Snow Gum River
Copyright 2014 Benedicte Parthenay
Table of Contents
Dedications
Snow Gum River
About Benedicte Parthenay
Other works by Benedicte
Connect with Benedicte
Dedications
To my Grandfather, I promised you that one day I would be published, and here it is.
I’d also like to thank Sarah, Kara, Vanessa and Aaron for your help, support and motivation over the years, whether it was from editing several copies of my stories or just listening to me as I ranted about my writing. You’re the best.
Snow Gum River
Margaret ran along the banks of the river as the cries of people chased her. A loaf of bread was wedged beneath her arm and her breath came in short gasps. Mud caked itself to her shoes and left a trail behind her. She hadn't meant to be tracked but she had panicked, even though she was old hat at this sort of thing now and should have known better.
'What's goin' on?' a young man cried as she tore past him.
Margaret grunted in response and kept going, her accomplice now keeping pace. They made their way to the two horses hidden in the brush and the man lifted Margaret easily into the saddle before swinging himself into his own and urging his horse onwards.
'I got sighted by some old spinster as I nicked the bread.' Margaret said angrily. The young man looked at her from the corner of his eye.
'Did you get the other thing?'
She looked at him, affronted, and pulled out a small brown purse, shaking the contents so they clinked together. Her companion grinned as she hid the purse away and shifted in her saddle.
‘I could nearly kiss you, Margaret.’
***
It was cold at night now, the bush had a less than welcoming atmosphere to it. Margaret sat herself down beside the fire and breathed into cupped hands. She looked up briefly as Clarence walked over and passed her a tinned bowl containing some sort of soup. She accepted it with a smile; food was becoming scarce as winter set in and she was hardly one to turn down a meal. The native people might have been able to help, but she and Clarence were wary of strangers and it was likely that the police had employed one of them as a tracker. They had to be extra careful nowadays, always watching their tracks.
***
Gerta beat the sheets hanging on the line furiously, her face red and puffy. Dust billowed from the fabric before being snatched away by the hot outback wind. The sound of hooves against the dirt road drew her attention away from domestic chores and she frowned as a policeman approached her.
'Mrs Bishop?'
'Yes, sir. Can I help you?' she asked, words sticking to her tongue.
'I'm afraid your daughter has a warrant for her arrest—stealing and aiding in bushrangering. May I look around?'
'Certainly—‘ silence descended thickly for a few moments ‘—she’s dead to the family anyway.'
***
'You were nothin' but a common thief.'
'And you were going to be nothin' more than a serving girl.'
Margaret glared at him as Clarence grabbed her upper arm tightly, his hand squeezing and his eyes flashing furiously. Margaret clamped down on her lip as she stifled a cry and struck him across the face with her free hand. Silence. The two companions glared at each other sullenly and Clarence released her before he stormed off into the bush, leaving Margaret alone and fuming as she turned her temper to kicking over some of the pots.
***
'This’s a bail up!' Clarence announced to the coach, his face masked by a scarf tied round his head.
Margaret sat higher up on the ridge, out of view from the others. Her hand was heavy with the rifle Clarence had given her, fingers white against the brown of the barrel. She watched the occupants of the carriage throw out their valuables, watched the coachman shake at the knees as her companion, her partner, turned his attention to him. Her gaze shifted momentarily as she caught sight of movement coming around the coach, a groomsman, a makeshift weapon raised believing himself to be unnoticed. Margaret barely had time to think as she lifted her rifle and pointed it, squeezing the trigger tight. The shock of the recoil thumped into her and she toppled back, winded as she hit the ground. She could hear the sounds of gunshots echoing in her ears as she stared at the sky and then it went quiet.
‘Maggie!’
The voice sounded desperate.
‘Margaret!’
Clarence’s face swam into view and he pulled her upright, brown calloused hands rough as he checked her for injuries. He looked pale.
‘Did I get him?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
‘Yeah, Maggie, you did.’
***
Sometimes at night she could see the face of the first man she killed. Killing had come easier after that, was about as easy as spearing the fish that they ate for dinner, less messy though. Clarence usually kept her on the ridges now with her rifle, she had a good eye and steady aim, much steadier than his.
‘Clarence,’ she whispered loudly, knowing that he was resting only a few inches away. She could feel him stirring, the arm that was draped over her briefly pulled back.
‘Wha’ is it, Maggie?’
‘Do you think we’ll ever get caught?’
Clarence rolled over onto his back and sighed.
‘Maybe if we’re unlucky, or they find us and there’s too many to fight off. Would rather a bullet than to be hanged at the gallows.’
‘I’ve got too much blood on my hands to not see the rope. D’you think God would forgive me?’
‘I dunno Maggie, but we’ll face our judgement together.’
***
She walked through the streets of the town, the magpies called in the early morning mist, loud enough to mask the creaks of carriages passing by. Margaret scuffed her worn boots through the dust, her body half-hidden behind a wagon as she pulled a pipe from inside her dress pocket. The bowl was already filled, she had been pilfering the best tobacco from her masters own stock, but she’d have to rely on the cheap stuff now that she had been dobbed in. She struck a match, pausing for a moment to stare at the flame before she lit the pipe, shaking the flame away before she tossed it to the ground. She took a long pull and sighed contentedly, smoke leaving her lips lazily.
‘Smoking seems a bit unsightly for a lady, miss.’
Margaret tensed up before she forced herself to relax and looked over. A young man, skin marked by the sun and with the faintest traces of a beard lining his jaw, leant against the wagon. He smiled at her, which made Margaret scowl.
‘Good thing I ain’t much of a lady.’
‘Aren’t your parents lookin’ for you?’
She gave a hollow laugh, smoke escaping as she did so. ‘Too much of a disgrace for ‘em, too much of a man—if only. Would rather be handling horses than running around as a maid.’
The man leant forward and Margaret eyed him suspiciously, crossing her free arm across her chest protectively.
‘What if I said I had a job for you?’
***
‘Listen, Maggie—‘
‘It’s Margaret to you.’
***
‘How much for the mare?’
The sale yards were packed, the bustling crowds were the perfect place for thieves and yet Margaret was stuck by the horse pens trying to haggle. She rested her elbow on the post and regarded the man, a look of disinterest creeping onto her face as she took in his shabby clothes.
‘More than you can afford, I’m afraid. Now beat it.’
She watched as Clarence made his way towards her, his eyebrows nearly disappearing under his hat. He attempted to look reproachful but a smile crept onto his face as he watched her. She rested a hand on her hip
.
‘We’re supposed to be selling them Maggie, making some coin and getting rid of the evidence.’
‘That’s hardly my problem, Clarence. You hired me to steal the horses, not sell them off to drunkards and stockmen.’
‘Excuse me.’
Both Clarence and Margaret tensed before they turned slowly, her hand unconsciously making its way to where she usually kept her pistol. A boy, about her own age stood before them, blonde hair stuck to his forehead and a slight German lilt to his voice.
‘You are Clar-ence?’ he enquired.
‘Depends on who’s asking.’
Margaret looked between the two of them, heart drumming in her chest, her fingers twitching as she desperately wished for her pistol.
‘Mein—my name is Georg, I heard you were looking for men.’
***
‘I swear on my grave, Clarence, that is the last time that uppity little weasel gets to call me a whore! I’ll stick a bullet in him myself.’
‘Mag—‘
‘I don’t care if he’s the best shot this side of the Murray River.’
‘Marg—‘
‘And you, letting him insult me like that, you disgust me.’
***
She settled into place and rested her rifle against the smooth rock. She breathed in deeply and then released it slowly, rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension growing in them. She looked down the rise towards where Clarence and Georg were hiding, just making out their bodies pressed behind some rocks. Clarence had his scarf loosely around his neck, gesturing something to Georg as the younger boy laughed. Margaret felt her skin crawl and wondered for a moment if Clarence ever thought about getting rid of her.
They were planning to hit another coach heading from Melbourne to Sydney. Rumour had it that its occupants were rather well off, at least according to Georg. She scowled to herself and readjusted her position, scanning her eyes up along the path that they were supposed to be coming along. It was getting too risky to keep hitting targets like these, the police were actually managing to do their jobs nowadays. Margaret heard the coach before she saw it, frowning as an escort came into view.
‘Watch the blass Mutterlos hure do this, Georg,’ Margaret muttered as she squeezed the trigger, easily removing the target from his horse, and reloaded.
The remaining escort was dispatched of, either from Georg’s pistols or from her own rifle. The air felt still after the sound of gunfire had settled, and Margaret sat up as the two men relieved the occupants of their valuables. Movement caught her eye as a pistol emerged from the coach window and Margaret gave a shout as it went off. She scrambled down the hill, her skirts tangling around her feet and her hands grazed as she tried to steady herself, only half-aware as Georg shot the two people within.
‘Clarence!’
Margaret could feel herself shaking as she reached him, pushing Georg aside roughly. Clarence pulled himself up against the wheels and gave her a grim smile.
‘For a shot at close range they sure need practise. Just the shoulder, no need to bring out the mourning gear.’
‘You blasted fool,’ Margaret choked out, tearing off the hem of her dress skirts and wrapping it around the wound. ‘I should have stayed a maid.’
‘We had better get going, Clar-ence, would not be wise to wait for the police.’
***
She followed Georg’s golden head, bobbing along and around the other pedestrians. As much as she loathed the little weasel, they were both on a mission of mercy, which meant having to put up with him. She hated being in the big cities, felt too vulnerable and jumpy, always afraid that she’d be recognised and hanged. She wrapped her shawl about herself protectively and stuck closer to Georg, hoping that even being in Sydney was going to throw off the police. Georg glanced over to her and sighed loudly before he offered her his arm.
‘Mein Gott, kleinen drachen, you act so suspicious.’
Margaret glared at him but took his arm, trying to avoid having to touch him more than was necessary. The pawn shop they needed was near the centre of the town, a supposed acquaintance of Georg worked there and would give them a fair price. Margaret declined to go inside, instead she pulled out her pipe and twirled it in her hands; the sooner they got the money for the supplies the better. She tapped her foot impatiently as the minutes past, tugging her shawl around her tighter as the occasional passer-by stared.
‘I have it.’
Margaret took hold of his arm and yanked him down the street, heading towards where the doctors’ offices were.
***
‘Margaretha!’
Margaret looked up sharply from where she had been rubbing down the horses and frowned, pushing some stray brown wisps of hair away from her face. Georg was red-faced and out of breath, babbling in German and English as he struggled for words.
‘Spit it out in words I can understand.’ she snapped.
‘Die Polizei, the police, they have Clarence.’
The blood chilled in her veins and she grabbed Georg by the front of his shirt, pulling his face close to hers.
‘How?’
‘Was not my fault.’
‘How, Georg!?’
She shook him violently, her knuckles white as they clenched at the fabric, heart thundering as she watched him fumble with his words.
‘The horse, someone recognised it, they cried horse-thief and he was taken. I run, to get you.’
‘More like you ran to save your own skin,’ Margaret said contemptuously and let go of his shirt, going to grab her pistol and rifle.
‘You are not going to try to rescue him?’
‘We are, you’re coming with me.’
***
They stood in the square, people jostling about as they awaited the execution, voices rising and falling. Policemen stood around the gallows, watching the crowd suspiciously; they knew that Clarence had accomplices. Margaret drew her shawl about her closer. The trial had been and gone, the judge had probably pronounced him guilty before he even sat down. Bushrangering and horse stealing was almost worse than murdering your mother.
The crowd hushed expectantly as the announcer stood upon the platform, reading from the papers he had before him. Margaret clenched her pistol tighter and fought her way to the front of the crowd, Georg only a few paces behind her.
‘For the offence of bushrangering, murder and horse theft, Clarence Archibald Williams is hereby convicted. His punishment, as dictated by the Honourable Judge McKenzie, is death by hanging.’
The drum roll began and Clarence was led out, his face covered with a bag. She could hear Georg muttering something in German beside her and she glanced over to him briefly. She felt cold. Around her, the police started pushing people back, trying to make room between the platform and the bloodthirsty crowd. The bag was removed by the hangman and she could see the fear in Clarence’s eyes. He had never wanted to be hanged at the gallows. Their eyes caught for a moment and she mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ to him, pulling out the pistol from its resting place. Clarence nodded and struggled forward.
She pulled the trigger, gunshots barked out and screams filled the air. She fell to her knees, half-trampled as people scrambled to safety. Margaret forced her head up and peered at the gallows, smiling softly at Clarence’s prone form, pistol dropping from her rapidly cooling fingers.
About the Author
Benedicte Parthenay is an emerging writer from Perth, Western Australia. She is currently studying creative writing at Edith Cowan University with interests in Children’s Literature and History. She created and writes for Not Your Average Damsels, a blog that is run by and written for women, covering a wide-range of topics. Her first published work is Snow Gum River.
Other works by Benedicte
The Psychoacoustics Series (Coming Soon)
Keys
Strings
Percussion
Connect with Benedicte
You can find and contact me at the following:
Follo
w me on Twitter: @beneparte
I write for: https://www.notyouraveragedamsels.blogspot.com.au