Heart of the Country (15 page)

Now that Burra was well behind her, she felt safe from pursuit, but she still had to find the camp and hope that Septimus had stayed the night. Harriet knew he wouldn't be pleased, but if she could just get to the wagon before morning she could once again hide inside. By the time he discovered her they would be too far away to return her to Mr Jones.

A small branch dangled from a tree in front. It hung at an angle like a finger pointing. There below it were the tell-tale signs of wheels leaving the road to make their own track through the bush. Harriet's tired feet hurried her forward. This was the path that wound through the trees and across a couple of dry creek beds to the place where they'd camped.

The night was still and, even though the track was well lit, she staggered over the ruts made by the wagon, tripped on rocks and got hooked in the branches that reached out to slow her progress. Finally she paused. She must be getting close to the camp. She'd crossed one dry creek bed and knew there was another soon. Not far beyond that was the creek with water where they'd camped. Septimus had good hearing. She would have to travel much slower and take care if she was to secrete herself in the wagon without him knowing.

She set off again more carefully. The nickering sound of a horse close by pulled her up. She turned her good ear to the track behind her. Surely it couldn't be Mr Jones after all this time. She heard the nicker again: the horse seemed to be ahead of her, but it was too close to be Clover at their camp.

Harriet's frightened mind swirled with the possibilities. Mr Jones had somehow got ahead of her and was waiting to pounce, or one of those men who had taken to robbing people as they travelled through the bush was camped nearby, or maybe Septimus had moved and was ready for an early start.

For a moment Harriet froze. Fear threatened to engulf her. How had she got to this point? From her idyllic bush childhood to her and her mother's exile and still further to Pig Boy's attack and this precarious existence with Septimus, who would rather sell her to a barbarian than love her?

“The only one who can look after you is you, girl.” Harriet's whisper was loud in the still night. She put a tentative foot forward. There was no help behind her. The only way was in front of her. She had to face whatever was ahead.

She placed her feet carefully and followed the track again. Each step gave her courage. She continued around the bend, even when the horse snorted quite close. The sight before her drew a gasp from her lips. The dry creek bed was bathed in moonlight and nearly to the other side was a horse and wagon. She glanced around, wondering why Septimus would leave Clover attached to the wagon in a creek.

A moan sent her heart racing. Then she saw the shape of a man stretched out in the sand between her and the wagon.

“Septimus.” She scurried down the crumbling bank to his side. “Septimus,” she said again. “Where are you hurt?”

He was stretched out face down, as if he'd been trying to reach the wagon. He turned his head slightly to the sound of her voice. Sand and sticks were stuck to his face. He tried to lift himself. A moan gurgled from his throat and he collapsed.

Clover nickered and the wagon shuddered.

Harriet looked from Septimus to the horse. “Septimus!” She shook his shoulders.

This time he opened his eyes. “Harriet?”

“Yes, it's me.” She clutched his face between her hands. His skin was cold even though the night was mild. “What happened, Septimus? Where are you hurt?”

Clover snorted and stamped and the wagon lurched away a few feet.

“My leg,” Septimus said. “It's broken.”

Harriet's heart hammered in her chest. She glanced along his body to his legs spread out behind him. Now she looked she could see the odd angle of his left leg and the drag marks in the sand. He'd crawled some distance.

A hand clutched at her dress. “Help me, Harriet.” His voice was barely a whisper.

He must have been lying there for some time. Without help he would probably die. Harriet's mind flashed back over her own agonising injuries. She had a fair idea Septimus had known she was still alive when he threw her in the creek, but his actions had saved her. She was sure their lives were linked and this was proof. He needed her help now. They only had each other.

She brushed the sand from his face with her dress and used the trousers from her bag to make a pillow for his head. All the while her mind raced. She had no idea what to do. Septimus's eyes were shut again but she could hear the rasp of his breathing. Perhaps he had other injuries. The only thing she could think of was to get him to a doctor. She knew there was one in Burra, though there was no way she wanted to go back to that town. Mr Jones could be there waiting to pounce! But she couldn't let Septimus die: he was her future.

She stood up and called reassuringly to Clover. The horse was obviously spooked but he either couldn't run away or had decided to stay near his master. With careful steps she approached the animal, speaking in soothing tones. Clover nickered again in what Harriet hoped was a call of recognition. She reached out and stroked his neck. He turned his head in her direction and gave a throaty call. He shifted his weight on his legs but he didn't move away.

Harriet walked all around him looking for any obvious signs of injury. There were none. The apparatus that attached him to the wagon looked as it should. She reached up and took hold of Clover's bridle, urging him to follow her in a big arc until they stopped beside Septimus. Clover nickered at his master but there was no response.

Harrier looked at the man stretched out in the sand at her feet. He wasn't a fat man but he was taller than her and muscly; there was no way she could get him into the wagon alone.

Suddenly his hand grabbed her skirt. “Harriet.”

She dropped down beside him, grateful he was still alive and remembered she was there.

“I've brought the wagon,” she said. “But I can't lift you on by myself.”

“Splint the leg first.” His words came out in stilted rasps. “Then I can stand.”

Harriet looked from his ashen face to the broken leg. What could she make a splint with and, even with that, how would he have the energy to stand?

Septimus tugged at her skirt. “Hurry.”

Harriet scoured the creek bed. There were logs and sticks but nothing she could use for a splint. She looked in the wagon. It was nearly empty. Septimus hadn't made it back to camp to load the trunks and the rest of his camp-kitchen items. Her eyes rested on the shelves he used to display his Royal Remedies. They would do the job but first she had to break them apart. She pulled at them with her hands but couldn't loosen them. A search of the wagon unearthed a hammer. She wielded it with all her strength and smashed the shelving. Septimus would have to make a new set for his pills and potions.

Harriet carried the two flat shelves back to Septimus. She took her scissors and the shirt from the bag and made long strips of cloth. She'd never splinted a leg before but she'd seen her father's handiwork on the leg of a shepherd. She checked Septimus again. His eyes were closed but when she moved his leg he let out a guttural scream.

The waves of pain were more bearable now that the wagon had stopped. Septimus had lost all track of time but when he flicked his eyelids he could see it was day. Somehow Harriet had splinted his leg and helped him into the wagon and then had begun the next part of the nightmare. Every jolt of the wagon brought fresh waves of pain.

Voices approached, then he heard rather than saw the side of the wagon roll up.

“How're we going to get him out of there?” a rough male voice asked.

“Have to lift him between us,” another replied.

Septimus groaned at the thought of disturbing his leg again.

“Surely the doctor has a stretcher.” Harriet's voice was demanding.

“Look, Miss –”

“It's Mrs. Mrs Seth Whitby. My husband has been through enough to get here. You're not going to drag him from the wagon without care.”

Septimus thought he was dreaming. Had she said Mrs Whitby?

“Nothing else for it, missus. We don't have fancy equipment out here.”

“But we can improvise, Ned.”

“Dr Nash.”

Septimus heard a new and respectful tone in Ned's voice. He squinted in the direction of the talking. Two burly men stood beside him. The doctor and Harriet were out of his line of sight.

“What's happened here?”

“Thank goodness you're here, Doctor,” said Harriet. “My husband was thrown from the wagon and broke his leg. I made a splint but it's been a long night getting him here. I'm worried he may have other injuries.”

“What's his name?” The doctor's voice was close to Septimus now.

“Seth Whitby.”

“Mr Whitby?”

A hand shook his shoulder. Septimus opened his eyes into a squint again.

“You have a broken leg, Mr Whitby. Do you have pain anywhere else?”

Septimus would have hit the doctor if he could. Pained raged through him from every quarter. He tried to speak but all that escaped his lips was a groan.

“I need to get him inside for a proper examination.” The doctor's voice receded. “Samuel, get the planks we strapped together for that miner the other day. You can carry him on that.”

“Yes, Dr Nash.”

“And mind you do it carefully.”

Septimus felt a gentle hand on his brow.

“You'll be taken care of soon.”

Harriet's voice was soothing but quickly forgotten as the two men returned and began to slide him onto their rough stretcher. Once again he receded into a fog of pain.

*

A terrible smell tugged Septimus from the peace of sleep. He opened his eyes to a gloomy room lit by candlelight. He was lying on a narrow bed. His body ached but the excruciating pain that was his leg had been subdued to a dull throb. The air was close and fetid.

He wrinkled his nose. He must have vomited, judging by the overpowering smell.

“Look who's awake.”

Septimus turned his head and frowned. Not two feet from him loomed a familiar face.

“Mr Jones?”

“Yes, it's me.”

The big man belched. Septimus felt his own stomach clench at the smell.

“Don't reckon you were expecting to see me again, were you, Whitby? A fine fool you made of me. Selling me that woman then poisoning me so she could escape.”

“I didn't poison you,” Septimus growled.

“Granted that may have been the muck that bartender fed me but you and that woman … your sister.” Jones spat the words then belched again. “Tricked me, the pair of you, with your fancy story. No doubt you had plans to dupe some other poor soul at the next place but looks like justice caught up with you.”

“My sister?” Septimus feigned surprise and reached a hand down under the blanket to feel his leg. It was wrapped in some kind of solid casing. He didn't like his chances of a speedy escape.

Jones grabbed his shirt. “Don't think you're going anywhere soon,” the big man hissed. “I want my money back.”

Septimus had no idea where his jacket was. He'd been wearing it when he drove the wagon but all he had on now was his shirt. He peered around the gloomy room. There was another crude bed across from him where the Jones fellow had obviously been installed. The blanket had been tossed aside and draped to the ground. Between the beds was a crude table with the candles, a bottle of medicine and beside that was a roll of bandage and a pair of scissors.

“Where's my money?” Jones hissed and lowered his face towards Septimus again.

Septimus shot a hand out. He snatched up the scissors and stabbed them into one of the burly arms that clutched him with as much force as he could muster.

Jones yelped and flung his arm back, knocking the candles. His sleeve began to smoulder. They both stared as the shirt erupted into flames. Then Jones began to bat at it. One of the dislodged candles rolled to the floor, where it set light to the discarded blanket.

Another yell brought Septimus's eyes back to Jones. The big fool must have lifted his arm to his head and his hair was now on fire. He was dancing around on the blanket, which was also burning and before long his trousers were alight.

“Help me!” Jones's cry filled the room. Septimus edged away to the end of the bed and tested his feet on the floor. Pain surged up his leg again. The room was full of screaming and the foul smell of burning. Septimus watched Jones clawing at his head and jumping around fanning the flames into life. There was a way to be rid of the unfortunate Mr Jones. Septimus reached for the medicine bottle. He removed the stopper and sniffed the contents. As he had hoped there was alcohol in the mixture. He tugged the blanket from his own bed, poured the liquid over it and tossed it onto the burning blanket. It too quickly caught alight. Then, using the wall to support himself, he hobbled to the door and threw it open.

Behind him the flames leaped higher and Jones bellowed into the night. A voice called out nearby and others joined it. A man put his arm around Septimus and led him away. The night was full of fire and noise. Septimus turned to watch. The men who were trying to reach Jones were held back by the ferocity of the flames. The screams from within stopped.

The hut they'd been in stood alone, behind the doctor's house. He was there as well, standing in his dressing gown. People came from everywhere with buckets. Water was thrown at it. Finally the little hut fell in on itself. The worst of the flames subsided.

Once it was clear the fire was in no danger of spreading, the doctor wrapped Septimus in a blanket and took him into his home, where questions were asked about the fire. Septimus put on a terrified face and told how he woke to the room ablaze. He spoke in a troubled voice, not difficult when his own leg was giving him so much pain. He told those gathered in the doctor's front room how he'd tried to smother Jones with his own blanket but the man had pushed him away. They called him heroic and Septimus shook his head.