LINGER AND DIE

by Neil Brooka

Part nine (chapters seventeen and eighteen) of my steemit weekly(ish) serial

And for those who came in late, click here and check my blog to start from the start.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – OVERTAKEN

"We're not going anywhere with that," said Johnny, jumping from the dray.

It had been a slow beginning, getting away from that copse in the jagged morning air. Mary was beginning to feel the first effects of a cold, along with a chilly regret at pairing herself with Johnny. She looked at him as he struggled to see what the problem was with the wheel. She lit a pipe and waited for the sun to shrink the rain-swollen axle.

By the time they'd made it to the road Mary's temper was stretched to full tolerance. Johnny seemed none the wiser. He had taken the helm without invitation and was presently making the turn down the western road when Mary had the urge to take back the reigns all at once. She might almost favour capture driving the Melbourne route than sit through this long diversion to come.

Through the silence of the long flat road and the jingling of the harnesses, Mary found her attention hovering over a vague feeling of unease; as though something in the symmetry of the clumping hooves had been lost. From within the shade of the dray she could now hear Nigger's low growl. Before Johnny could react she pulled them up to a stop. A thundering gallop came up to pass them. There, to her horror, appeared the very trooper that had witnessed her planting the hatchet into Lynch's skull, only now he had an ugly black gash down his face.

"Morn'in," he called out back to the couple as he yanked on the reigns and wheeled around on his horse.

"Look," Mary hissed through gritted teeth, “there, on the back of that nag ... Caesar.”

What at first had looked like a filthy, rolled up swag – heavy, in a damp kind of way – was instead the body of the unconscious negro.

Mary lowered the brim of her cabbage-leaf hat while Johnny straightened himself and rucked up the handkerchief around his neck to hide his face as best he could. When they had met face to face, that first day in The Bush Inn, this man had been drunk. But there'd been a couple more encounters between then and there that must surely have burned their impressions upon the trooper's mind forever. Mary closed her eyes and waited for the dog to make its presence known. For whatever reason Nigger remained silent. Mary opened her eyes.

"Put it away," Johnny grumbled, through a coughing fit, at Mary's pistol-creeping hands.

"Bad dust this time of year," the trooper said, addressing Johnny's apparent congestion. “I say there ... something just occurred to me.” The trooper backed up his horse and spun to display Caesar's half cocked eyelids flashing with unconsciousness.

Mary edged the rim of her hat up just far enough to see.

"You know this man? Him, a lady and an Irishman are wanted by law."

Johnny said nothing.

"I found these ... Ball shot. Really a lot for a man to be carrying without a carbine. The sign on your dray says –"

"Held us up, didn't he Jack," yapped Johnny, elbowing Mary and rising off his seat as if just having recognized Caesar. “Had a knife ... It seemed like a reasonable deal to part with our life.”

The trooper edged forward, visibly straining with the heavy calico sack. Johnny snatched it up and nearly toppled from the dray with its the weight.

"There's another two," the trooper said, “seemed like a waste to chuck them, but its more than this jaded sod can carry.”

Johnny leapt from the cart and helped the trooper to unload his burden, always making sure to keep his back to the sun and his face in shadow.

"That's my good deed done today then," said the trooper.

"Bless you sir, bless you," said Johnny, bowing to the riders dust. He leapt upon the cart, brushed his hands off and turned to Mary with a sly grin.

"We should have helped him," she said. Nigger appeared beside her to sheepishly snuggle against her dress. “We should have finished that trooper. He might have recognized us.”

"You were happy to cut him out of that monster nugget," said Johnny to Mary's conflicted countenance.

Mary threw down her hat, surprised at the regret and the guilt now lapping at her conscience.

"When we roll into town," said Johnny, ignoring her reaction, “they're going to want our shot to buy or steal. I'm taking that stupid shite off.” He leapt from the cart, tipped his water sack upon the words and ground the rest of the white powdered paint roughly over the Mary's stencil. “And we need to dig a plot for the majority of our hoard until we can get our bearings and security.”

For the rest of the journey to the outskirts of Geelong, Johnny whistled and slapped his knees and thumped his heels upon the footlocker that held their riches. Mary estimated there was close to three men's weight worth sitting inside. It was no wonder the axle was beginning to surrender.

"All tied up and clean now. All tied up and clean in a bow." Johnny made to urge the horses forward, but Mary snatched at the reigns.

"Can't risk it," she said. “No point mucking about in Geelong. Not the kind of trade-ships generally dock there that we'd be after a lift on. From here they're all headed south. We'll bury this lot outside of Williamstown by a camp, and then get our affairs in order.”

Johnny shrugged his shoulders.

"You're the boss."

It was true they had very few supplies left – just water, a couple of fistfuls of flour and some hardened dregs of sugar, but they were enough to get them through the journey to come. The lack of tobacco and tea, however, didn't help Mary's buried irritation at Johnny's good mood, and she found herself wondering at her will not to cut his throat from here to there. Mary found her mind wandering back to Caesar's unconscious body upon that horse and to Johnny's eyes being locked upon those sacks of shot. It was strange, but she assumed the two men – even taking into account their inflamed animosity to one another – would have had some kind of brotherly kinship in their adventures.

"We should have killed the trooper and put Caesar out of his mystery," said Johnny as if reading Mary's thoughts.

In his voice she heard the unmistakable sounds of feigned bravado and regret. "Do you think he'll reveal our plans?"

"No," said Johnny a little too hastily. “I mean ... I should think not, no. We've got his gold, after-all ...” Johnny trailed off unconvincingly.

"Best we find a ship sooner than later," said Mary, changing the subject. “If the heat comes down on us we'll have no choice but to go back to the bush. I say we move as quickly as possible, while we still can.”

"Aye," said Johnny pushing away the little Jack Russell as she did her best to snuggle and lap at his emasculated feelings.

---

Early Sunday morning they settled a camp in the lee of a low wooded hill upon the ragged edges of Williamstown. The landscape curved out before them with her trees thinning toward the horizon of the bay, and the smell of seaweed and the sound of gulls refreshed their nerves and energy alike. While Johnny built up a fire, Mary climbed a broad boughed old gum as high as she dared.

The sight of ships masts in the distance made her stomach leap and a lightness came over her. Even the sound of Johnny's jolly bustling became a little easier to sympathise with, beneath the anxiety of what was to come. With fresh air and a positive outlook it became much easier, too, to justify Caesar's fate. How far would he have made it, after all, evenwith the best of odds? It didn't take Mary many moments to convince herself that they were lucky to have had Caesar's share at all.

"Looks like a good vantage point," said Johnny, craning up to her, spade over his shoulder as he rocked back upon his heels. “Let's find a spot to bury our treasure.” Giving a pirate-like cry, he turned and marched off into the scrub.

Mary found a smile winding its way upon her lips and so climbed down from her tree and followed. Walking through the forest she found a strange kind of grounded power coming over her. The idea of all these roots holding the earth together, the feeling of great security of wealth and the sight of those ships all seemed to be drawing something together at once. Through the dry leaves and bark, the sleek-black Jack Russell shot past her like a bush pig.

They picked a location, not far off, that was hidden by a series of large boulders and scrub. While Johnny dug and Nigger got in his way, Mary walked two and fro with two calico sacks in each hand. It took her six trips to bail out all of the shot. When the coffin was empty enough she saddled up the two horses. By the time Mary appeared at the grave (the horses dragging the coffin in tow) Johnny had finished his digging and was now gasping for air.

"We'll keep a handful," he grimaced between breaths. “I've got no shillings. We're going to have to try and trade some of this loot to keep ourselves alive.” Johnny handed a few of the shot from the accumulated pile to Mary.

They lowered the empty box down into the earth before hurling down handfuls of the shot until it was all in. Then they replaced the lid. Moments later, the earth came thumping down upon the coffin; thump, thump, thump. Mary had a sudden image flash through her mind of Johnny turning on her with the spade. Her corpse could cover their riches like Johnny had done with the tracker lad.

"And buried – like that. Get out of it Nigger." Johnny picked up the over excited mutt.

"You think it's wise to keep that dog about you?"

"You going to keep dressing up like a man?" retorted Johnny.

"You'll have to tie him up back at camp ... can't take him into town with you."

"And you promise me you'll stay out of town the hours drink starts flowing? I don't suppose there are many women to go round in this part of the world."

Mary turned and strode down through the bush back to camp, but Johnny caught up and demanded the musket balls he had given her.

"Don't you think this time it should be me that deals with shifty merchants?" he said, fetching a stout stone and the ball hammer.

Mary sat in silence and watched him work, letting the gentle rumble of the sea calm her temper. Johnny struck hard upon the stone and the lead tore like clay from the less-malleable gold beneath. With a few more sharp hits the lead shell lay upon the ground. Johnny continued to work the lump until all he had left was a rough ingot wafer.

Having lost interest, Mary changed into her plain dark skirts, but kept the cabbage-tree hat, still not being confident enough by far to show her face around the town. As an afterthought she retrieved a small leather charge satchel that was meant for carrying shots and powder. Removing the contents, she instead filled it with the writing materials she'd used to draw up the contract, adding a small flintlock pistol for good measure.

"Keen to get away are you?" Johnny crossed his arms and leant back on the cart to watch Mary pick her way down the track. “You be needing help with your endeavourers?”

Nigger's mournful roped-up howling filled the air as Johnny scrambled off down the track in pursuit, leaving the secured mutt to whimper and stew in her misery of abandonment.

Johnny rushed to catch up behind Mary like a scared little fox waiting for someone to notice them. As yet, the streets were still empty. Of course, he remembered, it was a Sunday morning. He had to remind himself, too, that probably nobody would link the twenty gallon gang with himself and Mary and that unless Caesar had talked they should be safe well enough.

With powerfully long strides Mary steamed down toward the docks. Williamstown was a mostly weatherboard affair, with only a handful of official looking establishments having been built in stone. Most of the buildings in the waterfront part of town consisted of well-stocked warehouse shelter-sheds built simply of four posts and a single slanting roof of bark, or corrugated iron. On the deserted main drag there was one general store, a bakery, a half dozen weatherboard buildings, five parked dray caravans and the odd wattle-and-daub shack, or two.

A yellowy scab of weather-scuffed posters caught Johnny's attention. Their billowing corners flapped in the wind and a good deal looked to have been wrenched from the noticeboard for keeping. The thing stood crookedly, rattling in the wind, with its two roughly hewn young gum boughs and a rotten chunk of cork to hold them together. Johnny squinted up at the notices and began to read.

Charlie 'Half-Dark' Trotter

Larry 'Fat' Watkins

'Peacock' Pete and 'Dapper' Jack

'Happy****Chaps' McKinty

Mary tore one of the notices from the board: "Looks like a ship's off for London on Tuesday ... Might be worth looking into," she stuffed the notice into her satchel.

Meanwhile, Johnny kept reading. Some of the posters bore roughly drawn faces above the reward sum while others consisted of simple warnings and public notices. Still further down were job postings and community gatherings. Nowhere on the board was there so much as a single mention of the names of Mary, Johnny, or Caesar. A buried laugh escaped Johnny's throat. He turned around to tell Mary the good news, but she was gone.

After a few moments of abandonment Johnny spotted her chatting to an old man by one of the dray caravans that was parked nearby. His heart leapt and he legged it, skipping over the muck covered road and splitting the fog that had only now just swept in from the bay.

"Mary, there's nothing on the bo –"

The old man turned around. He looked powerfully familiar. Johnny glanced up to his caravan. The set pieces were gone. They had been burned in the fire at St. John's. Mr Bird, himself, looked gaunt. Johnny had never seen him with his hair so unkempt and his stubble so free, and it had taken a few moments for the connection to be made.

"O’Connell? But the fire at St. John's," began Bird.

Mary's face paled. "You boys know one another?"

Johnny did not answer. Instead he produced a knife from his trousers, and without so much as a word, began to advance upon Mr Bird.

"No, no, no," murmured Bird, stumbling back into the spokes of his wagon.

"Do you know who I am?" said Johnny, his knife poised at an obscene angle.

"T-T-Tulip s-s-said your n-n-name J-J-Johnny?"

"That's right." Johnny glanced back at the notice board. “Am I wanted?”

"No, please, no. I mean yes. He asked about you, b-b-but only your name in the papers. S-s-said you and Caesar w-w-wanted in Melbourne."

"What fire?" said Mary.

Johnny ignored her: "Where's the Missus?"

"S-s-he's down at the b-b-beach, having a b-b-b-b,"

"Bathe?"

"Please, don't kill me,"

"Afraid I've no choice."

"Johnny, get out of it."

Distant church bells rang cold across the fog carpeted main drag.

"Stop it, Johnny." Mary had grasped his knife-hand. The bells seemed to have distracted Johnny's motive, so she used the lull in his senses to pry the knife free.

As if in a dream, Johnny said: "He'll rat us out to Tulip."

"Calm yourself. I'm sure Mr Bird, here, is a reasonable man. Let me deal with this."

Johnny relaxed.

"Get back over the other side of the street and keep watch."

"But –"

"Go!"

Mincing back across the road, another peel of bells tolled out through the morning air making Johnny cross his heart. And now, through the ever thickening mist, came the ghostly figures of church goers being drawn by the pull of the bells. Johnny began to shiver. Presently Mary appeared back through the billowing vapour:

"I bribed him," she said through a cold hardened jaw.

"You don't trust –" began Johnny incredulously.

"Much appreciated," came Mr Bird, “Miss, much appreciated,” “Won't let you down.”

Bird had appeared looking elated and Mary brushed him away as another throng of church goers passed.

"Calm down, Mr Brid."

"Oh, but you don't know what this means to me."

"Remember what I told you."

"Yes! Tuesday, Miss."

"Good day to you too, sir."

Mr Bird vanished into the fog and Johnny leaned in, his body questioning the complicit spell Mary seemed to have cast upon the ruined thespian.

"Gave him a little mission," she explained. “Still had a few of my sovereigns left. He'll meet us down the docks on Tuesday with intelligence – on the promise of more gold.”

"You sure about it?"

"There's been enough murder done, Johnny. It's not worth it. We can use him and his fear to advantage."

A gentleman passed and doffed his hat to Mary.

"Sunday ... Everyone's heading to Church." Mary had murmured the words and was now gently pushing Johnny back to the edge of the road to avoid the procession. “You know they'll be having a little catholic get together down by the pier?” she added. “I'm going to head down with these good anglican folk ... see if I can get some more local intelligence after the service.”

"Right," said Johnny with false decision, “good idea.”

Mary smiled. "Good. See if you can find anyone that's after passengers or crew."

As she walked off, something inside Johnny sank. Church. True, it was the best way to get to know a new town and its workings, but all the same ... he was very much in need of a drink and a puff of something to calm his nerves. Johnny turned his back upon Mary's already departing figure, sighed, and slowly made his way down to the pier.

---

Mary fell into step with the procession along a street a sign told her was named Nicholson's Place. Through the cold wind whipping up off the bay, Mary squinted to search for the origin of the bells, but could find neither steeple nor cross. She followed the stragglers from a far enough distance to avoid conversation, and rounded a corner to find nothing but another empty road.

The fog was being blown away by the wind and as Mary spun this way and that, looking for anyone to direct her, she had the distinct feeling of having been deserted. Shuffling her way up this new road, she found a small building that looked to be constructed of nothing more than sticks and mud. The sign hanging limply above its crusty entrance read:General store. From the opposite end of the road now came a couple dressed for a service. Mary slowed her pace. The couple walked into the store and so she followed.

When the creaking door finally closed, silence met her ears. The store was empty. It was a shallow affair, with only a small space for customers to stand in. Behind the tall counter stood a shelf full of sacks, tins and bottles in no particular state of organization. The bells came again. Mary's eyes moved from the counter service-entrance to a door beyond where she could just make out the back of someone standing with their head bowed low in prayer. The front door burst open and a banksia of a man – all wild beard and wilder hair – excused himself as he passed Mary to make his way behind the counter to the back room beyond. Mary followed.

She now found herself inside a small room crammed with people. Four rows of make-shift pews had been set out, and through the gloom, lit only by a door at the front of the building, the shadow of a Priest cast itself in sinister relief against the bright sunlight of the threshold. It was from this door that the bells were coming, now louder than ever before. Mary made her way through the crowd to stand near the back of the room. The men stepped back in respect and before she knew it, someone had brought her a rickety wooden chair to sit on. She did her best to appear grateful and removed her hat and brushed her dress aside to take a seat in the forest of bodies. The bells peaked and the sunlight faltered. Mary craned her neck to see a tall, thin man in a black habit take his place before the solemn congregation.

"Before I begin," began the Priest in a definite, slightly effeminate voice, “I would like to say a few words.”

The men behind Mary shuffled their feet. For a moment she turned her head. From the corner of her eye a face took her attention. Hands folded neatly before him – now with the terrible scar down his right cheek – stood the trooper that had captured Caesar.

"It's always tempting – in this fickle climate – burning one day, thundering the next – to drag your feet – to surrender to the elements."

Mary turned to stone as the priest spoke and did her best to keep a corner of her attention upon the trooper.

"But the tax upon our physical bodies in this clime is nothing. It is when the environment begins to erode our morals – what we know in our hearts to be right – that we will find our soulstruly wanting – both from your wives and the lord."

A definite sense of discomfort passed like a wave around the back half of the room.

"You all know what I'm talking about," the Priest continued, keeping his chin high over the seated innocents. “The gin – the lubra – the black woman – is still woman. We - are - all - God's - children.”

Mary caught the trooper shifting uncomfortably, as if he had worms upon the soles of his feet.

"The sheep in the meadows, the pigs in their sties and, dear clergy, those aboriginal peoples – those children of the Earth – are as muchhis flock, as you are mine. You do not go out and violate the animals. You do not fall victim to the succubus of the bush." The Priest jabbed a finger in the palm of his hand. “It is as much your own fault as it is hers, but you should know better. You know what I'm talking about, and while the law may be lenient to the white man – just as it should – the lord god almighty may not be so forgiving.”

And then footsteps. Blood rushed to Mary's head. The trooper was working his way through the crowd to the door. She turned. In the awkward prelude to the service, no one else dared to move their heads. The trooper was keeping his gaze low, shaking his head, muttering to himself. He clearly did not agree with what the priest had to say.

"You must atone for your sins." The Priest's voice rose as a few more men turned to leave. “God can only forgive those that confess and I implore you to do so. It is never too late, for we can only forgive ourselves when God, himself, forgives us.”

Mary was out of her chair and through the shop to the front door in time to see the trooper marching down the road. She stood for a time, under cover of the veranda, to allow him some distance. The clouds up above throbbed with thunder as her soles stepped from wood to the compacted earth of the road to follow. Beneath the folds of her satchel she fingered her pistol and wondered if Caesar might still be alive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – THE BUCKET OF BLOOD

Arms crossed, shivering against the morning's fickle turn for the worst, Johnny minced a hesitant gait past the deserted waterfront shacks and shelter sheds that stood before the rocky pier. On this day of rest row boats bobbed happily in the water and a single hand-crank crane swung and clanked in the wind. Far out in the anchorage lay three or four merchant ships with their chains taught and their masts bare while Melbourne lurked beyond, in a shawl of mizzle and mist.

"Lookin' for the outcast's service are yeh boyo?"

The voice startled Johnny enough to make him freeze in mid stride.

"Getting woolly out there it's true," came the thick Bristol accent, cracking its R's with bracing enthusiasm.

Johnny turned to see a likeable man with a strong chin and muscular reddish brown limbs of the tone that could only have been achieved through a life on deck. Only instead of the wiry, gaunt look a regular sailor might have, the man before him had a well-fed bulk that would only have been credible if he owned the very ship he worked upon. Leaning up against a gnarled gum post in the shadowy maw of a storage shed, two sharp eyes measured Johnny up and down as a draper might do before tailoring.

"You look green mate," said the sailor with an amused half-squint through another blast of unseasonably cold wind. “Fresh off the boat?”

Johnny struggled to reply. He was genuinely startled that any man might talk to him with such matey respect in the first place.

"Nah, come from ... came from down south by land. Got here this morning," he replied.

"How's about this weather eh? Melbourne – ha! Fickle queen-bitch city of the world and I've visited most of'em to know it." The man grinned all the wider at Johnny's silence before flipping his features back to concern. He glanced over his shoulder into the space beyond.

Standing out in the light, Johnny saw nothing but darkness.

"Ease up inside then. You missed the sermon, but at least step out of the wind."

Johnny stepped under cover. The white figure of a priest surrounded by confused shadows, materialised slowly from the dim. Johnny turned back to where the sailor now stood black before a glinting ocean front.

"A sad state of affairs we're reduced to," Johnny observed, half-remembering the anglican sermons he'd been forced to attend as a convict.

The sailor's shadow bobbed back and forth in agreement.

"Only anglican law's in this town," said the sailor. “I imagine it's a lot freer down south.”

"So," began Johnny, artificially, “what brings you out here then?”

"Ah, just a merchant lad." The sailor's silhouette rippled and he turned to point out a ship. “There – that schooner's mine.”

Johnny moistened his lips while the merchant continued.

"Jeb O'Haggarty's the name."

"Sean," replied Johnny.

As the clandestine sermon wound up, men began pouring out of the small make-shift church. It was clear from the itchy way in which Jeb moved, that he was fixing to follow his mates, so Johnny made his own move first.

"Say – you wouldn't have currency to trade would you?"

The sailor called Jeb – whose schooner sat heavily with promise in the ocean – rubbed his chin and adjusted his cap.

"Ha! Same old story," he said. “Always a right scrabbling for coin. I hear you boys down here been trading in rum and contracts. Why only just yesterday I had a man buying wares using punched Spanish coin. But it's all good to me.”

"Aye, money's tight it's true," said Johnny, his heart already breached and sinking from the charms of the merchant. A short silence followed in which he struggled for an angle.

"Well? What you got you think I might profit by?"

"You'll profit all right," said Johnny, his elated toes rising him two inches taller. “Thing is, I'm not sure it'd be good to talk of it loudly here.”

"Bit sly is it? I've got quite enough grog on my ship, if that's your drift."

"That's not it at all. It's ..." Johnny's hand moved to his pocket.

Without hesitation the merchant took the freshly hammered ingot and twisted it in the light for a better view while Johnny wheeled around to shield the object from passing eyes.

"More where this lot came from?"

"Might be. How long you in port?"

"A month at least ... Repairs and suchlike – and some of me crew has scarpered."

"You need crew? I might be up for it. I know of a woman, too, who'd be willing to work."

"A woman!? A crimper sneak are ya? Ha! For a land lover you sure got your finger on the scheme. No, no, besides, I'd never take a woman to work – I'm not that cruel." Jeb caged the golden weight in his fingers and floated his forearm in rhythmic thought. “Tell you what ... I got fixings to check your sample; it'd be more savvy don't you think? To do business out there?” Jeb smiled an oily smile.

Johnny shrugged and fell into step behind. They walked down to the stony pier where the merchant leapt into one of the smaller looking row boats. Jeb took the oars while Johnny took the stern and rudder.

"Bit of a pain in the arse," grunted Jeb between hauls, “this anchorage. Every ship that comes through has to cast here for customs and it's a right haul unloading with longboats.”

Johnny turned to look back and was shocked to see how far they'd come in so few strokes. With each powerful pull he felt the inertia of his body strain against the motion of the boat and Jeb's strength.

"But I'm guessing the southern district's shipping policy is why you knew this'd be the best spot to hawk your goods eh?"

As they rounded upon the schooner, Jeb pointed out the spot to land by the scramble net down her side. It was an impressive vessel; long and slim and built for speed. Her four rope-crammed masts stood firm against the building breeze and her three jib lines cut the hypotenuse from the bowsprit. Johnny followed the long nose of the ship to its proudly pointing vertex, which rose and fell with each gentle surge, and wondered desperately where her next port of call might be. Calming his thoughts, he began climbing the scramble net. Seconds later a thunder of boots on timber met his ears. The barrel of a musket angled dangerously upon his head.

"Alright ya daft cunt, it's just me," barked up Jeb.

Once on deck Johnny found himself being lead fore, up the side of the narrow deck, while the vigilant guard on duty hobbled back to his post.

"Got to be wary of pilferers, too – even in such acivilized port as this." Jeb turned and stood before a small hatchway, motioning for Johnny to descend. “My quarters if you please.”

Inside, Johnny found himself looking at a modest cabin with pale yellow walls and a curving table wedged at the pointy end of the ship. Jeb clattered down the steps and brushed past him to begin rummaging around inside one of the many cupboards behind the table. After a fashion the merchant had extracted a tall beaker, a set of balance scales and a large counting abacus. While Jeb set about his calculations, Johnny slid behind the opposing wing of the desk.

"Alrighty, let's see what you've got." Jeb filled the beaker with water to a mark, before taking the small ingot. Firstly he weighed the golden cube by gently adding weights upon the opposing tray of the balance until it settled in the horizontal. “Weight seems good to my eye. Lets check what old Archimedes has to say of it.” In a swift motion Jeb dropped the ingot into the beaker, and Johnny leant forward as if expecting some kind of chemical reaction to take place. But Jeb simply took note of the number of notches the water had jumped from its mark.

For a moment Johnny felt a hint of distrust in these strange steps, with Jeb looking very much like a gorilla in a pair of spectacles.

"Aye, it's no fool's sinker, this lot," said the merchant after a time. Jeb turned and hunched out of site, emerging moments later with a heavy leather sack that he sat firmly upon the table. In an unceremonious manner he plunged his hand into the sack and brought out a fistful of shillings that he immediately began counting out one by one.

As the pile grew higher and higher, Johnny felt his heart spell with relief and a kind of magical wonder. He was now in possession of more money than he had ever seen in one place at once in all his life.

"That's quite the generous exchange rate," he croaked, picking up a shilling from the stack.

"You did say something about there being more gold – didn't you?"

"Aye – " began Johnny with a little too much haste.

"But hush now boy. We've done enough business for a Sunday don't you think?" Jeb tossed him a small calico bag for Johnny to stash his loot. “Don't go spending it all at once, like. Once you start drinking you'll have to be shouting with pockets as low as those.”

"Luckily for me it's a Sunday," said Johnny with an air of disappointment. “I expect there'll not be a drink to be had.”

"Don't be daft," snapped Jeb before downing the water in the beaker. “There's plenty of places to get drunk on a Sunday in any port town. You just have to know a sailor.”

A half-hour later Johnny's exhausted hands rattled in their sleeves as he stepped from the pier to unsteady land. Jeb skipped ahead of him and turned to his ship as if it were his wife. He blew it a passionate kiss before giving Johnny such a matey slap that it sent the exhausted convict stumbling into the earth like a newly born calf.

"You all right boyo?" the merchant laughed. “Didn't realize it'd be your turn to row back eh? Sorry for spoiling your Sunday, but fair is fair.”

"No, no," brayed Johnny, “just a bit sea sick is all.”

"Good thing old Jeb knows a cure for that. If the world's already spinning why argue with it? Grog's what you need lad."

Shortly later they stood before the miserable looking shack called The Bucket of Blood.

"One of the best sly-grog shops in town," Jeb proclaimed as he led Johnny like a pig to the knife through the squealing shudder of its doors. Having a mouth as dry as this wretched country's dead heart, Johnny needed no further encouragement.

Beneath the shack's damp atmosphere they eventually found the bar, which loomed up at them like a cliff in the night. Instead of a lighthouse, however, it was the barman that stood above it's bottle stacked shore to shine his eyes through gloom. Johnny wondered what they were trying to warn him of, but before he could so much as blink, a drink had appeared in his hand.

"On me," came Jeb through the gloom.

A filthy faced chap with the silhouette of a bottlebrush stumbled up to the bar and the smell of hops and rum engulfed them like a fog, while a young boy fumbled about in his pockets for some coin. Far back in some unseen dark corner, cruel laugher peeled out and bounced about the walls like some kind of sinister bird song. Jeb slapped Johnny hard on an already heavily-bruised shoulder and a shot of panic stabbed at his heart, but he remembered his thirst and took another swig while the barman spoke:

"Jeb, could you spot the boy a round? You know I don't take the tickets."

The boy, who had been standing at the bar fumbling in his pockets for some coppers, looked up towards Jeb like a scalded dog.

"Tommy Pieper, sir. A ticket was all I was paid in." He held a limp docket out pinched under his thumb. “Good as money from the bank, I swear sir.”

"Fieldsie doesn't take that shite," laughed Jeb, snatching the scrap of paper from the boy. He turned to Johnny. “The selector's pay their lads in promises, but I'm afraid these cheques are no good here.”

"Where else can I go on a Sunday?" squeaked the boy.

"Relax boyo," snapped Jeb knowingly. “I'm not afraid of the money men. I'll take your ticket.”

"Thank you sir!"

"A pint of the special stuff for the little Tommy Pieper." Jeb cupped a hand to his mouth to Fieldsie over a surge of laughter from the shadows, “and make it strong.”

Johnny was paying for his and Jeb's second drink when something occurred to him:

"How long have you been in port?"

Jeb wiped his mouth. "Couple of weeks."

"You seem to know your way about."

"Oh, me and Fieldsie go back longer than that. We got a bit of a thing going on – recruitment wise."

"What's prospects for drinks?" Johnny said to Fieldsie the barman.

"We got rum neat, grog, and gut rot the same."

Johnny ordered rum with water, another neat for Jeb and was just about to take a badly needed draught when an aggressive movement from the wild-haired man made him flinch involuntarily. In a panic he poured the rest of the glass down his neck before the dishevelled lush could do any more damage as he pitched about the bar struggling to thread his words through his mouth.

"Look out" whooped Jeb, pulling Johnny from the drunk's clumsy way. “Gotta watch out for old Sipper. No one really knows who he is. Turned up here shortly after I arrived, but wasn't one of my boys.”

"A malingerer?" suggested Johnny.

"Rum. Need more," the man barked through his beardy mane.

"Crazy fucker's plenty of coin though," added Jeb.

Once the filthy chap had staggered back to his corner – a bottle clamped between his flippers – Fieldsie leaned over the bar with a dark look upon his sour face.

"I heard he got kicked from The Ship Inn for his drunken shenanigans –" whatever else the barman had been intending to say became replaced by a friendly breaking smile of recognition. The door was opening with a screech of tin on tin. “How's things Ned? Back from beating about the bush already?”

Johnny turned to see the scar-faced trooper, spun back around, clamped his face to his freshly filled glass and began sipping the drink down for as long as he could manage without taking another breath.

"Oh Christ, I forgot me purse." The trooper patted himself down one more time. “I'll be back Fieldsie, save a pint of the rot for me. ”

"Won't last long with Captain Sippers at the bar," said Fieldsie beneath his breath.

Only when the trooper had left the shack did Johnny hail the barman one last time. Just one more drink to calm his nerves; one more drink, then back to camp to sleep off his indulgence. He finished it in a single draft and was just about to order another when a piercing wolf-whistle stabbed through the draughty walls of the Buck Of Blood. The door had barely time to scream as it exploded from the frame. A young lad strode inside and slapped some coin upon the bar.

"What in the good gods –" began Fieldsie.

"Lad's you won't believe it. The boss is in town. Just landed with the big man in tow. Gimmie a pint before he shuts this place down."

While the room burst with alarmed activity, Fieldsie calmly set about fixing the lad a drink.

"Won't shutme down. On good terms, we are, me and him. Probably be coming in for a drink I expect."

"True?"

"True, but I'd say most of these lad's names are not in the same book though. Nor yours."

"You know the Superintendent?" gasped the lad after he had downed his lot in one.

Johnny struggled to take it all in.

"Who said anything about the super? It's the magistrate keeps Tulip from my hair and takes a modest payment for his troubles likewise."

"But Latrobe –"

"Eh?" barked the wild man, emerging from the darkness as he sank the remaining dregs from his bottle.

Johnny tried to move, but the room and his body seemed oddly distant.

"It spoke," grumbled the barman, hesitating as he collected the glasses from the ever emptying shed.

"What you mean Latrobe?" said the wild-haired man.

Fieldsie said nothing. His face was still frozen by his mysterious patron's newly found vocabulary.

"Fuck," spat the wild man, “fucking time to get fucked ... Gimmie a pint, quick ...”

At this point Johnny was already standing to leave, but Jeb grasped his arm.

"Where do you think you're off to?"

"YOU!" cried the wild man.

Johnny turned, ripping his arm from Jeb's grip to gape at the tramp, Sippers, as if upon a ghost. Where had he seen this man?

"YOU – JOHHNY FUCKEN POTATOE PRICK! I'LL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DONE!"

Johnny fell back. No one had called him that since the Valhalla. The Valhalla. The door of The Bucket Of Blood was now wide open, illuminating the pale face of Sippers.

"Captain?" slurred Johnny. “ Maconochie?”

"KILL YOU," Maconochie screamed, falling upon Johnny like a dried up old tree.

"Get – "

Authoritative arms gripped the captain by his shoulders, levering him from Johnny like a mollusc being jack-knifed from a rock. The captain's bare feet danced about the air and the next moment – just like that – his body slumped in depressed resignation.

"Aww fuck," he sobbed. “My pint. Where's my pint? Please, good lord, let me be drunk before I am taken.”

"You know this man?" snapped Jeb, hauling Johnny back to his feet.

In the darkness, the forgotten figure of little Tommy Pieper swayed back from the bar.

"This booze is strong ... Str-ong ..." Peiper's voice cracked as Jeb struggled to catch the boy in mid air.

"Woah, you're not going anywhere," he whispered gently to the boy, “stay fucken there.” He turned to a pockmarked lad who had just stepped from the shadows. “Gibly, get that Pieper prick's coin and take him aboard.”

"I – feel a bit light-headed ..." The boy's eyes stuttered about the room.

Gibly took the boy by the armpits and set about dragging him over the threshold: "You're ... comin with me little Tommy Pieper ... Come on, old Jeb's your Captain now, see?"

Johnny felt himself stumble. The grog had been far stronger than he'd bargained for.

"What's your story? How do you know the captain?"

Someone shook Johnny's arm.

"I ..."

"He's a convict," sprayed Maconochie through his booze drenched beards. “His name's Johnny Potato and he's a convict cunt.” The last curse was barked with a violent twitch of his mane.

The motion of Jeb – swivelling atop his stool to some disturbance by the door – blurred into a fog past Johnny's squinting eyes.

"Parties over boys, close it down."

"Tulip?" exclaimed Fieldsie from behind the bar.

Johnny made to move, but discovered his legs would not comply. It felt as if his entire body was in the throes of some kind of mutiny. He was just trying to stare movement back into his feet when the chief constable spoke.

"Latrobe's just landed back from Sydney and the governor's with him and I'm buggered if you lot will be showing me up on my watch."

"Of all the rotten luck," grumbled Maconochie.

Johnny flinched.Tulip. The events that seemed from so long ago struggled to spark his drug-damped memory.

"I think you'll find the magistrate –" began Fieldsie.

"I couldn't give a rat's furry little arse about the magistrate. And you, Jeb, you trying to crimp this poor ..." Tulip trailed off in mid sentence and bent down as if inspecting some kind of broken mechanism. He was peering into Johnny's limp face.

"Johnny?"

"Sippers called him that too," said Jeb.

Tulip turned to the wild-man Sippers.

"Andyou," he said, unhooking the great oak cudgel from his belt. “Two in one go.”

Tulip's assistant constable scratched his head.

"This is Maconochie, Captain of the Valhalla, now under arrest for losing his ship."

Maconochie burst into tears. "I came ashore to meet the superintendent, but he wasn't here, and then ..."

"Stay put Jeb," shouted Tulip to the retreating merchant. “How about you tell me how you came to know this man, Johnny.”

"I was going to sign him to my crew." Jeb turned to Johnny. “You agreed to it – remember? To sail with old Jeb here? Hmm?”

"You signed the paper yet?" said Tulip, slapping Johnny's drool from his limp lips.

"Tell him," said Jeb, rolling up his cuffs.

"I told you there'll be no more crimping-shanghai malarkey. Be off with you before I throw you in the lockup with these two."

"Found me' purse boys," came a triumphant announcement. “Fill up me glass.” Ned, the trooper, paused at the threshold of The Bucket Of Blood. “On second thoughts, I think I'll be going.”

"Wait, damn it, I know you too. Parker get after him."

"We're arresting troopers now, Mr Wright?" came the young assistant constable.

"That one we are. Gipps is here ... came in with Latrobe on business for a coupl'a days. Wasn't too happy 'bout the massacre, neither, and I just happened to cross paths with that trooper in the neck of the woods it happened in. You know how murder and massacre makes old Gippsie's skin crawl. I expect there'll be more than a few lads return with him to Sydney to hang before the day's done."

"Gipps? Here?" Fieldsie, who was still standing behind the bar, gobbed in disbelief.

"Aye he is and if you tell another soul I'll have you sent down to boot."

"Sir, he's vanished." said Parker, returning from having gone after Ned seconds before.

"You're not going anywhere, Jeb," said Tulip, brandishing his cudgel in a desperate attempt to control the chaotic situation.

"You've got nothing on me sir," said Jeb, skipping back toward the door.

"Ha! Wouldn't be hard to get it though would it?" Tulip watched Jeb scuttle from the building. “Now where's that trooper got to?” Tulip turned to the barman. “Well?”

"Nothing doing, gov," replied Fieldsie, thrusting his fists into his pockets.

"Mr Field, I'm asking you."

"Aye, all righty, I'll show you."

"It's been a good day," said Tulip, slapping the cudgel in his palm. “A good, good day. Parker. Shackle up the captain and Johnny here and take them to The Ship Inn. They're my prisoners now.”

"Please, Tulip," began Fieldsie, “I said I'd help you, so there'll be no need to close the bar.”

"Aye, it's a Sunday for one, for another, you got a license?"

"I know the magistrate, Lonsdale, see –"

"You want to incriminate Captain Lonsdale?"

"I ..."

Tulip bought the great club to bear before Fieldsie's chin.

"Of course not sir."