Sunset Ridge (22 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Verdun, France
October 1916

When the guns began, Francois woke with a start. Roland nestled close to his chest and twitched nervously. Pinpricks of light, the glowing tips of cigarettes, punctuated the shadowy recesses of the trench, yet Francois took little comfort from the men around him. At a right-angle to where he sat a slither of sky was just visible. Stars sprinkled the narrow void.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop,
he whispered silently through clenched teeth. The noise haunted him day and night, echoing in his brain whether he was asleep or awake. He couldn't go out there again; he knew he couldn't. The land was gone. It had simply vanished, reduced to a mass of boggy ground filled with bodies and bits of bodies. Only yesterday he had reached for a hand extending up from a shell-hole, only to have the arm it was attached to disintegrate. No, Francois decided, he wasn't going back out there.

Roland nuzzled his neck as Francois hugged the great animal closer to his body. He had fallen asleep perched on two munitions crates, his dog beside him, his backside and rotting boots free of the water moving sluggishly along the bottom of the trench. The trench had been cut through a ridge, and it was this slight height that prevented the area from becoming a complete bog hole. Pulling at the fingers of his right hand to straighten them, he blew on the tips and with cold-stiffened hands began to roll a lumpy cigarette. For two days Antoine had been missing. ‘Do you think he's still alive?' Francois whispered, puffing on the cigarette, his free hand resting on Roland's back. ‘If anyone can survive out there, surely it's Antoine.'

Roland pricked his ears. Further along the trench six men carried a single stretcher between them. They waded through the knee-deep mud of the trench, their progress desperately slow.

‘Have you found many?' Francois queried when the men staggered past. ‘My brother, Antoine Chessy?'

The stretcher-bearers greeted Roland before one shook his head in answer to Francois. ‘I'm sorry, this weather . . .' The sentence remained unfinished.

Francois knew the danger of wounds exposed to the putrid water that filled shell-holes and covered the ground. Nearly all the men in his platoon were reinforcements; few of the original faces were left. How long had they been here? Two weeks. This, then, was Verdun.

‘Keep your dog safe,' a stretcher-bearer called.

Francois drew heavily on the cigarette and tossed it in the soupy mud. If they all died today Roland would probably survive. Neither side fired purposely on the battalion dogs, with the majority of wounded animals simply caught up in the maelstrom of war. It seemed that there was a limit to man's cruelty. Francois straightened his legs, feeling the click of bones. How he wished they were back in the flea- and spider-infested barn they wrote to their mother about. The last village they had stayed in had no straw and was rank with the stink of death. Although they were only there for one night en route back to the front, it had been a long night: before they arrived, the village well had been struck by a German shell, and they had been forced to drink water from a shell-hole that also held a dead body.

At least their time here was soon to end. Their captain had informed them last night that General Nivelle, the new commander of the French Second Army, was carrying on with General Pétain's habit of ensuring that troops were rotated regularly. Where possible, every Frenchman was to be put through the wringer that was Verdun. After mere days here Francois had comprehended the reasoning behind this tactic: the casualties on both sides were enormous and the Allied and German bombardments rarely stopped – no man could sustain such horror for long.

Taking a swig of water from his canteen, Francois poured some of the contents into his steel helmet. ‘Sometimes I think Antoine is still alive.' He stroked Roland's head. ‘Then at other times I imagine him sitting and talking with our father. I envy him then.'

The dog slurped up the cool liquid. All along the trench men checked their equipment, reaching for rifles and ammunition. Francois' heart began to race. He clutched at Roland's back.

‘I keep thinking of the farm and dear Mama. I think perhaps it would have been better for you and me if we'd not listened to Antoine. It would have been better not to be a soldier. Imagine if we were at home now: we would be asleep in the farmhouse; in a little while Mama would be up checking the fire and putting water on to boil.'

Roland yawned. A fog was forming. Trails of moisture began to streak the air. Francois leaned wearily against the trench wall. ‘Do you think they know we are attacking again?' he sighed and then gave a weak chuckle. ‘If Antoine was here, he'd tell me to stop asking so many questions. Have a look, will you, boy?' he said softly, nodding upwards. ‘I don't trust the sentries. We're all exhausted.'

Francois watched as Roland scrambled up the earth wall to a cavity that had been hollowed out for him. It was barely deep enough for the dog's body, yet by scrabbling forward Roland could balance quite well. The sandbags along the top of the trench had been repositioned and from this vantage point the dog could peer through a gap out across the battlefield. Francois stood and leaned against the trench wall as Roland curled his tail beneath him and then rested his chin on the cold ledge of compacted soil. As Roland sat quietly for long minutes, Francois grew aware of the men either side of him waiting for a warning sign, a low growl or a hurried bark. Above them shells whistled and thumped as the fog thickened.

‘Nothing, eh?' Francois commented when Roland re-joined him. ‘Good.'

The word was passed along the line. Francois drew Roland back to his side.

‘I'll have to go out again,' Francois said softly. ‘I know I talk about not doing it, about not obeying orders, but I have to. I've reconciled myself to it, Roland. I don't have any choice.' Francois laughed mirthlessly. ‘Imagine, Roland: I am French; our people rose up during the revolution and deposed a king, yet now I have no say in whether I live or die.' He scratched Roland's head. ‘The worst of it all is that we're to be relieved tomorrow and I can't bear the thought of leaving Antoine out there, alone.'

Roland stretched and whined softly as if he were standing by the stream on the farm, bored and impatient while the boys fished. Francois gave the slightest of smiles as the rangy animal left his side and padded along the edge of the trench, trying to keep clear of the worst of the mud and water. Occasionally he would stop and a soldier would pet him or offer a kind word.

‘He's good luck, he is,' a boy not much older than Antoine stated to the man beside him, touching Roland on the head. ‘They say he's rescued many men, dragged them from out there in no-man's land in God's view and everything.'

‘I don't believe it,' the soldier argued. Nevertheless he patted Roland's head.

‘You will when he has you by the scruff of your neck,' an older man interrupted. ‘I was knocked off my feet by a shell. The next minute I'm being dragged by this mutt of a dog across no-man's land, then I wake up in a bomb crater with Antoine Chessy and,' he nodded towards the dog, ‘Roland.' He knelt on the ground, accepting Roland's lick on his hand. ‘Both of them dragged me to safety.'

Roland pricked his ears at the mention of his master's name.

‘Where's this Antoine, then? Why didn't the dog rescue him?' the disbeliever asked.

‘Weren't nothing left to rescue,' the soldier answered dryly, patting Roland. ‘I wish his brother would accept it. Everyone saw it happen. One minute he's advancing with the rest of us, the next a shell lands right on him. Probably blown to smithereens.' He looked fondly at the dog. ‘You can't rescue a ghost.'

‘You there,' the captain stated firmly, ‘ready yourself, we'll be moving in five minutes.' Roland ran to him and the captain, partially squatting, ruffled the matted hair on his back. ‘And you keep out of trouble, eh?' He waggled a finger at the dog and then rubbed at his collarbone. ‘You've got a good grip, boy.'

Roland retraced his steps as the gunfire stopped. The silence unnerved the dog and he broke into a run, his thick hind legs springing along the side of the trench as he rushed past soldiers. Sniffing the still-warm patch where Francois had sat, he looked up towards the top of the trench. All along the walls the men were readying for action, rifles were loaded and ammunition was checked.

‘Where's Chessy?' a soldier whispered.

Louie Pascal slid the bolt on his rifle. ‘I don't know. He was talking about Antoine again.'

The captain positioned himself against the trench wall with his men and drew his revolver. ‘God bless,' he muttered as he lifted the whistle to his lips.

The piercing screech propelled the mass of men forward. Simultaneously Roland let out a blood-curdling howl. Spinning his body length, he gained traction on the far wall of the trench and bounded forward. His long limbs flailed the air as men scrambled over the top of the sandbags to attack. The dog weaved through the attacking force as machine-gun fire peppered the boggy ground and shells whizzed overhead. Still he ran as the men fell around him, his paws sinking deep into the mud, his muscles rippling as he barrelled onwards.

Roland left the first line of the French behind as a new barrage of shells flew towards the men, and, with a grunt, he disappeared into the encroaching fog.

 

 

 

 

 

Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia
Late
October 1916

Corally sat in the shade on the eastern side of the hut. Sticky flies buzzed the air as she tied a knot and then bit the cotton, spitting the stray thread in the dirt. As she examined the patched blouse, her father's mangy dog sniffed at the globule of saliva before beginning to dig in the exact spot. The dog's front legs gradually built up speed as a spray of dirt trailed out from behind him. Corally pelted a handful of dirt at the animal and the dog ceased digging and stared at her, one ear bent and floppy, the other pricked skyward.

There was a stain on the blouse and the collar remained stubbornly grubby despite three washes in the copper, however it would have to do. Corally contented herself with the thought of the fine woollen shawl she had snatched from a dray during a burial this morning. It would do well enough for a bit of frippery, and she was sure Harold's mother would appreciate the quality of it when Corally appeared with it wrapped about her shoulders.

‘Have youse finished yet, Corally?'

At the sound of her mother's voice she gathered up the blouse and ducked around the side of the hut. She had not yet done the washing or searched for kindling, the latter a chore that took her further afield every day. She had a mind to head for the cemetery again. With this morning's service well over and the nob concerned now buried, she was sure there would be some flowers to gather up. Sacrilege it was: wasting good money on flowers or rooting them out from your own garden only to let them wilt in the sun, especially when they looked fine in a glass jar beside her bed.

‘There you are, sitting in the dirt like one of them poor townies.'

‘I was fixing me blouse.'

‘What, to see that Lawrence boy? How a girl like you got it into her head that he'd hook up with youse has me beat.'

‘He said I was special to him. That he wanted me to wait for him when he went to war.' Corally folded the blouse, shaking the cuffs free of dirt.

Edna Shaw leaned against the gappy timber of the hut. ‘Has he told his parents? Has he given you a token or a ring?'

‘No, but –'

‘Will you marry before he leaves?' Edna slouched against the wall. ‘Not too young for an engagement.' She cocked an eyebrow in emphasis.

In spite of her mother's doubts, Corally knew Harold was keen. They'd met ten times since the day he'd first declared his interest in her.

‘Mother, it's up to me and Harold to work things out.'

‘And him in love with you, eh? In my day if a man had a hankering for a woman he'd make it known soon enough.' She squinted. ‘You've not been up to any funny business?'

Corally blushed. ‘Of course not.' She tried not to think about Luther, about what he had attempted to do and how she had
almost
let him.

‘'Cause if a man has his way,' Edna clucked her tongue, ‘used goods.'

‘Harold's not like that, Ma.'

Her mother waggled a finger. ‘You're gettin' above yourself, girly. Ain't no store-owner gonna let his son marry the daughter of a trapper.'

‘Pa's got a respectable job at the lumberyard.'

‘Sure, sure, and the sins of the past are wiped away forever.'

Corally screwed up her nose. ‘What's that meant to mean?'

‘That people don't forget where a person comes from.' Edna spat a fly from her mouth. ‘Ever. Just take that German girl, Julie Jackson. Why you let her hang around is beyond me.'

‘She's my friend.'

Edna snorted. ‘When you feel like it. Mark my words: if she does manage to wash away the stink of her grandmother you can bet she'll drop you like a rotten apple when it suits. And if she doesn't you can be sure it's because no other right-minded person would be seen dead with her, not these days, not with the war and all. Women don't need women friends. Not out here where men are scarce and a jealous tongue can ruin the best-laid plan. And best you forget the Lawrence boy too and set your sights on your own kind. One of them boundary riders from out west will be needing a wife. They're always looking for someone who can cook and keep a place a bit clean.'

‘I'll get the kindling.' Corally dropped the blouse through a timber shutter onto a table.

‘You do that,' her mother called after her. ‘Anyway, when your pa comes back tonight we'll know what's what. He was going to the ironmongery on his way home to speak to the Lawrences. Just to make sure everything was above board and all.' She sniffed. ‘Beats me, but he reckons you'll be taken advantage of. Not her, I said. Not me own Corally. I brought her up with smarts. At least I thought I did.'

Corally walked through the scrub surrounding the hut. The pathway to her special spot was lined with gum and wilga trees, which gradually gave way to towering pine as the hard earth underfoot turned to sand. A fallen log made a fine seat and the close-growing trees left the air cool, even on the hottest days. Digging her heels into the soft ground, she breathed in the scents of the bush. Ever since the morning in the cemetery with Luther, Corally had relived his kiss constantly. It wasn't that she liked him or didn't like him. In fact, her feelings for Luther equalled those she had for Harold. And therein lay the problem. She didn't love either of them. One was her friend, the other her chance at a better life. She liked Harold and Luther, but a girl in her position had to be smart about things, even if it meant she might end up sad. When she thought of Harold's solemn declaration and Luther's rough handling, an overwhelming sense of loss engulfed her. There was love in Corally's heart, but it was for somebody else; someone who barely saw her and who didn't care. She counselled herself to accept that this was her lot; that she was nobody, with what her friend Julie Jackson called
limited prospects
. Being Corally Shaw was a little like emptying your pockets and finding a shiny pebble and a bit of string. All she had were her looks to trade on and it wasn't enough. Not when others had land and money and names that meant something to others. Not when parents decided whom their sons could marry. Corally knew that in the end it didn't matter if the boys liked her or wanted her; if their parents didn't think she was worth a spit, she didn't stand a chance.

It was as her father had once said: she would have to settle for dry bread – serviceable, reliable, plain old bread – while others dug their wedges into dripping. It was a hard thing, realising that people could treat her like a bit of blow-away grass on the side of the road. It was a hard thing being nobody. ‘God save me,' she whispered to the trees, ‘I sure would have liked the dripping.' So, she hadn't really minded Luther kissing her because it would be the closest she would ever get to a bit of dripping, and she would marry Harold because there wasn't anyone else around mildly interested in her who wasn't dirt poor and whose parents would allow the union.

When the last of the sun's rays streaked through the trees, Corally gathered an armful of wood and wandered back to the hut. In a week's time she was due to meet Harold again; a whole week. By then he planned to have told his parents that he wanted to enlist and that he also intended to get married. And if he hadn't got around to telling them yet, it sounded like her father would soon set the Lawrences straight.

As she approached the hut she saw that her father was home, splashing water from a bucket onto his face and greying hair as the dog growled and nipped at his ankles. He wiped his hands and face on his dirty shirt, prodding at an earhole with a finger. Satisfied at what he had prised free, he flicked his finding into the air and then proceeded to dunk the shirt up and down in the bucket before laying it across the rack among the drying hides. ‘Your boy's been in gaol for fighting with Thaddeus Harrow.'

Corally dumped the wood at the entrance to the hut. ‘Gaol? Why? How?'

‘Steady on. Give a man a chance.'

They ducked beneath the water bag swinging in the hut doorway. A pot hung over an open fire at the opposite end of the room. Three pannikins and a large frying pan dangled from nails on the wall.

‘Did you tell her?' Edna turned towards them, her dress patched with sweat. The ladle in her hand dripped brown water onto the dirt floor.

‘I'm trying. Sit, girl.' Stewart Shaw threw his hat on the sagging bed that was partially concealed by a length of hessian strung from a makeshift rod.

The three of them sat around a narrow wooden table as Edna carried the pot across and thumped it down. The single-room hut was fiercely hot. Corally rounded her fists until her palms smarted from the bite of her nails. Why couldn't her father just spit out his news instead of behaving as if he were sitting down to a feast? The scent of last night's mutton stew was plain enough, and a second night on the same pot meant the best of the meal was already long gone.

‘So, about this fight,' her father began, accepting a wedge of bread from his wife. ‘No one knows what it was about but it seems Thaddeus high-tailed it out of town.'

‘Go on, then,' Edna encouraged, handing the plates and spoons around and dishing out the meal.

‘There's more. All the Harrow boys have taken off from Sunset Ridge, including young Dave. There's talk he was locked in his room for a time.' He turned to his daughter. ‘And it seems the Lawrences didn't know about their son's pledge to you.' He blew on a spoonful of stew, his concentration directed on a single, lumpy piece of meat. ‘Although they do now. Mr Lawrence was pretty straight in telling me that there weren't no union happening between their only son and –'

‘And the daughter of a rabbit-trapper.' Corally finished her father's sentence.

‘I told you so, Corally.' Edna brushed her hands together. ‘Didn't I tell you? Anyway, look at them Harrows, eh? There's no future with them that have a few coin. They're all the same, Harrow or Lawrence. When I think of you being dragged into those legal wrangles when that wild Luther chopped off the baker's boy's finger, well it just doesn't bear thinking about you getting tied up with any of those lads.'

‘I'm sorry, girl.' Her father patted her hand roughly. ‘I'd like to be telling you better news.' He sucked on the spoon before delving into the mound on his plate.

Corally glanced at the blouse lying on her bed. ‘Did you see Harold?' she asked hopefully.

‘No, there wasn't any sign of the lad, but the copper gave me a note to give to you.' Her father searched his trouser pockets. ‘It's from Harold.'

‘Where is it?' Corally's stomach was beginning to churn.

‘I'll just find it.' With a guilty look he walked outside.

‘Good man, your father.' Edna held a spoonful of stew mid-way to her mouth. ‘Thinks the world of you. No point dropping that bottom lip of yours, my girl. I've told you more than once to stick to your own kind.'

Her father reappeared. ‘Here you go, girly.'

Corally took the wet envelope, which had obviously been left in her father's shirt. Opening it carefully, she smoothed the note on the table. This was something at least, she decided, as she flicked a look of
I told you so
at her glowering mother. Although the letter was blurred and smudged from being dunked in the bucket, the letters were still distinct. Corally imagined Harold writing it; his thick fingers with their large oval nails carefully constructing a secret message just for her.

Edna spooned more stew into her mouth and then cut another piece of bread for her husband. ‘Just a pity,' she said, her mouth crammed with food, ‘that none of us can read.'

 

Dave woke coughing. The stench of manure filled his nostrils as he spat out whatever was lodged in his throat. He turned over stiffly, conscious of the complaints that seemed to come from every bone in his body. Overhead, sunlight filtered down through a wooden-slatted ceiling, the weak light highlighting dust that hung as if suspended in water. There was straw beneath him, the smell of sweat and urine and horses. He felt woozy, as if he were moving. Dave clutched at his head. His body
was
being jostled from side to side. Hell, he
was
moving. Through the cracks in the timber walls the countryside whooshed past him. There were hills in the distance, and a rising sun. The clickety-clack noise battering his aching head came from the train he was aboard. Dave crawled into the corner of the carriage. Around him men slept or muttered among themselves, while at the far end a number of horses lifted their legs restlessly as the movement of the train pushed the occupants from left to right.