Heart of the Country (7 page)

He stretched and looked around. This patch of trees and thick bush was off the track and afforded him protection from the sight of anyone following the road north. He'd kept moving steadily for two days since leaving Adelaide, avoiding the busy inns along the way and only making a basic camp each night, not even lighting a fire for his billy. He knew his wagon was distinctive and that it was best to remain cautious. He wasn't yet confident he'd put enough space between himself and any trouble that might have come if the real owner of the horse he'd sold to the gullible Baker should make a fuss. At least Baker had never seen the wagon.

Tonight Septimus would set up a better camp, maybe catch something to roast over a fire and – he wrinkled his nose as he inhaled a breath. He'd have to go through his wagon and work out what that terrible smell was. He'd noticed it briefly the previous night then again once the breeze dropped out a few hours before. Perhaps one of his potions had leaked or, worse still, some of his bottles had broken. He couldn't think what else among his things could make such a stink, unless of course there was something in the trunk.

A smile spread across his face. It had given him great pleasure getting Baker to buy the horse: a touch of delight from the good old days in England. He'd made a good living from trading behind his employer's back until he'd slipped up and been caught red-handed. That had resulted in his transportation to New South Wales. He'd survived that and now he was set to make a good living from the unsuspecting folk of South Australia.

Septimus tutted to himself and climbed down from the dray. Of course, tricking someone so wet behind the ears was almost too easy. The money from the sale of the horse had enabled him to purchase an assortment of goods to sell and taking the trunk had been icing on the cake. At a quick glance he knew there were several items he could peddle on his travels. Serve the man right for being so green.

The sun was dropping quickly. Septimus rubbed at the seat of his pants, stretched his arms back then reached under the wagon to retrieve his animal trap. The small cage had served him well in the bush before. He'd become quite adept at snaring a small furry creature, snapping its neck and roasting it. Now he had some provisions he could make damper to go with it.

He busied himself finding a grazing spot for Clover, setting the trap and preparing a fire. Just as he neared the wagon again to locate his flour and tea, he stopped short and listened. Birds chirped from the nearby bush and Clover ripped at some grass and munched, but Septimus could swear he'd heard a moan. He tugged the new hunting knife from inside his trouser leg, wishing he'd spent some of his cash on a firearm as well, then he heard it again. Groaning, coming from his wagon.

Septimus undid the straps that held the cover in place and carefully lifted the canvas. There was very little space in the wagon. He had packed a lot of supplies around his potion shelves and the large trunk he'd stashed in the back. Then right in front of him, in the middle of the wagon, the pile of new men's shirts and trousers moved. Some kind of animal had buried itself in his goods. He reached across and began lifting the clothing away, then lurched back as an apparition in human form began to rise from underneath.

He covered his nose and mouth with his hand. The smell was unbearable and the being so ugly he would have thought he'd trapped a ghoul if he believed in such nonsense.

“Help me.” The voice was feeble.

Septimus didn't move. He couldn't comprehend how this female – he could see more of her now – had got into his wagon, or when. The head was a mass of matted hair, caked in mud and possibly blood, if the congealed stains down the side of the face were any indication. The eyes were swollen slits, the nose was at an odd angle and the mouth was a mangled mess.

He winced and watched in horror as a filthy hand reached towards him. “Septimus,” she croaked.

He gasped. How did this creature know his name?

“Help me, please. It's … Harriet.”

Septimus gasped again. “Harriet?”

But as he spoke she slowly sank back into the pile of clothing.

“No,” Septimus bellowed. Those clothes were part of his new money-making venture. He didn't want the filthy creature spoiling them. He pulled on her arm but she didn't move.

“Harriet.” He tugged more fiercely and then gagged as the smell enveloped him again. It was a mix of human and animal, putrid and overpowering.

He flung back the good clean clothes she'd burrowed under. Her dress was torn and caked in mud. He picked up one of the hessian bags he kept for carrying animals he trapped and used it to grip Harriet and lift her from the wagon. She didn't move or murmur as he laid her at his feet. He poked her with the toe of his boot but there was no response. Someone had done her over good and proper from the look of her and somehow she'd got into his wagon.

Septimus looked around. He was a long way from anywhere but he suddenly felt vulnerable. There was no way he was going to take the rap for the little slut's death. He took the bag and wrapped it around her then lifted her up. She felt barely heavier than one of the sacks of flour he had stashed in the wagon. He walked towards the stream then thought better of dumping her close to where he was camped. Further along, the water trickled and disappeared into large flat rocks. He jumped from one to the other then the stream dropped away and he looked down into the large pool of water that had formed below: the perfect spot. He stretched out his arms and let the body roll off the bag. There was a satisfying splash as it hit the water. In the dim light, Septimus turned and retraced his steps.

Close to his camp he heard the sounds of something scrabbling in his trap.

Good, he thought. There'd be something to roast for his evening meal while he cleaned up his wagon.

A small furry creature with a long tail ran around in the cage. Perhaps a stew would be better, possum stew. There'd be plenty of time for it to cook. He would probably have to wash some of the shirts and trousers and rearrange the wagon. Septimus wrapped the animal in the bag, slit its throat then set about preparing his meal and cleaning out the wagon. He decided to leave washing the clothes till morning, seeing as it took till full dark just to move boxes and barrels around and scrub the filth from the boards. He gave no further thought to Harriet.

A crackling sound penetrated his sleep. Septimus was instantly awake. He lay perfectly still in the cosy bedroll he had created for himself, but opened one eye a slit. The fire was flaming gently in the hollow he had created last night. His brain registered the flames, which should be coals now, not fingering skywards with a steaming billy beside. There was a movement to the edge of his vision. He slid his hand down for the knife he'd tucked under the canvas and jumped up, ready to lunge.

“Septimus, it's me, Harriet.”

He froze and gaped at the small figure in front of him. The clothes were those of a man but there was no mistaking the soft voice and battered face belonged to Harriet.

“But …”

“You must have thought I was dead.” Harriet placed a steaming mug of tea in front of him and stepped back. “Is that how I got in the water? I don't think I could have crawled there myself.”

Septimus didn't speak. Harriet moved away around the fire. He noticed her steps were careful and deliberate. He kept the knife in his hand at his side and watched her like he would a snake in his camp.

She picked up another mug and stood gazing into the fire. “I sure wished I was dead.” Then she looked directly at him through swollen lids. “I don't know how you got me here but that dousing in the water saved my life.”

Septimus still didn't move. The water had cleaned her up. All the mud and blood was gone; just the bruising remained. She might be lucky and not have permanent damage although the nose would never be straight again. Dressed in the men's trousers and shirt she looked as if she could blow away in a breeze. He looked down at the tea by his feet then snapped his head up.

“They're my clothes,” he snarled. “I was going to sell them.”

“They were out on the ground in a pile. I'm sorry about the filth, I …” Harriet's voice trembled. “I've washed some and aired the rest.” She nodded to the trees behind the wagon where he could see the various shirts and trousers draped about.

“You can't be here.”

“I might be able to repair my dress if you have needle and thread.”

“You can keep the clothes but you can't stay.” He'd give up the shirt and trousers just to be rid of her.

“Where will I go?”

“I don't care where you go. Head back that way.” He indicated the track his wagon wheels had made in the gaps between the large gums. “I'm not getting into trouble over you.”

Harriet sighed and bent to the fire. She poked at something on the edge and the delicious smell of hot bread reached his nose.

“Nobody knows I'm here,” she said. “Like you, they thought I was dead.”

Septimus scowled at her. There was no way he wanted this piece of damaged goods anywhere near him.

“I could help you,” she said.

He snorted. “I work alone.”

She walked towards him, each step placed carefully. She pressed a chunk of the hot bread into his hand. “I'm fourteen now.” Her tattered lips tugged up into a smile. “Today's my birthday.”

He took a bite of the bread. It was good.

“Besides,” she said, “now we're both running away from things we don't want others to know about, aren't we,
Seth
?”

He dropped the bread and was on her in an instant. He twisted her in front of him, bringing the knife up to her throat.

“I could just as easy slit your throat and drop you back in that pool,” he snarled in her ear. “If everyone thinks you're already dead they won't be looking for you.”

She went limp in his arms. “Killing me could be the best thing for both of us.”

Septimus held her a moment then thrust her away. She stumbled and moaned as she fell in the dirt. He picked up the bread and shoved the rest of it into his mouth, then sat down again. He chewed and kept one eye on her. The dough was soft and sweet, like Harriet had once been, far better than the damper he made himself. She slowly picked herself up. He took a slurp of the tea. It was strong and black, just the way he liked it.

“I can cook and keep things clean while you do your work.”

Her voice was soft but not weak. Whatever had happened to her she wasn't giving in, despite her talk.

“I can be your woman like I was before.”

He shuddered. “Don't talk,” he snapped. Bits of bread flew from his mouth.

Harriet gathered herself up and went back to the fire. She began to pack up the pots and utensils she'd used, along with his from the night before.

He watched her as she worked. Someone had done her over and there was no way he wanted to share his bed with her any more. He never wanted a woman who'd been used by other men again. He'd had no choice in the past and now it sickened him to think of women who'd bedded any other man, willingly or not. In spite of that, an idea was forming in his head. Maybe Harriet could be useful for a while. He could set up camp and leave her there while he went off selling his wares. She would heal with time and no one would see her. When the time was right he might be able to trade her at some isolated shepherd's hut.

“As long as you cook and clean you can come with me.”

She turned her head towards him and opened her mouth but his glare silenced her.

“Never call me Seth again and don't speak unless you're asked. I don't want anything else from you.” He stood up and flung the last of his tea at the fire. “Now get those things washed up. We need to get on the road.”

She watched him a moment through one puffy eye. Then she gave a slight nod and headed to the stream.

“Happy birthday, Harriet,” he said as he watched her pick her way to the water.

Thomas studied the rough structure in front of him. Last night he had finally made Penakie just as the light was leaving the sky. During his journey he'd got used to the bedroll, spread out in some soft soil or sandy ground, but he had been looking forward to the comforts of a proper bed and a roof over his head. A quick glance inside the homestead made him decide to stay with the bedroll one more night. Homestead was indeed a grand name for the hovel that was to be his home. The hope he'd held that a daylight inspection would reveal improvements he hadn't been able to see in the moonlight was slipping away.

The roof was thatched with some kind of thin vegetation, not thoroughly by the look of it, and he could see no sign of a chimney. The walls were pine trunks barely taller than he was. They were ranged upright and in the daylight he could see gaps partly filled with mud.

He stooped through the space that served as an entrance. There was no actual door. After a minute his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The only furniture was a rough table, one chair and a long wooden shelf. Thomas assumed that was to be his bed. In the wall opposite the entrance was some kind of shutter. He pushed it out and sunlight poured in, revealing the motes of dust swirling in the air.

“Home, sweet home.” Thomas's words hung in the air with the dust. He would have to do a lot of work on this place to turn it into a serviceable structure, let alone a home. He slumped to the hard wooden shelf, tipped his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He'd made it to Penakie, but now what? Overseer was a grand word but what did it mean? And where was the shepherd AJ had mentioned?

His eyes flew open at the bleating of sheep. He was getting to understand the ways of bullocks and had made some connection with his poor excuse for a horse but sheep were a new proposition. He jumped up from the plank and strode outside. There was work to be done. He'd come all this way and he had three thousand sheep to look after. Thomas couldn't imagine that many all in one place. Nor could he imagine how AJ thought two men could manage such a flock. Still, his boss had been determined it could be done and Thomas was determined that he be the one to accomplish it.