to match his wife. Maybe he didn't either, and that's why he'd come out for a second look. She really didn't care but she knew Septimus was prepared to do almost anything to make a sale. The man must have had some money to part with. If Harriet could help by being appraised she would put up with it, but the big man's gaze had left her with an uneasy feeling.

She was relieved when Septimus emerged from the hut. He looked so handsome as he strode towards her with a determined look on his chiselled face. He was a survivor and so was she. One day they'd be a team. Harriet just had to bide her time. He stared at her briefly then moved quickly to her side of the wagon.

“Get down, Harriet,” he said.

She did as he bid, having learned the hard lesson of not asking questions out loud, though her head was full of them. She was both surprised and comforted when Septimus took her arm and helped her to the ground. She followed him to the back of the wagon where he tugged out a hessian bag.

“These things are to take with you.”

Harriet's heart began to race but she kept her voice calm. “Take where?”

“We are paying Mr Jones and his wife a visit. He has some wool I can sell on his behalf for a commission. His wife is rather poorly and he's anxious to get home to her. I'm going back to camp to rearrange the wagon. I might have to stash some of the trunks and shelves in the bush to make way for the wool.”

“But –”

“Harriet, I will follow tomorrow.” His voice was low but sharp. “Don't argue with me on this score. There's no need to make the trip longer for you. If you go with Mr Jones now you'll be there ahead of me, and it sounds as though his wife will be pleased for the company. Once I get there we'll stay another night, load up and begin the journey back to Adelaide.”

Harriet took the bag he pressed into her hands. She had no desire to be anywhere near the big man let alone share a wagon ride with him.

“Come, Harriet.” Septimus offered his arm. Reluctantly she slipped hers into it. “The sooner we all get on our way, the sooner we'll be headed back to Adelaide to earn a fat commission and restock the supplies. Oh, one more thing,” Septimus leaned in closer, “Mr Jones isn't one for the prattle of women. No doubt that's why his wife would enjoy your company but it means you should keep your silence until you reach their home.”

They rounded the back of the hut, where the big man sat like a giant on a small cart.

“Here we are, Mr Jones,” Septimus said. “This is Harriet.”

Before Harriet could say a word she was being hoisted up onto the seat next to the huge man. Jones gave a little smile then turned away quickly and belched.

“Beg pardon,” he muttered into his hand.

Harriet looked back at Septimus, hoping desperately he'd change his mind and keep her with him.

“Take care, Harriet,” Septimus said. “I'll see you soon.”

She looked down at his hand patting hers. He had barely touched her except to threaten her but this afternoon he'd been attentive several times. She stared at him, trying to gauge what was going on behind his smooth smile.

Mr Jones urged his horse forward. With a lurch they were on their way. Harriet gripped the side of the seat, trying to stay in place and not bump against the big man, whose smelly body was taking up most of the bench. She risked a glance behind. Septimus had already disappeared from sight. Harriet's heart raced and her mind clouded with fear. Beside her was a man very like the pig boy who had nearly killed her and ahead was thick bush that appeared to stretch on forever. She prayed Septimus wouldn't take too long to collect her.

They hadn't travelled very far when Mr Jones belched again then turned worried eyes in her direction. “Beg pardon, Miss Whitby,” he said. “I live alone but I try to be couth when there are ladies present.”

“Alone?” Harriet gasped, but Mr Jones didn't seem to notice her alarm.

“I'm feeling very poorly. I promised your brother I'd look after you but …” He belched again and clutched at his stomach.

“My brother?” Harriet's voice came out in a whisper. What story had Septimus spun this time?

“Something I ate is churning in my guts.”

Harriet stared at the man. Beads of sweat formed on his brow even though the afternoon was cool.

“It may be a slow trip to your new home but I am sure once we're there I can make you very happy.” Mr Jones's words came out in gabble.

Harriet could hear a loud rumble growling somewhere from within his immense body. “My new home?”

“I know I promised your brother I wouldn't speak of it too soon …” Mr Jones moaned and clutched at his stomach with his free hand. “But I will make you a good husband, Miss Whitby, rest assured about that.”

“Husband?”

Harriet's feeble gasp was smothered by another loud belch from Mr Jones.

“I'll have to stop,” he said. The cart was barely stationary before he scrambled down and disappeared into the bush.

Harriet listened to the sound of him heaving up the contents of his stomach. Her own insides were churning but her turmoil was out of fear not illness. Septimus had given her to this man to be his wife. She sucked in a breath. Not given – she was sure there would have been money in it for Septimus.

The heaving and groaning continued. Harriet felt sorry for Mr Jones, but there was no way she would be his wife. In her mind she already belonged to Septimus. He'd treated her kindly once and he would do again. She was older now and he'd never know she'd been violated. She would stick to her story that Pig Boy had only beaten her. She would help Septimus build his business and they'd have a new life together. Harriet could see their future; she would just have to work out how to get him to see it too.

She looked in the bag he'd given her. It held the men's clothes she'd worn until she fixed her dress, her sewing kit, the small tin she'd used to make sweet damper and the silver hair brush. His parting gift brought a wry smile to her lips. Where would he be now? She looked behind at the rough track back to town. Septimus was planning to go back to Adelaide but he'd left the trunks and their cooking things at the camp. She was fairly sure he'd go back there today and set off early in the morning.

She looked over in the direction Mr Jones had disappeared into the trees. He wasn't visible through the bush but by the sounds he was making, he wouldn't be returning to the cart any time soon.

Harriet climbed down, taking the bag with her. The sun was getting low in the sky. She didn't know how much time she had before it set but if she could survive Pig Boy and all that had happened afterwards, she could survive this. Clutching the bag, she started back along the track towards Burra.

Septimus urged Clover forward. The path wasn't easy to negotiate at this pace but it was getting late. He wanted to pack up the camp and be ready to take the road back to Adelaide at dawn the following morning. He'd done very well from his first trip as a hawker but now he would have to make changes. It would be some time before he would venture back to Burra, which was disappointing. He'd done very well from the miners and their families but it would be best if he kept his distance for a while.

Once he got back to Adelaide he intended to get a bigger wagon. He had very little of the Royal Remedies left and he was sure the man who'd sold them to him wouldn't be easily found. People out in the bush would always need cure-alls, so he had to find a new supplier. “Medicines” would continue to be a good sideline, but what he really wanted to do was stock up on clothing, tools and a few trinkets for the ladies.

There were a few remaining things in the Baker fellow's trunk that would make good sales to the right person. Septimus smiled to himself. Baker was the gift that kept on giving: first handing over money for the horse, then leaving a trunk full of items.

It had been soft to give Harriet the brush and the shawl – even the cooking tin would have been a saleable item. Septimus had never bothered with it but the girl had put it to good use. He smirked. It was his wedding present to her.

The wagon lurched over a large rut in the track. Septimus held the reins tighter and peered ahead. The rays of the setting sun hit him in the eyes, making it difficult to see the track. Regardless of the rough ride, he continued to urge Clover on.

He wondered how far Harriet had got along the track with Jones before her tongue loosened. Septimus hoped the farmer had had the good sense to keep his answers vague until they reached his hut. There was no doubt Harriet could be a wild cat but if she was isolated she would surely accept her situation and make the best of it. She would have a new life and Septimus had done very well out of the deal.

He patted the pocket where he'd stashed the money then threw his hand back to the reins as Clover rounded a bush. A dry creek bed spread out before them. Even though a full moon was rising, Septimus had misjudged their location. He tried desperately to steady the horse, but again the wagon lurched to one side. Clover slowed to negotiate the bank but the tracks they'd made going back and forth to their camp were more to the left. Septimus sensed rather than saw the bank crumble under the weight of the wagon. He slid forward. The wagon lurched and tilted and he cried out as he was thrown from the seat.

He landed across the rutted bank and though the wind left his lungs he somehow managed a guttural shriek when the wheel rolled over his leg. Pain ripped through his body. He welcomed the black oblivion that enveloped him.

Thomas sat very still. He had his back to the wall of his hut and his bottom in the dirt. His arms rested on his raised legs. Not the most comfortable spot, but the shade thrown by the hut gave relief from the late-afternoon heat. He'd been away days in the saddle again checking the sheep. He'd found the remains of a carcass that had been mauled and eaten. He still hadn't seen any wild dogs but it was evidence of their presence.

Duffy had made contact with the hut builders. They were headed his way but Thomas had no idea when to expect them. He'd done what he could to start the drafting yards – each time he was at the hut he cut more wood for the rails – but he needed the expertise and hands of the other men.

Duffy had once again turned up unexpectedly, and again Thomas was relieved he hadn't stayed long. The shepherd had been too full of anger, mostly directed at the magistrate who had dismissed the attempted murder charge Duffy had set in motion against the native who'd thrown a spear at him.

Duffy had obviously been drinking heavily. He had ranted and raved at the magistrate's injustice: accusing him, Duffy, a white man, who had only been protecting his employer's sheep, of being an aggressor. Duffy had gone on about the magistrate, who had said the native was justified in throwing a spear to protect himself from someone riding at him on a horse and discharging a firearm.

Duffy's words still rang in Thomas's head.

“I was the one getting a telling off,” he'd yelled then continued to rant and fume, his cheeks growing even ruddier.

The final straw for Duffy had been when the magistrate said he wasn't happy that the native in custody, a man called Gulda, was actually the native who had thrown the spear. Duffy had launched into another tirade about how they all look alike so how could anyone be sure about anything? The strength of his dislike of native people had made Thomas uncomfortable. He had been glad to see the shepherd leave. That had been a few days back. Since then, Thomas awoke each morning hoping the new day would bring the men to build the yards.

Today his shepherding brought him close to his hut again and he was using the opportunity to cook a pie. He smirked to himself. Only he would describe it as a pie. It was the remains of the sheep meat and some potato and onion with a crumpled crust of flour and water. No comparison to Lizzie's wild peach pie, which he'd eked out for days.

The fruit she'd picked had dried well in the sun. He had it spread out on a bag just beyond where he sat and was planning to gather it and store it today. The dried fruit wasn't as sweet as her pie but made a welcome addition to his simple diet. If he had time, perhaps he would seek out the tree she'd picked the crop from and harvest some more.