A Changing Land(88)
Claire was staring at him. Despite his disappointing first marriage, Hamish did believe in companionship and Claire was the most resilient and caring of the few women he’d known. Perhaps he’d been too hard on her. Sitting at his desk Hamish considered how to broach the gulf between them. Claire’s coddled life should not cause him to feel resentful when he thought of his own dear mother, especially when Claire’s greatest gift to the Gordon legacy was their son, Angus. Hamish formulated more kindly words and was endeavouring to articulate them when Claire left his study.
Removing the crystal stopper from the brandy decanter Hamish poured himself a good measure of the amber liquid. He drank the fluid down in one gulp, poured another glass and settled himself in his chair. He stabbed at the jugged wallaby with a fork, slurping at the rubbery juices, pausing to lick his fingers. He hoped Lee managed to provide him with a little entertainment later. He was sorely in need of some. Pushing his tea tray aside, he unfurled a yellowing map that showed the Wangallon River as a series of finely pencilled squiggles, a watery boundary between Wangallon and Crawford Corner. Hamish traced the waterway closely. He added a series of small circles where the timber grew too thick to pass and then drew a line that crossed the river from one side to the other. This was the only known point that was shallow enough to cross. They’d been diligent in their reconnaissance, checking the riverbank and surrounding bushland. Boxer believed there had been rains further north earlier in the month, however Hamish witnessed no rise on their return from Crawford Corner. As long as no more rain fell they were assured of safe passage.
Jasperson, McKenzie and Boxer were already in Wangallon Town. From there they would ride north-west to cross the river at Widow’s Nest and continue on until they circumnavigated Crawford Corner. Crawford ran a fine herd of cattle on his far western boundary and it was these animals that Hamish now targeted. Once they managed to get past the boundary riders they would simply drive the mob east. With luck they would be across the river before dawn, before Crawford began berating his unfortunate manservant for his late breakfast. Hamish slammed his fist in his palm, gulped at his brandy in anticipation. He would be waiting with Luke to take delivery of the stolen cattle on the Wangallon side of the river.
With the concentration of a man convinced of the rightness of his task, Hamish took the large almanac down from a library shelf and sat the volume on his desk. He turned the pages, slowly reaching the calendar section that was marked with a silk tasselled bookmark. Beneath the neat squares showing each month’s dates, there was a bordered section showing the phases of the moon. It was this that Hamish referred to constantly, for the illuminated passage of a full moon was the only means for man and beast to travel at night. Jasperson and his team had to reach the far boundary of Crawford Corner on the brightest night of the month. It also meant they had little time to waste. Hamish wasn’t of the disposition to wait another full month before he could seek retribution.
Tomorrow his men would cross the river at Widow’s Nest, by night they would be on Crawford’s property and by the almanac’s reckoning the night would give them safe passage. Besides which, Boxer was with them, assuring the expedition that at the very least they would be able to find their way back home. Hamish closed the almanac and rested a large thick hand on the cover. Now all that was left to do was to send for Luke. He would want the boy ready to move in four days with the mob. Hamish intended incorporating Crawford’s cattle with his own sale mob and no one would be the wiser. With a satisfied belch, he located his pipe and the makings for it and walked out onto the verandah. He was almost ready for a strong cup of tea.
Dawn was still some time away. The scent of grass and smoke from the kitchen hearth mingled in a manner Hamish considered to be quite homely and he walked out across the gravel drive to a stand of box trees. The world had changed, and Crawford was about to learn a lesson or two about the new world he now had the misfortune to inhabit next to Wangallon.
Claire lay on her bed in her chemise. There was a drift of noise seeping through the darkening rooms from the gradually quieting kitchen, the sound of footsteps on the verandah, the shutting of a door. She imagined Mole by an English river, everything so cool and green and fresh, a breeze blowing. She dabbed cologne on her lace handkerchief and patted her wrists and forehead. How she longed for the coolness of a sea breeze, any breeze. Yet finding such relief could only come from a bone-jarring coach ride of many long, tiring days. Something was scrambling on the roof. There was the patter of feet similar to the scattering of leaves. Claire followed the noise with her eyes, imagining the creature stalking backwards and forwards beneath a warp of spinning stars.