The Cedar Cutter (5 page)

In a matter of moments a cheery fire burned in the fire place and Carrick had set the billy to boil. Roisin opened the bag of tea from the store, added a handful to the billy and took two cracked cups down from the mantelpiece and rinsed them in the bucket.

‘Tell me about these trunks Maisie's on about. Coming to Morpeth, she said.' He righted the two wooden chairs stacked in the corner and brought them to the table.

Maisie hadn't wasted much time in broadcasting the chitchat. ‘Yes.' Roisin swallowed and looked away. Being without all their belongings still made her feel something of a fugitive. She'd write to Aunt Lil tomorrow and ask her to forward them on as soon as possible.

‘They'll be wanting collection, then?' He lifted the billy from the fire and banged it against the side of the table then poured the tea into the cups.

‘I have to arrange it.'

‘You let me know if I can help.'

The man made everything sound so simple, yet there was something about his familiarity that made her uneasy. She sipped the scalding tea, sneaking a look at him over the rim of the cup. He appeared so relaxed, so at home with his long legs stretched out in front of him as he rested against the table. ‘I'll manage. Thank you for the offer.' Her taut tone sounded stiff and unfriendly, although he didn't seem to mind. He just grinned, downed the rest of his tea and stood up.

‘Thanks. I better be off.'

Ruan appeared and his face crumpled when he realised Carrick was leaving. He propped his elbows on the table and groaned, a picture of abject misery. ‘Can I come with you?' His voice caught in his throat, a familiar precursor to tears.

‘You must stay here with your mam and protect her. She needs a man about the place.'

Why did Carrick always manage to say the right thing? Just the words to keep Ruan happy, more than happy, puffed up and full of pride.

‘I'll be seeing you both next time I'm coming through town.'

And with that the cedar cutter was gone.

The room seemed suddenly empty and Roisin swirled the remains of her tea in her cup. Ruan sighed heavily and pulled the three feathers from his pocket and smoothed them. ‘They're black cockatoo feathers, you know.'

‘No, I didn't. You're a very clever boy.'

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like
man
. ‘Carrick told me.'

‘I might need some help.'

Ruan stomped his way outside and slammed the door behind him. She picked up the teacups and put them in the bucket for later. She didn't seem to have the right words to keep Ruan happy, not like the cedar cutter.

Slinger's abusive shouts bounced down the street, telling Carrick it was time to leave. He'd sorted most of the lass's problems. The rest she'd manage herself. Despite her fragile looks and fey face, she was stronger and more capable than he'd given her credit for.

‘We sure as shit gave those Paterson boys a run for their money.' Slinger sniffed dismissively and slumped down next to Carrick, reeking of stale rum and something he'd rather not dwell on.

‘Took all their money, cleaned them out. And you won fair and square.'

‘They can have the title next year. We'll be out of the Hunter by then.' For the first time Carrick could remember, he didn't relish returning to the Yarramalong. The job was as good as finished and once they'd cleared the last trees he'd call it quits. He'd long become used to the festering damp and incessant insect attack of the forest, it was not seeing the sky for weeks on end that caused him grief.

The heavy canopy of vines, some thicker than a man's wrist, clung to the treetops and blotted out most of the light. They turned day to a miserable twilight and left a man's skin pale and wan. After a time the touch of the sun on his face meant more than any stand of cedar trees. ‘Red gold' they called the cedar; he preferred the warmth of the sun. Was it too great a price to pay? No. The red gold was worth the days of sacrifice and soon they'd be finished.

And he'd be on his way home. There had to be a decent sum sitting in the pile of drafts at the bank in Sydney. Almost enough for his passage back to Ireland.

Carrick resisted the urge to hurry the bullocky—there was little point. The animals set the pace regardless of the weight they were carrying on the dray. It would take them the best part of five days no matter how much he complained. And that was without rain. He leant back as the incline increased and a thud echoed. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. ‘G'day, Billy Boy.'

‘Boss.' The man hung over the back of the seat between him and the bullocky.

Carrick reached into his pocket and dragged out a plug of tobacco and tossed it back with a grin.

‘Thanks, boss.'

‘How's the old man?'

‘Old. He get lazy. Sit by the brook and dream his stories.'

‘You give him my best.'

‘Will do, boss. You go cutting?'

‘Yep.'

‘Be seeing youse.' As quickly as he had appeared, the native left, his narrow, agile limbs blending into the tangled bush lining the road.

‘I don't know why you bother with 'em,' Slinger grumbled, hoicking a glob of spit onto the road to emphasise his displeasure.

‘They're men, all men.'

‘Bloody bunch of savages. Ain't no more than animals.'

‘We owe them. Without them you'd not be earning enough to keep your rum-soaked blood flowing, so quit your whingeing.'

‘Yeah, yeah. Yarr-a-ma-long.' Slinger drew out the words with a dismissive curl of his lip. ‘Place of cedars. Won't be for much longer. There's not a lot left. I'll be heading north with the others as soon as we're done here. Cedar's not gone there. Plenty of teams'll take me on.'

Carrick nodded in agreement. He'd be needing a bit more help for a little longer and as a cutter Slinger was one of the best. If Carrick could convince him to stay he'd be more than happy.
King Polai.
He had every intention of cutting it before they left. With that and the money he had saved he'd have plenty to seek out the godforsaken maggot who'd started all this.

He let out a long sigh. If it hadn't been for Billy Boy's old man, he'd not have his pot of gold. The old native had spotted King Polai from miles away, before they took to the Yarramalong. His eyes, which were good then, attuned to the way the light fell from the treetops, had picked out the subtle shades of colour, the pink of the new leaves.

King Polai
was all he'd said, pointing his long, thin finger towards the setting sun. It had taken them days to travel deep into the valley and find it and Carrick had kept the secret spot. King Polai was his. He'd have it and he'd have it soon, with or without Slinger.

After five mind-numbing days they reached the canvas lean-tos on the edge of the stand of timber as the twilight fell. In the strange grey-brown light of the forest the camp seemed almost welcoming. The stacked barrels of Bengal rum, tea and sugar formed a backdrop to the campfire and the billy bubbled away, Smokey doing his job and keeping the men out of the rum until they finished and called it a night.

Carrick gazed around, checking the crew. Blue, Sampson and Will. It would be their turn for the next run to Morpeth. Slinger, Jojo and Goose would stay behind with him. That's the way it worked best. Two weeks full on, a bit of a break, then back for another stint. Good and regular.

He studied the shady recess of the forest beside the cool stony creek. They'd tumble the last remaining trees in the next month and then head back to town. He'd lay them off, send them up the coast. The boys would pick up more work quick as a wink. They made a great team and as long as they got a decent feed and plenty of rum they were happy. Most of them couldn't see further than the next barrel. No boss cutter asked any questions about why they sought refuge in the forest just so long as they did a decent day's work and pulled their weight. Slinger, he was different, he thought a bit further ahead.

Maybe he would tell Slinger about King Polai. See if he wanted in. He couldn't bring it down alone. They'd have to cut above the buttress roots, at least thirty feet around. It'd take a good while. The tree had to be close to two hundred feet. If the two of them could manage it, they'd be able to keep it quiet.

The days ran together in a never-ending cycle. They took a break at noon for dinner and, on a good day, a quick stop for a billy of tea in the afternoon. Today Carrick would sell his soul for a swig of rum, but he couldn't flaunt his own rule of no grog until they'd finished for the day. When the light went and they called it quits they could hit the rum.

Carrick stood astride the pit and sucked in a deep breath before forcing the crosscut saw down towards Slinger. Sweat dripped onto the red timber, turning it dark in the fading light. Slinger took the slack and yanked on it, pulling it down, a shower of sawdust peppering his head.

‘Go.' Slinger pushed back and Carrick pulled up, not needing to think about the rhythm they'd established over the years. It was better than the mines. A living hell three hundred feet beneath the surface. Dark, damp tunnels, the miners' blackened skin and their inability to catch a decent breath. It was no life for a man. The day he'd first wielded the crosscut saw and felt it sink into his hands like an old friend was a blessing, as was the soldier who'd noticed his natural skill and claimed him for the cutters' team along with Slinger.

With a final tug the saw released and Slinger bounced back against the dirt wall out of harm's way. One wrong move and a falling log would flatten him; break every bone in his body. ‘She's a big bugger.'

Not as big as King Polai, probably only half the size. Carrick set down the saw and wiped his arm across his forehead. ‘We'll call it a day. Finish your cuts.' The hum of the saws and the groans of the men ceased, returning the forest to its natural silence.

Slinger clambered out of the pit, wiping the sawdust and woodchip from his blackened face. ‘We're close to another dray load. When's the bullocky back?'