A HAZARD OF HEARTS (5 page)

Her new master summoned her and she obeyed, her
eyes glinting balefully. Her moment would come.

~*~

Pearl slipped easily back into the
attitudes and responses of a slave. As long as she swiftly obeyed orders and
hid her true feelings, she was treated well enough, although kept busy foraging
for twigs and dung for the fires and for edibles for the pot. After she’d
scoured this at night, laid out her master’s bedding, prepared his opium pipe,
she was free to creep away to attend to her own toilette, with the proviso that
she stay within call to assuage any bodily urges her master might still have
after a long day’s march, or an even more tiring day of killing.

Several more villages had fallen victim since
the mission had been overrun. The other members of the Triad company clearly
feared their leader too much to interfere with his spoil but they watched her.
And since Pearl had discovered the enormous size of the army, of which her
master’s group was an infinitesimal part, she’d given up any immediate plans
for escape. Surrounded by some eighty thousand men, women and children,
smothered in dust as she plodded along tied to the ox cart, she was lucky to
see the sun and guess at her direction.

From the first day she had been made to wear her
braid tied up under a beaded cap, while her slight seventeen-year-old figure
remained hidden under padded jacket and pants, so that everyone except the
Triad’s men knew her as a young boy. When she dared to query the cap she was
told, ‘These Tai Ping have strange ways. They are of the Hakka tribe in
Kwangtung who wear their hair long and bound in a turban. Any man found with
queue and shaven forehead is taken for a Manchu and sent to his ancestors.’

‘Why must I be a man?’ At the time Pearl was
combing her master’s short locks and massaging his neck. He humoured her.

‘Because the leader, Hung Hsiu-ch’uan, has a new
religion which permits him to smash the old gods yet forbids rape of females. The
women and children of the camp live separately and march with us under guard. To
stay with me, you must act as a man slave.’ He shrugged. ‘We are Triad. We
march with the Tai Ping to overthrow the Manchu, but we do not follow their
ways.’

Pearl said softly, ‘Does Hung Hsiu-ch’uan say
there shall be no violence practiced against the Red-Hair yi or innocent
villagers?’

He twisted about and caught her arm, bending it
back painfully. Her face was inches from his, her gaze steady. ‘You grow bold,
slave. I do as I will. And when the Imperial troops attack once more you will
be glad these weaklings have the Triad beside them to make real war. The
Emperor’s men take delight in delivering prisoners to the death of a thousand
slices.’ He then forced her down on the mattress and took her, careless of his
watching men.

Tethered like one of the oxen that pulled the
carts, Pearl lay at night on the cold earth and thought about the future. Others
had said they were definitely headed for Nanking to the east, the intended new
capital where Hung H’siu-ch’uan would make himself Heavenly Emperor with the
help of this army of thousands. Pearl knew they would succeed. Evidence of
their cruel ruthlessness abounded, although she doubted that the Imperial
troops could be worse. The forthcoming battle would be a bloody event which
could present an opportunity for escape.

Eventually scouts warned of the enemy’s approach
and the rebel army grouped, ready for attack. Watching her captor sharpen his
blade and organise his followers, Pearl appreciated how much these men enjoyed
the prospect of a fight. She heard them rally one another, wagering on the
number of heads they would cause to roll, the promise of spoil. There was no
mention of possible death or mutilation, no sign of fear. Nor did they discuss
the cause they supposedly fought for. The Triads did battle for themselves, for
excitement and freedom from the humdrum life of a peasant. They were young
feral animals, and she despised them.

Sent to the rear with the women, children and
baggage, Pearl made her preparations. First she retrieved the small, sharp
blade concealed in the lining of her padded jacket for such a moment. Her
jacket was a treasure house, a survival kit, with even a pocket holding needle
and thread to restitch the lining. With the blade she slit her bonds then
climbed up into the oxcart, crouching down out of sight of the milling women
and children aroused to a ferment over the imminent attack.

Pearl went first to the opium chest, taking from
it a sticky pellet of raw drug. From her secret cache in the jacket she took a
silk bag, emptying into her hand a pinch of herb-like substance which she
rolled into the opium. She did this with several more balls before replacing
them and closing the chest. Then she searched for her mother’s earrings,
finding them tied in a bag with other valuables stolen from bodies still warm
and dripping their life-blood. There was dried blood on the golden hoops. Pearl
held them in her shaking hand, taking a moment to regain control. She also
picked out the biggest, blackest pearl she had ever seen, threaded on a piece
of silk.

‘What are you doing there, boy?’

Pearl jumped as if touched with red hot iron. Still
crouched amongst the boxes she turned to see a woman silhouetted against the
glaring sky. In the distance she heard the roar of the sea. But the sea lay
many hundreds of li to the east, and what she heard was the voice of war.

The woman leaned forward, peering in. ‘Thief!’ she
screeched. ‘You rob your lord. Thief! Thief!’

Pearl sprang, her outstretched leg a javelin
that hit the woman under the chin, shutting her mouth effectively and knocking
her backwards in a heap. Jumping down from the cart, Pearl ran, dodging and
weaving amongst the startled crowd. Some tried to stop her only to find she was
not where she’d been a split second before. A boy, older than the rest, grabbed
at her arm. She sliced his knuckles with the knife and he let her go with a
howl. She raced on.

Now there was a mob on her trail, running and
baying like wolves, infected by the battle excitement, hardly knowing who they
chased or why, driven only by the mob’s bloodlust. Pearl slipped under a cart
and crouched there, panting, easing the fire in her lungs. Dozens of
blue-trousered legs ran past. She waited for a long time before slipping out
the other side to mingle with a quieter group of people who stood peering northwards
to where smoke and dust rose in a huge pall, darkening the sky, and from where
rose the roar of the beast from Hell itself.

Quietly, ghostlike, Pearl threaded through the
crowd and crept away to the south. She picked up a pot and pretended to be
fetching water, moving slowly backwards until finally she reached the lip of
the vast plateau where the army had camped. Throwing aside the pot, she ran
down the slope, tripping and rolling and scrambling to her feet again, braking
with her heels where the angle grew steep, cannoning off rocks, until at last
she reached shelter in a clump of trees. There she flung herself down, her
chest labouring like a blacksmith’s bellows.

Looking up into the trimmed bare branches she
saw they were mulberry trees, planted in rows leading down to an expanse of
water where sampans were towed by water buffalo, men fished and children
played. It was a painted scene, peaceful, in total contrast to the fighting and
bloodshed she’d left behind.

She thought of her captor, taking his ease after
the battle, if he survived. He would be weary, and furious that there was no
slave to prepare his pipe. He’d take one of the pills and swallow it. Eating
opium was an easy way to satisfy the drug craving. And with it he would swallow
the deadly powdered mushroom.

Filled with fierce satisfaction, she forced her
bruised body to its feet and hurried down to the river.

The sun was at its zenith, bearing
relentlessly down upon the earth. Elly felt it as an actual pressure that flattened
her hair against her skull in a sweaty mat. All that was left of her thick gold
braids was a rat’s nest of chopped ends which she couldn’t bear to touch, or
even think about.

Still stunned by the violence of events that had
overtaken her so suddenly, she plodded along the middle of the track, stirring
up dust that clung to her damp skin and masked her face. Stinging flies and
midges clustered there, seeking moisture from her eyes, lips, skin. Listlessly
she brushed at them with a swatch of gum leaves.

She’d been walking a long time – herded out of
The Settlement like an animal, followed by catcalls and the ugly epithets heard
in a timber camp, her throat parched, her unprotected skin already on fire. Numbed
by shock, she hadn’t even flinched when a stone was thrown at her, narrowly
missing her head. And eventually they’d stopped following her to head back, no
doubt for a pleasant interlude at the hotel. The dead child and her grieving
family would already be out of mind, and Elly herself ancient history.

Which was just what she was likely to become in
a day or so if she didn’t find help. She stopped to tear off a long strip from
a petticoat to wind around her head against the scorching sun before setting
off once more. It was no use turning back to further abuse. She’d been warned. The
thought that by now her home, all her possessions, her father’s precious chair,
would be ash and rubble, brought her close to despair. The juggernaut of the
mob had smashed her life completely, and now looked like taking the remains of
that, too, from her.

She walked for hours until the sun was replaced
by stars shimmering overhead in the heated air, until the moon disappeared,
leaving her to feel her way through confusing shadows, sometimes running into
an outstretched branch or tripping over a stone. The rough track had been
carved by the bullocks pulling cedar logs to the river, where they were floated
down to a mill. However, due to summer’s drought, the water level had dropped
and it was unlikely a team would pass by in time to help her.

When the light failed completely she found
shelter under a fallen tree, digging a hole for her hip in the sandy soil
before trying to sleep. By this time her empty stomach had contracted into a
tight knot, while her body ached unmercifully. Drained in every way, she lay
and shivered, despite the lingering heat. Since her father’s death she’d managed
to keep going, but now the last of her courage was seeping away like grains of
sand in an hourglass.

Oppressed by the awful loneliness of the bush,
she listened to the night sounds and reasoned that she had nothing to fear. There
were no nocturnal predators at large in Australia. Well, none larger than a
rat. Not even the wild dogs, the dingoes, prowled after dark, did they? No, she
was sure they didn’t. Which left only one kind of hunter, man himself. The
blacks. But they were afraid of the night spirits. Surely she’d heard that.

At last she slept, fitfully, wakening to a
blazing dawn and the chorus of birds high in the trees, and a terrible hollowness
within. She struggled up onto a log to tighten the bootlaces she’d loosened the
night before. Light-headed from lack of food, she licked the dew from gum
leaves. It was not sufficient to quench her thirst, yet something. She winced as
she ran her tongue over cracked lips. A search of the scrubby growth beneath
the trees disclosed a few flowering plants but no fruits or berries. She
tightened her belt and, because there was nothing else to do, set off down the rutted
track, hoping it would soon begin to slope downhill towards the river. Would it
be salt, so far up from the mouth? More likely brackish. If she could find it,
she’d drink it.

But as the hours passed the track stayed level. She
didn’t dare leave it, despite the fierce heat, for fear of being lost in the
forest, which was closing in on both sides, thick with undergrowth. The gum
leaves drooped dispiritedly, each tree the same as the next – a mind-numbing sameness
that could quickly disorient a traveller without a path to follow. A million bush
cicadas shrilled in Elly’s ears, drilling through her brain. Her eyes ached. Her
tongue had become a wad of dry felt, so swollen it impeded her breathing. The
flies maddened, and her arm itched and stung where an ant had bitten her. She
meandered from side to side, scuffing in the sandy soil, only half-conscious.

Her feet were two lumps of pain which extended
up her legs, each step jarring her knees, while her face and hands were on
fire. Knowing she couldn’t go much further, she considered crawling off into
the bush, into the blessed shade to wait for death. It would be so much easier.
Yet she still couldn’t do it. Something goaded her on – a stubborn
determination that forced one foot ahead of the other, forced her to stay aware
and upright for one more minute, then one more minute after that.

As the afternoon shadows drew in Elly sensed
another presence. She stopped and, shading her aching eyes with her hands,
stared into the bush, her heart thudding against her ribs. No-one was there.
She tried to call out but her voice died in her parched throat. Was that
darkness beside a paler tree? A figure? No. Her eyes had tricked her. She saw a
branch wriggling across her path. A hallucination, she thought. Next she’d be
seeing a mirage of Sydney Town itself.

 The branch curved and reared a smooth flat
head. Eyes like boot buttons stared at her. Snake! With an inward scream Elly
threw herself backwards, overbalanced and fell. The strike was a knife-blade in
her arm. As the snake slithered off into the bush she glimpsed the red
under-belly. A venomous black snake.