Dust on the Horizon (47 page)

Joseph's remaining close neighbour was Bart Jones. They'd introduced themselves when Joseph had first set up next to Jones's even cruder camp. The man had very little; a few hessian bags strung up with sticks were his only shelter. Jones was a thin, wiry man with a patchy beard and eyes that darted back and forth, rarely focusing on Joseph when they spoke. Joseph soon discovered he was quite mad. He knew Jones would be watching him now but would look away as soon as Joseph turned.

Their claims were on the edge of the field on a washaway coming off a small gully. The washaway was little deeper than three feet and Joseph had staked his claim right on top of it. The bank clerk's tent had fallen down now. It had been left behind when he'd been carted off. It was unlikely they'd see him again which was just as well. All his other possessions had been stolen but the tent remained. Joseph had half a mind to offer it to Jones but the man was paranoid and just as likely to lie down in the trench again and hide. That's what he'd done the last time Joseph had tried to offer him a share of his food.

Jones often ranted at this time of the day. The poor man was probably hungry but Joseph had given up trying to share his food. The only time he saw Jones eat was first thing in the morning and then nothing more than the damper he burned black in the coals of his fire and black tea. Joseph had tried to share some of his salted meat and dried fruit but Jones had acted as if Joseph was trying to poison him. He was probably harmless enough but Joseph didn't trust him. Finally the muttering abated and the sound of a shovel was all that could be heard.

As soon as the sun was low in the sky Joseph packed up and went in search of the man whose tent they would drink outside tonight. Millie's letter had deepened his sense of loneliness and the futility of his search. Her words played over in his head as he made his way around other men's claims, skirting holes and piles of dirt. Perhaps he should throw it in. Take the little gold he'd found and return home before he went crazy like Jones.

“Baker, come and join us.” One of his drinking partners was already at the fire with some crude chairs drawn up. Several other men arrived as Joseph did. Most he knew but there were often a couple of newcomers. Tonight a new fellow accompanied one of the regulars.

Once they'd all exchanged their usual guarded stories of what they'd found that day they settled down to share tales of the homes they all missed.

Joseph stared into the fire waiting for the drink to have some effect. “I'm thinking of returning to Wildu Creek.”

Only the new man on his right heard him. “Have you made enough to go home?”

Joseph turned his weary gaze to the fellow. He was broad across the shoulders with a full beard and eyes that glinted in the firelight. It was the kind of direct question you didn't ask on the goldfields unless you were new.

“No.” Joseph looked back at the flames and took another swig of the liquor the local publican brewed behind his bar; a large tent, open on one side with a rough bar from where he served by the mug or by the gallon jug. That was what the men were passing around and filling their mugs from tonight.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” the man said. “I've only arrived this morning and I'm still trying to work out what goes on. They told me in Adelaide there was lots of gold being found here.”

Joseph instinctively patted his pocket. “If there is mate it's not by me.”

The man's gaze went to Joseph's pocket but Joseph was distracted by a nudge from his other side.

“Your turn to buy the jug, Baker.” It was one of the long-standing regulars Joseph drank with. Joseph knew he should go home but he couldn't renege on his turn. He struggled to his feet, took the jug and made his way along the rough path that led past the crude wooden hut that housed the bank, the couple of tent shops which sold everything except decent food, past the post office and on to the bar. He manoeuvred around a few lone drinkers, paid for a new jug and retraced his steps.

He passed the jug to the new man then waited till it completed the circle and came back to him, when he filled his mug and poured the liquor down his throat. Even though men sat around him talking and joking Joseph felt alone. He thought of Millie and when the jug came round again he refilled his mug. He knew he should be going back to his tent but it would be cold and lonely and right now the liquid was warming the ache in his heart. His eyes felt heavy and his body was sore all over. How he longed for Millie's gentle caress.

A hand shook his shoulder. He patted it dreaming of his wife but it was a deep male voice that broke into his dream. “Time to go home, Baker.”

Joseph peered at the man who was a farmer from the country near Quorn, an older man whose tent they were drinking near. Joseph blinked and rubbed at his eyes. There was no-one else at the campfire. He dragged himself up from the ground where he'd slumped against a rock pile and looked around. The fire had burned low and it was a moonless night. He stumbled.

“Will you be able to get home?” The farmer looked at him closely, his face lost in the grey of the night.

“Of course.” Joseph straightened but his head spun and his stomach roiled. He took a deep breath of cold night air and tried to focus, aware the farmer was watching with one arm stretched towards Joseph as if ready to support him.

Why had he stayed? He turned away from the concerned eyes and began to weave his way back to his tent. He made it to a rough track that lead away from the goldfields and followed it to the edge of the diggings closest to his claim. There was still the occasional flicker from a candle or a fire but most men, exhausted from work or drink or both, were asleep. Even so, there were still the sounds so many men made even in sleep. The muffled sleep talkers, the snores and night-time noises of thousands of men followed him as he stumbled his way home. Particularly loud snores reverberated from the last tent where he turned to leave the track and make his way back to his claim.

Joseph paused at the sound of another boot besides his connecting with a rock. He stood still and tried to listen but his liquor-fired brain wouldn't oblige. He took one more step and then crumpled as something hard hit his head.

The sound of liquid splashing penetrated Joseph's throbbing head. The stringent smell of urine brought bile to his throat. He squinted and groaned as the rays of the early sun pained his eyes.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” a deep Irish voice exclaimed. “What are you doing sleeping there?”

Once more Joseph groaned. He could only see from his right eye. The left refused to open and that side of his face ached. He felt like he'd been trampled by a team of bullocks. Why wasn't he in his swag bed inside his tent?

A hand gently shook his shoulder. “What's happened to you? You've got a lump on the side of your head, so you have.”

Joseph squinted at the kindly face leaning over him. What had happened? He'd been walking home and then … Once more he groaned and rolled over. He dragged himself to a sitting position with the help of the Irishman, then twisted sideways and spat foul-tasting liquid from his mouth.

He winced as the movement made his head throb. His one good eye focused on a dark object a few feet in front of him. Joseph frowned and tried to concentrate through the dull pain in his head. The object was familiar. He put one hand to his top pocket, then patted his jacket and his trousers. They were empty.

“My gold,” he croaked and reached for the leather pouch.

“Is it robbed you've been?” The Irishmen retrieved the pouch. “Not a thing in there,” he said as he handed it over.

Joseph took the empty pouch, anger surging through him mingled with sadness. His gold was gone but so was his lucky charm. A part of him didn't believe in such things and yet he'd found it in the place where Binda had saved his life.

“Lucky it was only your gold they took. To be sure it could have been your life.”

The Irishman held out his hand to assist but Joseph brushed it away. “I'm all right.” He glared at the man who backed away. Joseph felt a pang of guilt. The Irishman had been trying to help but Joseph felt he was beyond help. He'd lost the small amount of gold he'd managed to find and his lucky rock.

He glanced down then blinked as the rising sun sparkled off something on the ground near his feet. He bent to pick up the smooth, shiny rock that had been with him for so long and a small wave of hope glimmered as he rolled it in his hand, and rubbed his fingers over its familiar ridges and fissures. It was worthless but had been with him so long.

By the time Joseph staggered back to his camp he knew there was nothing for it but to get back to work. He'd found some gold and lost it. He'd survived to be given a second chance. There was no way he could return home with nothing to show for his absence. There'd be no more drinking for him. He'd keep digging and sifting until he found enough gold to take home.

Without even stopping to boil his billy or eat anything he set to work. By mid-morning the sun was beating down on his pounding head. The side of his jaw throbbed from whatever had hit him. His stomach roiled and his head pounded. He gripped the hilt of his knife tight and closed his eyes.

“Are you praying the gold to the surface?”

Joseph's eyes opened and he released a breath of relief. There, coming along the cutaway towards him, was Hegarty, with a grin on his big wide face. He was leading a horse loaded up to the hilt and behind him came another man also leading a loaded horse.

They came to a stop in the middle of Joseph's claim. He stood up and went to the edge of the drop. The only time he'd be taller than Hegarty.

They gripped hands.

Joseph pumped Hegarty's hand enthusiastically. “It's good to see you.”

Hegarty twisted his face into a wry grin. “You're looking a bit worse for wear.”

“Fell over last night.” Joseph pushed his hat tighter on his head. “What brought you back?”

“Put some money in the bank, bought myself a good horse and provisions and decided to have another go. Brought my friend Peterson with me.”

Where Hegarty was big like a bullock, his friend Peterson was more the build of a draught horse, still built well but not as round and beefy and with a face that looked like it might have seen a fight or two.

Joseph held out his hand to Peterson. “Welcome.”

“This is the right kind of country you've picked.” Hegarty cast a look around. He paused briefly in Jones's direction then looked back at Peterson. “I like the look of it.” He waved his hand towards Joseph's table. “What's this you were praying over?”

“It's a long way to cart water from the dam to here. I have trouble enough keeping fresh water for drinking and cooking.” Joseph pointed to the barrel he kept by his tent. “A lot of men were using a table to spread out the dirt and sift through it so that's what I've taken to doing. It works well enough.” Joseph gave a snort. “Providing there's gold in the dirt.”

“Any likelihood of that?” Hegarty studied him closely.

“Some.”

Hegarty pressed his lips together and held Joseph's gaze a moment longer, then he slapped his leg and turned back to Peterson. “Reckon we'll set up next to Baker here.” He smiled at Joseph. “We can all help each other out if need be.”

Joseph's spirits rose. He hadn't realised how lonely he'd been until the face of a man he'd only met briefly had made his day so much better.

“You get back to your prayers.” Hegarty grinned and gave him a gentle poke in the chest. “It'll take Peterson and me the rest of the day to check this claim and stake it. Once we're set up we'll have a meal together. Peterson here's a dab hand with food.”

“Reckon that's the only reason he brought me.” Peterson's craggy face lit up in a smile.

“Wasn't for your good looks, that's for certain.”

Hegarty's big body shuddered as he laughed. Peterson just shook his head.

Joseph went back to his table but he couldn't concentrate on his work with the two of them busy next door to him. He regularly stood, stretched and went to the edge of his claim to see what they were doing.

Hegarty said he was happy with the look of the soil and staked his claim while Peterson put up tents and set up their camp. He'd brought some bricks which he set down and before long he had used some precious water to make mud and had built a good semblance of a decent fire. By evening the delicious smell coming from that fire had Joseph's stomach rumbling.

“Have you finished for the day?”

Joseph sat back at Hegarty's call, lifted his hat from his head and dragged his fingers though his filthy hair. “I reckon I've found enough of nothing to call it quits.”

“Come and join us.” Hegarty waved at the fire.

Joseph went to the small bowl he used for washing and did his best to clean the dirt from his hands. The sun was low in an orange sky and without its heat the air chilled his damp body. He dragged the drying cloth from his hands to his neck and shoulders then shrugged on his coat. He took the last jar of his mother's preserved peaches from his provisions box and his one chair and crossed the several feet of his claim to Hegarty's where he offered the jar to Peterson. “These taste good with cream but even without it I can recommend them.”

Peterson nodded, accepted the jar and went back to his cooking. Hegarty perched on a bench seat he'd put together with a plank and rocks on the other side of the fire. He lifted a mug towards Joseph. “Care for a drop?”

Joseph reached out his hand then hesitated. Only this morning he'd sworn off liquor.

“It's good whiskey. Not the belly-burning liquid they make here.”

Joseph accepted the mug and placed his battered chair next to Hegarty. He'd just have one drink to be sociable.

They both took a gulp from their mugs. Joseph enjoyed the smooth warmth of the spirit as it slipped down his throat. “You're right.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “This is good stuff.” He glanced at Peterson who was busy stirring whatever the delicious-smelling concoction was he had in the pot over the fire.