Bart caught his breath as he gazed up at the steep-sided gorge, clad with dense, green, native forest, and above that, like some sleeping prehistoric creature, the saw-toothed mountains of the Crown Range, tipped with snow, white and sparkling in the sunlight. Who could have imagined any country like this, he thought, breathing in the wine-cold air, so fresh, sweet and clean that it made him light-headed. What stories he would have to tell Eliza when eventually he had the time to put pen to paper.
Bart’s empty stomach contracted in a loud rumble and he licked his dry lips; it was time to eat, then they must break camp and set off, taking advantage of the early morning cool. He glanced down at Tate’s booted feet sticking out of his canvas cover; there were gaping holes in the soles that were stuffed with leaves to keep out the damp. Looking down at his own boots, Bart pulled a grim face as he saw his bare toes sticking out where the uppers had parted with the soles. If they had to trudge much further, they would end up barefoot as well as starving.
‘Ho, Tate, rouse yourself, you lazy bastard.’ Bart picked up a pebble and tossed it at the canvas shelter.
‘Hey, what?’ Tate’s tousled head popped out from beneath his covers. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s morning and we’d better get going if we’re to reach Fox Camp by nightfall. I don’t fancy another night being bitten to death by bloody sandflies.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there, you lazy sod, get a fire going and make us a brew. I’m parched and me belly’s empty.’ Tate got to his feet and stretched. ‘Here, give us the billycan and I’ll fetch the water.’
Bart reached down, picked up the can and tossed it to Tate, who stumbled off towards the river. With the aid of a handful of tussock grass, his tinderbox and the kindling that he had keptdry in his shelter, Bart soon had a fire snapping and crackling, sending plumes of smoke into the azure sky. He sat back on his haunches. The majestic scenery that surrounded them was eerily silent; it felt as though he and Tate were the only two living beings left on the planet. He could feel the sun’s rays gaining in strength as it rose higher in the sky and his clothes had begun to steam. It might be Christmas Day, but everything was so different here compared to the grey streets of London, the turgid waters of the Thames and the teeming populace that he had to pinch himself in order to make sure he was not dreaming. It hurt! He was wide awake and, once again, his throat constricted as he thought of Eliza. This was the first Christmas that they had spent apart; he could only hope and pray that the old bugger was being kind to her. He scrambled to his feet, sniffing. He was a grown man and he would not cry, even though his heart was hurting like a bellyache after eating green apples. He could hear Tate’s heavy footsteps crunching on the stones as he trudged up from the riverbank.
‘It’s your turn next time, mate,’ Tate said, hooking the handle of the billycan on the forked tree branch over the fire. ‘What’s up with you then?’
‘Bleeding smoke,’ Bart said, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. ‘I stink like a dead rat that’s beenflung on a bonfire. The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Fox Camp is to find a hotel and have a hot bath.’
‘Me, I want a nice hot barmaid with big titties and thighs like pillows.’ Tate grinned and pointed to the river. ‘There’s plenty of cold water down there if you want a bath.’
‘Seems like you need it more than me. It would cool you down a bit.’ Bart reached for the flour sack. ‘Be serious for a moment, Tate. There’s just enough flour to make some damper for breakfast and that’s it. There’s enough tea for one brew and no sugar left. I’m telling you, we’ve got to get there today or we’ll starve.’
‘You worry too much,’ Tate said, squatting down on his haunches by the fire. ‘We’ve come this far, ain’t
Bart’s empty stomach contracted in a loud rumble and he licked his dry lips; it was time to eat, then they must break camp and set off, taking advantage of the early morning cool. He glanced down at Tate’s booted feet sticking out of his canvas cover; there were gaping holes in the soles that were stuffed with leaves to keep out the damp. Looking down at his own boots, Bart pulled a grim face as he saw his bare toes sticking out where the uppers had parted with the soles. If they had to trudge much further, they would end up barefoot as well as starving.
‘Ho, Tate, rouse yourself, you lazy bastard.’ Bart picked up a pebble and tossed it at the canvas shelter.
‘Hey, what?’ Tate’s tousled head popped out from beneath his covers. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s morning and we’d better get going if we’re to reach Fox Camp by nightfall. I don’t fancy another night being bitten to death by bloody sandflies.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there, you lazy sod, get a fire going and make us a brew. I’m parched and me belly’s empty.’ Tate got to his feet and stretched. ‘Here, give us the billycan and I’ll fetch the water.’
Bart reached down, picked up the can and tossed it to Tate, who stumbled off towards the river. With the aid of a handful of tussock grass, his tinderbox and the kindling that he had keptdry in his shelter, Bart soon had a fire snapping and crackling, sending plumes of smoke into the azure sky. He sat back on his haunches. The majestic scenery that surrounded them was eerily silent; it felt as though he and Tate were the only two living beings left on the planet. He could feel the sun’s rays gaining in strength as it rose higher in the sky and his clothes had begun to steam. It might be Christmas Day, but everything was so different here compared to the grey streets of London, the turgid waters of the Thames and the teeming populace that he had to pinch himself in order to make sure he was not dreaming. It hurt! He was wide awake and, once again, his throat constricted as he thought of Eliza. This was the first Christmas that they had spent apart; he could only hope and pray that the old bugger was being kind to her. He scrambled to his feet, sniffing. He was a grown man and he would not cry, even though his heart was hurting like a bellyache after eating green apples. He could hear Tate’s heavy footsteps crunching on the stones as he trudged up from the riverbank.
‘It’s your turn next time, mate,’ Tate said, hooking the handle of the billycan on the forked tree branch over the fire. ‘What’s up with you then?’
‘Bleeding smoke,’ Bart said, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. ‘I stink like a dead rat that’s beenflung on a bonfire. The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Fox Camp is to find a hotel and have a hot bath.’
‘Me, I want a nice hot barmaid with big titties and thighs like pillows.’ Tate grinned and pointed to the river. ‘There’s plenty of cold water down there if you want a bath.’
‘Seems like you need it more than me. It would cool you down a bit.’ Bart reached for the flour sack. ‘Be serious for a moment, Tate. There’s just enough flour to make some damper for breakfast and that’s it. There’s enough tea for one brew and no sugar left. I’m telling you, we’ve got to get there today or we’ll starve.’
‘You worry too much,’ Tate said, squatting down on his haunches by the fire. ‘We’ve come this far, ain’t
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