SEVEN

Lorna was on board Mary‚ on top of one of the masts. The wind was blowing hard. A sail had come loose and wrapped itself around her so she could not move. Someone was shouting at her to get free of the sail, to climb down to the deck because the ship was sinking and if she stayed where she was she would surely drown. She tried to explain that she was tied up so securely she couldn’t move, but was unable to speak. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged. In contrast, the voice of whoever was shouting at her grew louder and louder.

Her eyes sprang open. For a moment she could make no sense of what she saw. A lantern was shining into her face so that she could see nothing. A man’s harsh voice was shouting. Confused at being woken so suddenly, she could not make out what he was saying.

A rough hand seized her shoulder and shook her.

‘Git up, damn yer‚’ the voice said. ‘’Ow many times I gotter say it?’

The unseen man cuffed her, pushing her into the darkness outside the tent. They were all there—Andrew and George, little Matthew clinging to Mary’s skirts. The men had their hands tied. Lorna’s heart sank.

There seemed to be three robbers, big and rough-looking. She saw the glint of arms. There was a greyness in the eastern sky but dawn would bring no help. They were helpless. There was a horror in the word. These men could do whatever they liked with them.

Two of the men climbed on top of the dray and began to break into the boxes containing their stores. Without stores they would die. Perhaps the men intended to kill them anyway. It would make sense from the robbers’ point of view—no one to pursue them, no one to give evidence. It hadn’t happened yet which might be a good sign but Lorna was not sure about that. Being alive created other possibilities that she would not think about.

‘Andrew?’ she ventured.

He said nothing. The light was stronger now and she could see him clearly. His face was white, eyes like beacons, mouth furious.

He was helpless as they all were but she would not let him ignore her. Deliberately she used the name he disliked. ‘Andy, what are we going to do?’

The man guarding them turned upon her a face of horror—pale eyes in a high-cheekboned face, filthy yellow hair‚ a weak and vicious mouth. ‘Shut the hell up!’

‘I will no’ shut up. I am speaking to my husband.’ Heart beating, knowing it was futile, even ludicrous, but determined to go on speaking as though by doing so she could keep hope alive. ‘Andy, I am speaking to you …’

‘Keep quiet, woman. There’s nothing I can do.’

At least he had answered her but had still not looked at her or any of them. She could feel rage coming off him like heat. Rage, she thought contemptuously. Aye, we all feel it. But what good is that when you’re helpless? She looked at George. His shoulders spoke of acceptance. No hope there.

The day grew brighter. On the dray, the two men were still tossing goods to the ground. One of them gave a shout of triumph, flourishing a bottle over his head.

‘Give it ’ere!’ shouted the man with the dirty yellow hair. ‘Let’s have a slug.’

The third man scowled. He was the biggest and oldest of them, a man of about forty with blackened teeth in a coarse face. Lorna guessed he was the man Andrew had met on his journey upriver. ‘Keep yer mitts off that, the pair o’ yer.’

The man who had found the bottle turned on him, lips curling off his teeth. ‘Why should I listen to you, Charlie mate?’

Charlie laughed. ‘Because I’ll kill yer if yer don’t, Billy Boy.’

The guard was distracted by the argument. He was two paces from Lorna. Before she knew she was going to do it, before terror could prevent her doing anything, she stepped forward and snatched the pistol from his belt.

It was heavier than she had expected and she had difficulty holding it, never mind aiming it.

The man gaped at her, dumbfounded. She stepped back. Struggling with both hands, she curled her finger around the trigger and pointed the weapon at him.

‘You cheeky little bitch …’ Taking a step forward.

She backed away, muzzle wavering on his chest.

‘I shall shoot,’ she warned him. ‘One more step …’

A thud and blinding flash of light as the blow took her behind the ear. She was on her knees, head ringing, the pistol on the ground before her. She knew she should pick it up but the blow had slowed her reflexes. Before she could move, a huge hand reached down before her and took it. It was too late. Someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her upright.

Charlie’s coarse face and blackened teeth grinned down at her. ‘Spunky little bitch, ain’t yer?’ To the guard he said, ‘Yer oughter be in the blind school, Pat, lettin’ a woman take yer gun off yer.’

There was a splitting pain in her head. Her ear throbbed beneath the heavy hank of hair that lay about her face.

‘I’ll fix ’er,’ Pat said, face murderous. He stepped forward, fingers twitching.

She knew all about terror now.

‘Leave it,’ Charlie said.

‘I bloody well won’t …’

There was a click as Charlie cocked his gun. ‘What yer say?’

Pat stopped in midstride. ‘Come on, Charlie …’

‘I said leave it.’ He looked at Lorna. ‘Next time yer use a gun remember yer got to cock it first.’

‘Next time I’ll kill you,’ she said.

The expression on his face did not change. ‘That so?’

He hit her once, hard, with an open palm. The blow seemed to explode the bones in her face. Her lip split and she felt blood running down her chin. She went down like a half-filled sack, sprawling in the dust at his feet. He put his boot on her hand and applied pressure until she cried out.

She heard his voice behind the grinding agony of her hand. ‘Any time yer wants me to learn yer manners, say the word.’

The foot went away although the pain did not and she began to sob.

She was conscious of Mary kneeling beside her. Mary was crying, too, but was far away. Whatever Mary felt meant nothing.

‘Keep away from ’er. Less you want some o’ the same.’

For a minute Mary did not move but must have been dragged away. There was a cry, the sound of a blow, then sobs.

‘I tell yer, I never seen such spunky females, eh? Like wildcats, the pair of ’em.’

‘Maybe we should take ’em along with us? Might be fun, taming a coupla wildcats.’

The voices came from a great distance. Lorna paid no attention. They were no concern of hers. She lay with the side of her face in the dust, head and hand an explosion of pain.

Time passed, a muddle of voices and noises, swelling and dying through the haze that separated her from the world.

Suddenly she was dragged upright. The man called Charlie was grinning at her. ‘Yer in luck. The boys ’a’ taken a fancy to yer. I reckon we’ll be taking yer with us.’

A confusion of shouting. ‘Dinna ye dare …’

Andrew? she thought. Why’s he making such a fuss?

A sudden, frothing rage. ‘Don’ you tell me wot I dare!’ Charlie snatched his pistol from his belt, hit Andrew with it. Hard. Andrew collapsed. Charlie’s feet lashed out at him, boots thudding. He spun round, cocked his pistol and thrust it under George’s jaw, pushing his head back, muzzle gouging his throat. ‘Git it through yer ’eads. Try an’ git smart wi’ me, I’ll kill the lot o’ yer!’

Lorna watched him, heard his voice, but the distance remained. None of what she was seeing seemed real.

‘Leave ’im alone. He ain’t doing nothin’ to you.’ Mary’s voice.

Charlie turned. Step by step, he advanced on her. With terrible eyes he looked down at Matthew, clinging to her, then back at Mary. He wiped the spittle from his lips.

‘Yore kid?’ Softly, so softly.

Her arms went around Matthew’s body. The child’s face was hidden in her skirts.

‘Is ’e?’

Rage, scalding, terrifying, set her back on her heels.

‘Yes.’ Whispering, face white.

‘I could kill ’im. You know that?’

‘You could kill the lot of us.’

‘But what if I jus’ killed the kid, eh?’ His voice rose. ‘Because ’is goddamned mother di’n’ know how to keep her trap shut?’ He stared panting at them, at Andrew unconscious at their feet. ‘Don’ think I wouldn’t, that’s all.’

He kicked Andrew’s body once more and turned away. Blood was running down the side of Andrew’s face into the dust. Lorna could not tell if he was alive or not. She should have felt concern for him but did not. Our leader, she thought.

The men loaded the stolen stores onto Scabbard and Domino and roped them to their own mounts.

‘Best take the remounts, too, Charlie,’ Pat said. ‘We don’ want ’em comin’ after us soon’s they get loose.’

Charlie laughed. ‘This bunch o’ farmers? Wot they goner do if they catch up with us?’ But he ordered them to collect the other horses just the same.

He turned to George. ‘Any spare saddles?’

‘No.’

‘Done much ridin’?’ he asked Lorna.

‘No.’

He said to the guard, ‘You take the remount, Pat.’

The yellow-haired man scowled. ‘I’m stickin’ to me own ’orse.’

‘Yer’ll do what I damn well tells yer! ’Ow’s she going to manage bareback if she dunno ’ow to ride, eh?’

Sulkily, the young bushranger obeyed.

‘No! You can’ take ’er!’ Mary protested hysterically.

Charlie shut her up with a look. ‘Be glad it ain’t you. Or the kid.’

He walked Lorna to the tent. She did not resist. She had made her one futile show of defiance. Now she was fatalistic. She would not let herself imagine what would happen later. But knew. Oh yes.

‘Git yer clothes on,’ Charlie said.

She stood in her nightgown, staring at him.

‘Less yer wanner ride in that?’

‘Leave me then.’

He did not move. ‘Git on wiv it.’

She had no choice. She dragged her clothes over the gown, not exposing herself at all yet exposed to him as she had never been to any man. She thought, this is the start of it. Andrew should have protected her but had not. Now it was too late. Resistance, indignation, anger, they were all behind her now.

When she was dressed Charlie led her out to the saddled horse, standing there quietly, tail swishing at flies.

‘Git up.’

She put her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up and over. It was a man’s saddle and her in her dress. Her skirt bunched up around her waist, her legs for the world to see. She felt no shame. It no longer seemed important.

Charlie mounted beside her. ‘Billy Boy,’ he said, ‘you ’n’ Pat take the other remount between yer. I got all I can handle with the girl.’

‘We already got them two stores horses,’ Pat objected, the sort to argue about everything.

‘Now yer got a remount as well. You was the one worried about them comin’ after us, so make sure it don’ git away.’

‘I never said I was worried.’ Pat was indignant.

‘Don’ lose the horse, that’s all. Now, git movin’!’

He had secured Lorna’s horse to his own by means of a short rope. He put his heels into his mount and they began to move.

Lorna did not look back.

Andrew shouldna have let it happen, she thought. It’s no’ right.

 

They followed the river westwards for what seemed hours. Lorna had told Charlie the truth—she had done little riding. She tried to tighten her legs about the horse’s barrel but in no time her muscles were in agony and the skin inside her thighs rubbed raw. A dozen times she thought she would fall but somehow she hung on. The speed they were travelling, she would be likely to break something if she fell.

At last, at midday, they stopped.

The riverbanks had opened out. The water was flowing much slower and there were fewer trees. Long strands of weed showed here and there and sunlight lay on the surface of the water like a brazen shield.

Charlie looked at her, half-fainting in the saddle, head slumped against the coarse hair of the horse’s neck. ‘Yer wanner drink, git down and ’ave one.’

She thought she was too stiff and tired to move but the inside of her mouth was gummy with dust and thirst and the thought of water, the taste and cleanness of water, persuaded her. She half-slid, half-fell out of the saddle and sprawled on the ground. She was weeping, tears of weakness rather than fear or sorrow. Fatigue had taken away all other feeling.

‘You won’ git no water layin’ there.’

She opened her eyes. Pat was staring down at her from the remount, yellow hair hanging in greasy hanks about his face. His legs hung stirrup-less and his face was one big sneer.

‘Can’ wait all day fer you.’

He slid to the ground, seized her under the arms and dragged her to the river. He dropped her half-in and half-out of the water. She lay there, unable to move.

‘We really got to work to get you to drink,’ Pat said. ‘Maybe this’ll do it.’

Something was splashing into the water. She opened her eyes. He was pissing into the river a foot from her face.

‘My God!’

She scrambled away from him, her face working. Charlie had struck her, threatened her, kidnapped her, all terrible things, yet this was worse because it showed the contempt they had for her. Why, she thought, a man who does that would cut your throat and not even think about it.

The act, perhaps because it was so vile, dispelled some of the shock she had felt since she failed to prevent the robbery. She knew two things. She had to go with them, whatever that might entail, because she had no choice. But there was something else, too. She was not helpless. As long as she lived there was a chance.

She began to scheme how she might escape.

 

 

It took Mary two minutes to cut George free but another ten to bring Andrew round.

Even then he was no use to them. He vomited as soon as he was conscious and his eyes were not properly focused. He complained of a shattering headache. He did not ask about Lorna, seemed to have forgotten much of what had happened.

‘’E won’ be right before tomorrer,’ Mary said. ‘What we gunna do about Lorna?’

George said, ‘We got no guns. No ’orses. We can’ do nuthin.’

‘We can’t just forgit ’er. They’ll maybe kill ’er.’

‘If she’s lucky.’

They stared at each other. There were other things than death.

‘There be more’n Lorna at risk yur. Without no guns ’n’ ’orses, we gotta work out how we be goin’ to manage ourselves.’

‘The squatter,’ Mary said.

George looked at her, uncomprehending.

‘Somebody owns this land. Just ’cause we ’aven’t see ’im …’

George stared at the vast and empty plain from which even the dust of the bushrangers’ horses had now vanished.

‘Where do we start lookin’?’

Mary’s face was a mask of concentration. ‘The squatter won’t have his station too far from the river, will ’e?’

‘Long way from yur, though,’ George objected. ‘Otherwise how come we seen nuthin of him?’

‘At least it gives us somewhere to start lookin’,’ she argued. ‘Only chance we got, i’n’ it?’

‘On foot,’ George said. ‘Not much of a chance.’

‘Better’n nuthin.’

‘Mebbe we’d better wait till Andy’s better,’ George hesitated, troubled. ‘See what ’e d’say.’

‘And in the meantime they’re gittin’ further away every minute. I’ll put up some food for you and you can git goin’. We don’ git after ’em soon, we won’ never git Lorna back.’

 

They reached the ford by midafternoon. The river had narrowed again and was spanned by a broad shelf of rock. There was perhaps a foot of water over it, deepening to two in places. The constricted water poured foaming across the shelf and into the depths beyond but it was obvious that, with care, a crossing could be made at this point.

Lorna had relapsed into a state of semiconsciousness. Through her daze she thought this was what Andrew had been looking for and it was here all the time. Poor Andrew. He doesna seem to be having much luck.

‘Last chance for water,’ Charlie told her.

Behind his shoulder, Pat grinned. ‘I bet she wants me to give ’er a hand again.’

Once again she fell as she dismounted but did not wait for them to come to her. On hands and knees she crawled to the water’s edge. She didn’t want to provoke Pat a second time. She was scared of him. She was scared of them all. She lay on her face on the bank, no pride left, nothing left, and sucked up the water in long gasps. An animal, she thought. Nothing more—neither to them nor, increasingly, to herself.

She heard Charlie say, ‘Let’s git on.’

She looked up at him. ‘Wait a minute. Please.’

She needed to relieve herself. For the last hour she had thought of little else. If she didn’t do something about it now, she wouldn’t be able to hold herself in much longer.

Charlie mounted his horse and looked down at her, eyes like stones in the brutal face.

‘I said let’s git on.’

‘A minute.’ Weeping, now.

She could neither conceal herself nor dissimulate. She waded deeper into the water and crouched down. The level barely reached her waist.

‘Little lady’s havin’ a piss,’ Pat said. ‘Looks like the habit’s catchin’.’

She staggered back up the bank, water streaming from her saturated clothes. The coolness on her lacerated thighs was a blessing but would not last. The wet clothes would rub worse than ever. Nothing to be done about it, nothing to be done about anything in her life. She climbed swaying into the saddle.

They crossed the river and rode south. The countryside was heavily wooded, the ground beneath the trees grey and floury, leached by recurrent floods and criss-crossed by gullies left by the water when it retreated. The air was hot and still. No birds sang, nothing moved apart from midges that hung in swaying clouds above the old wash-aways. They had come out of the living land into a wilderness of heat, insects and brooding silence.

An hour after they left the river they came to a rough camp—two huts constructed from split tree trunks with bark roofs secured by branches. A circle of burnt ground showed where they had built their fire and there were bits and pieces of junk—empty bottles, the gnawed bones of animals—lying where they had been thrown. The camp was dirty, unpleasant, indescribably menacing.

Terror squeezed Lorna’s heart as she looked at it.

 

The plain shimmered with heat. Everywhere rocks stuck up like teeth out of the reddish soil. The blue vault of the sky wounded the eyes with its brightness and the gum trees seemed to float in the haze.

At least there’s the river, George thought. As long as I d’stick to that I can’t go far wrong.

He had left camp three hours ago and lost sight of the last sheep half an hour after that. He seemed to have come a long way already but knew he had barely started.

So far he had seen nothing, which was what he’d expected. Mary was right. Somewhere in all this emptiness there had to be a station with animals and hands and the man who owned the run. Trouble was he didn’t have any idea where, except, like Mary said, the station had to be somewhere near water.

That didn’t mean it was on the Murray. There might be another river they knew nothing about. They didn’t even know how big the run was. The station might be a hundred miles away. In any direction. He would never make it for a hundred miles over these plains, even if he did know which way to go.

He had tried to say all this to Mary but had never been much for words. She’d gone off at him, like she always did, next thing he was setting out on what had to be the wildest of wild goose chases.

Even if by some miracle he found the station, what could they do? Charlie and his boys were long gone. Could they track them through this endless plain? Even if they did, those fellows wouldn’t give up without a fight. On top of everything, Lorna might be dead. You couldn’t blame the squatter if he decided it wasn’t his quarrel.

All in all, it seemed to George like a waste of time. Could be dangerous, too. Plenty of snakes on these plains. Tread on one and he’d be dead—a lonely death and painful, too, from what he’d heard. It didn’t bear thinking about.

There were other dangers. They’d seen no blacks but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. They’d probably been watching them for days. They could be watching him this minute. They’d killed plenty of men in their time, lonely shepherds, mostly. No one could be more alone than he was now.

He looked around apprehensively. The shimmering plain looked as empty as ever but that meant nothing. Any minute a group of gum trees could turn into a bunch of warriors with spears and throwing sticks.

He didn’t even have a gun because the robbers had left them none. Mind you, for all the good he’d been with a gun it was no loss. That was the real reason he’d not objected more strongly when Mary came up with this idea of him going for help. If he had kept better guard, they wouldn’t be in this fix. Truth was he wasn’t cut out for this sort of life. He should have stayed where he was. The routine at Inverlochrie had suited him far better than wandering like a lost soul across the countryside.

He trudged along, the plain spread out on his left, the river to his right. The undergrowth along the bank was thicker here. He wasn’t sure if that was good or not. There was more cover if he needed it but anyone planning to ambush him would have an easier job too.

The only thing he could do was stop thinking and keep walking. They needed help, never mind Lorna. Apart from that, if he went back without finding anyone Mary would never believe he’d tried. She would never say so but she would think he’d gone a mile or two upriver, sneaked into a bush and stayed there until it was safe for him to go back again. He knew he didn’t measure up to the standard she set in husbands. Too easy-going, that was his trouble. She was like a terrier. She took life by the throat and shook it.

Young Matthew took after her. Favoured him in looks, maybe—he’d be a big lad when he grew up—but you could see already he’d be pushy, just like Mary was. Liked his own way in everything. Good lad, though. A son to be proud of.

For the hundredth time he squinted around him. The sun seemed to have a western slant to it at last, although God knew it was still as hot as fire. He could see nothing—no animals, no buildings, no men.

Slowly, the sun set behind him. Shortly before dark he stopped for a rest. He had a good drink and refilled his bottle from the river before eating some of the food that Mary had put up for him before he left. Kangaroo meat and damper. It never varied. Well, it was meat, anyway. Tough, like it always was, but not too bad a flavour once you got used to it. Hard on the jaws, mind.

He’d thought he would rest a while, unroll his blanket and sleep, but after he’d been sitting half an hour he decided to push on a bit. The air was cooler now and better for walking and with the stars so bright he could see his way reasonably well. He’d heard the blacks were frightened of the dark and never went out in it. If that was so he’d be safer walking at night than during the day. He’d have to take his chance with the snakes but he’d been doing that all day and hadn’t trodden on one yet.

He plodded on through the darkness. He could hear the river chuckling as it ran between its banks. A reassuring sound. Funny how you could hear things so much clearer at night.

There was the usual whine of insects, once he heard the grunt and thump of kangaroos, but otherwise there was nothing.

A new moon hung in the sky like a shaving off a gold bar. He kept walking, tripping from time to time over rocks he had not noticed in the scrubby vegetation. He walked all night. The moon disappeared below the horizon. Birds began to squawk from the undergrowth. He heard the sound without registering what it was and was surprised when the sky ahead of him lightened with the coming of daylight.

When it was light enough to see clearly he sat down beside the river, took off his boots, stuck his feet in the stream and let the water run over them. It felt wonderful. His feet had stood up well and he was feeling surprisingly fit, all things considered.

Thinking he would rest for an hour before continuing, he lay back on the grass and closed his eyes.

When he opened them he saw a black face looking down at him.

 

It was not a subject that respectable people ever discussed but she had thought about it. Every woman on earth had thought about it, one time or another.

She sat her horse, looking at the slummocky huts, the filthy ground. The tiny clearing was foul with the refuse of three men too lazy or uncaring to bury it. The place stank. She could not tell if it came from the rubbish or was simply the miasma of the unwashed, foul-breathed men who lived here. The bush grew right to the timber walls of the buildings. Tree branches hung close above the sagging roofs and the light was dim and dismal. The weight of the bush, so close about them, had charged the atmosphere with a feeling of such evil that Lorna’s ears were filled with the panicked beating of her heart and she found it difficult to breathe.

Charlie reined his horse to a standstill and slid out of the saddle. He grinned up at her, blackened teeth jeering, and sketched a bow, broken hat in hand. ‘Welcome to our ’umble abode, my lady.’

‘Lady,’ Pat said and licked his lips. ‘She’s that, orright.’ He rode close and ran his hand up her thigh beneath her bunched-up skirt.

‘Look at that,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘See that, Billy Boy? Pat ’ere’s ’ungry for a taste.’ He began to unsaddle his horse. ‘You kin jes wait, tha’s all.’

Pat glared, hard fingers digging into her flesh. ‘I bin waitin’ all day.’

‘An’ you kin jes wait some more, boy.’ He carried the saddle across and set it on the trunk of a fallen tree.

‘Why?’

‘Cos tha’s the way it is. First things first, eh. Horses first, then the stuff we took from them farmers, then mebbe a nice bottle o’ grog. Somen to eat. Then we’ll see.’

‘I don’ want nuthin to eat.’

‘Listen to ’im, Billy Boy. I swear it’s love.’ He grinned up at Lorna. ‘You done some magic on young Pat, orright. Never known ’im say no to grub before.’

Billy Boy said, ‘Mebbe ’e’s thinkin’ of a different sort o’ meat.’

‘Mebbe ’e is.’ The jocular tone hardened with its usual frightening speed. ‘But ’e won’ get nuthin if he don’ take ’is ’and out of her crutch and git down an’ help us.’

Pat sat his horse a moment longer, smiling down at the older man. His fingers dug into the muscle at the top of Lorna’s thigh. ‘One o’ these days you ’n’ me’s goin’ to fall out, Charlie.’

Charlie spat. ‘That day’s the day I buries yer. Now, git down an’ give’s a hand!’ He walked across and took the bridle of Lorna’s horse. ‘You, too.’

The stink of his body almost made her gag. She dismounted, knowing that for the moment any chance of escape was gone.

‘Sit over there where I kin see yer,’ Charlie instructed her. ‘An’ stay put, or I’ll tie yer up.’

No chance of escape at all, she thought. Not now. Later, perhaps, but who knew what would have happened by then. They’ll kill me eventually. When they’re bored with me.

She would have died now, if she could.

They took the stolen stores off the horses. They did not stack them neatly but flung them anywhere about the clearing. They lit a fire and cooked up the meat they had stolen, passing a bottle between them. They offered her neither food nor drink, seemed to have forgotten all about her.

The light shone on their faces, their wet lips and eyes. The clearing was raucous with laughter, the thick sound of voices speaking through full mouths. Beyond the firelight’s circle, the bush waited and watched. Close enough to touch.

She moved a few inches, as an experiment, towards the far side of the house.

No one noticed.

Again, moving so slowly her tired muscles cried out in protest.

If she could get away into the darkness …

Once she would have been frightened to go into the bush at night. Fear had a different dimension, now.

She moved again.

They would come looking for her, of course, but in the dark the advantage was with the hunted, not the hunters. She would never get away on foot but if she could lure them into the bush and double back, get one of the horses while they were still marooned out there …

It wouldn’t be easy. She had no idea where the river was. Perhaps, once she was well away, she could wait for daylight. Sunrise would point the way north.

It was a chance.

Another movement. Barely an inch, this time.

They’d finished the first bottle. Charlie slung it over his shoulder and reached for the next, already open on the ground between them. The bottle was up-tilted in his mouth.

Lorna ran.

 

Mary was terrified—for George, for Lorna, for the future. Most of all she was terrified that Andy would die and she and Matthew would be alone.

Andrew lay on a blanket in front of the tent, eyes staring at the sky. He did not speak or move. She thought he probably did not know what was going on.

She tried speaking to him but he did not seem to hear her and after a time she gave up.

‘Bad men hit Unca Andy,’ Matthew said.

The boy seemed to have recovered well from the morning’s events, although who knew what fears remained hidden inside him.

‘Why Auntie Lorna go off with the bad men?’

‘’Cause they took ’er with ’em.’

‘Why did they?’

‘I s’pose they wanted to.’

‘Will Auntie Lorna be coming back?’

‘I hope so, dear.’

‘Poor Auntie Lorna.’ A pause. ‘Will Unca Andy die?’

Dear God, I pray not.

She had a nightmare vision of them all dying—Andrew here, never stirring or speaking again, George and Lorna lost somewhere in the vastness of the empty land, herself and Matthew left to fend for themselves, weakening day by day as food ran out …

Come on, she told herself. We’ll be right. You’ll see.

From time to time she went to check on Andrew. He’s the one’s brought us so far, she thought. We’d be sunk without him. Every time she checked she was afraid she would find him dead.

Gradually the day passed. She thought of George, making his way eastwards along the banks of the Murray. Pray God he was all right. As for Lorna … God help her. They took her and not me because she had the guts to stand up to them and I didn’t. They wanted to teach her a lesson. All of us. Most of all, she thought, they wanted to prove to themselves what tough men they were. What had that terrible man said?

‘Be glad it ain’t you …’

She was glad. Guilt racked her but it remained true. When they took Lorna and left her, relief had bathed her like a fever.

She hadn’t thought of Lorna then but did so now. Not in detail, not of what might be happening at this moment, but how it must have been for her, riding off with the men, no hope of rescue.

I couldn’t have stood it, she thought. I would have died.

Before it got dark she lit a fire, heated some tea, gave Matthew and herself some supper, checked on Andrew—no change—and went down to the river. There was an overflow there, a shallow pool they could use without fear of the current. She would never forget the frantic search for Matthew after they’d left Goulburn.

Lorna saved him then, she thought. She saved my baby yet when those men took her all I felt was relief it wasn’t me. God preserve her and bring her back safe.

It was the only way she might be able to forgive herself.

*

George’s first thought was that he was either dead or would be at any moment. His second was to lie there and pretend to be dead already and so save them the trouble of killing him.

The first one quickly proved wrong. He wasn’t dead and for the moment at least no one seemed interested in killing him.

The second thought was no better. The man who had been watching him saw his eyes open and at once set up a clamour in what was presumably his own language.

There seemed no point in pretending to be dead when everyone knew he wasn’t so George opened his eyes again and looked about him. There were six of them—thin, black, naked, all carrying spears taller than themselves. A hunting party, he thought. They were jabbering away to each other but they didn’t look dangerous or even particularly threatening.

He decided to risk a movement. Slowly, with extreme caution, he sat up, making sure he was smiling at them for all his worth.

They drew together with a rustle of spears and he held his breath, expecting any minute to feel the point of one jabbing between his ribs. He spread his arms wide, opening his hands.

Still they hadn’t killed him.

He kept the smile going, cheeks beginning to ache.

One of the men looked at him and spoke. George shrugged, the language incomprehensible. Would they know English? Unlikely but worth a try.

‘I need help,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘You understand help?’

They looked at each other and at him. No good.

‘Another white man?’ Hopefully. He put his hand on his chest, then pointed out across the mirage-hazed plain, shrugged his shoulders, trying to put a question into his face.

Jabber jabber. Silence.

He was getting nowhere. ‘Look …’ He picked up a bit of stick and began to draw in the dust. First he drew a house with windows. Then sheep and a horse. The drawings weren’t much but he thought with luck the black men might understand what they were supposed to represent. He put in the figure of a man wearing clothes, a white man. Then, stroke of genius, a group of men with spears and another white man, a little away from the rest of the drawing.

He pointed to the second group, then at the men gathered about him and himself.

‘Me,’ he said. ‘You.’

He pointed at the house and animals. Once again he shrugged. ‘Where are they?’ he said.

He watched them as once again they talked excitedly together, and he thought perhaps they had understood.

One of the men pointed upriver, speaking rapidly in what might have been a question.

‘Yes,’ he said.

The leader gestured to him to get up. He did so, uncertainly. Once again the black man pointed upriver and spoke emphatically.

‘All right,’ George said. ‘The station’s up there. Thank you kindly for tellin’ me.’ He smiled at them all again. Must be showing every tooth I got in my head. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’

He made to move off. A vociferous jabber stopped him.

Obviously that wasn’t right.

He looked at them helplessly. Whatever else, he mustn’t anger them. He couldn’t outrun spears, them either, probably.

The men gestured again. They closed about him. It looked like they were planning to take him somewhere.

He picked up his pack and they began to trot eastwards along the bank of the big river.

 

The bush was black.

After the frantic dive from the firelight into the darkness, Lorna fought her way through the scrub, colliding with trees, stumbling over roots. Thorns clawed her clothes, her skin. Branches slashed her face. One thicker than the rest gave her a savage blow. She staggered, blood trickling down her forehead and into her eyes. She smeared it away and blundered on, hearing yells and oaths echo through the bush as the three men came after her. The cut was stinging, her breath was tight in her throat, her left ankle jabbed needle thrusts of pain where she had twisted it. None of it mattered. All she cared about was getting as far away as she could before she stopped to hide.

She must have been two hundred yards into the forest when she slid beneath a bush in the bed of a dried-up creek and settled down to wait. Her heart pounded, her breath rasped in her throat. Looking back, she could make out the glow of the fire, the outline of trees black against it.

She settled as low as she could to the ground, hearing the layered detritus of the forest crackle beneath her weight. She fought to control her breathing as she waited, terror running through her veins like blood.

She could hear them from a long way off. Unlike her, they could make as much noise as they liked, hallooing to each other, trampling through the undergrowth.

In her flight she had tried to circle to the left of the camp, her plan to let them pass her and then double back and snatch one of the horses before they could cut her off.

They were perhaps twenty yards from her now, trampling and crashing through the bush. It might have been further—in the darkness distances were hard to judge.

They passed, pushing on into the bush. She waited, barely daring to hope. The noises began to diminish. Exultation trembled in her throat. Stealthily she gathered her legs beneath her. She took a deep breath, schooling herself to stand without making a sound.

Not three yards from her, a shadow moved.

Somehow she swallowed the scream. Caught in the second when her legs had just begun to straighten, she froze. Within seconds, the protests of her thigh muscles had deepened to agony.

The shadow remained motionless for a minute, perhaps more. Eyes now used to the darkness, Lorna saw the man standing, hand on the trunk of a tree, head turned a little to one side as he probed the forest with eyes and ears. She caught the glint of his eyes. He was so close she could hear his breath. She could even smell his feral stench against the vegetable aroma of the bush.

He did not move. Neither did she. Legs cramping, breath imprisoned in her throat, she waited him out.

At length he moved a few yards and waited again, gliding like a shadow between the trees. Close as she was, she could not hear him and knew that he was a master of bushcraft.

She thought, if he sees me he will catch me before I’ve gone ten yards.

She was frightened to move at all. Her leg muscles and skinned thighs were agony, so were the fingers Charlie had crushed before they started. Her clothes were torn and filthy. Her face smarted from the lash of the undergrowth. She had smelt her pursuer’s body; now she realised she could smell her own, reeking with sweat and terror beneath the filthy clothes.

The slightest movement could betray her but she had to try.

Any time yer wants me to learn yer manners, say the word.

She forced one leg. Paused. The other. Paused. She placed her foot carefully, carefully, seeking a place clear of debris before putting her weight upon it. Failing. The faintest crackle, like a biscuit breaking.

Froze.

Nothing.

One step, another, another. She was moving more freely now, breath gasping, thinking if he sees me against the firelight I am done, but moving, not hesitating, finding her way miraculously between obstructions into which she had blundered on her way into the forest.

The firelight grew stronger. She caught a glimpse of the horses standing silently at the edge of the clearing. The light gleamed red on their coats. I shall have to ride bareback. Fortunately the horses still had their bridles.

She would not allow herself to wonder whether she, who had hardly ridden in her life, would be able to ride any animal bareback never mind at an all-out gallop through the forest, in the dark, with no idea where she was headed.

She would not think of it.

She reached the horses. Caution dissolved in haste. Fingers fumbling, she tried to unfasten the rope securing Scabbard to the tree.

At least they hadn’t hobbled the horses.

A harsh voice spoke a few inches from her ear. ‘Yer won’ be needin’ that.’