Do You Dare? Fighting Bones Page 8

  It was difficult for Declan to find the right time to run. The master was always somewhere close to the house, as were May, Violet and the children. And after dinner, May locked him in the shed. Declan had tried the doors a hundred times and they were immovable. The only distraction was the quiet garden waiting for his attention. When Declan was at work he felt calmer; the leaves in his hands and the earth in his shovel helped his mind to grow still. It was the only time he stopped thinking about how he could get back to the boys.

  Every day, while Declan waited for the right time to escape, he rose at dawn to feed Mrs Mud, then he ate an enormous bowl of creamy porridge and drank a mug of sweet tea with May and Violet in the kitchen. After breakfast, he swept and raked the paths that ran around the house and through the grounds, then he began work in the garden, preparing the beds for the seeds May had given him. He used mulch from the pigpen, turning it through the earth with straw and water. He pruned the fruit trees as high as he could, standing on a chair May had dragged out for him. And he fed the chickens in the chicken run, pleased to find new eggs almost every time he looked.

  Hilda teased him every day, but Declan just gritted his teeth and pretended he couldn’t hear. Compared to the convict guards, he reminded himself, she’s nothing.

  Sometimes Harry would come and chat to him, and Declan grew to look forward to the little boy’s company and his endless questions. ‘How do plants grow? Why do they flog prisoners? What was it like to come on a prison ship? What did you do? Where are you from?’ It was good to be asked things and to have to think of the answers.

  Occasionally the master would come by and inspect his work, but it wasn’t like being checked on by the Superintendent.

  ‘You are working hard, Declan,’ Mr Fitzpatrick would say. ‘Kilcullen Park’s garden is already looking better.’ When his master spoke to him in that way, Declan almost felt sorry that he would be leaving as soon as the chance arrived. He’s so kind, Declan thought. And he’s given me a whole new life here.

  Occasionally an idea would enter his mind. Perhaps . . . he would wonder . . . Perhaps I could ask him about my brothers again. Now that he knows I’m a good worker? Would he change his mind?

  But Declan wasn’t used to trusting anyone except his gang. Fitzpatrick’s your master, he’d remind himself. Why would he be doing favours for a no-good convict boy?

  The real trouble started for Declan each night when he closed his eyes. Hilda was right – the loft was a good hideaway. When Declan lay on his pallet to sleep, he could see the stars and the moon through his circle window, and it made a picture he could look at forever. But in the darkness, the fear in his gut told him Danny was in danger. The pain of losing Col was unbearable. Declan dreamed of that terrible night over and over. He saw Col’s body bleeding as it floated on the ocean, and then Col would become Danny, calling for help as he plunged over the side of a cliff onto the rocks below, as Declan looked on, powerless to stop him, unable to move.

  It was only the first light of morning showing through the window that could bring him any relief.

  After Declan had been working at Kilcullen Park for almost three weeks, the doctor, Mr Millard, came to visit. Violet had hurt her wrist chasing Hilda out of the chicken coop. Declan was weeding the flowerbeds by the front gate when he overheard the doctor talking to May. ‘You must make sure Violet keeps her wrist bandaged,’ he said kindly. ‘And she must rest it.’

  ‘Last time I saw a doctor I was in prison in Hobart,’ said May cheerily. ‘Seeing you brings back the horrors.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about prisons,’ said Mr Millard wearily. ‘I tended to a boy at the Port Hospital who had to be taken out of Point Puer he was beaten so badly.’

  Declan felt his heart begin to race. Who had been beaten? Would the doctor give a name?

  Mr Millard went on. ‘Just a young thing, he was. Back broken. Still don’t know if he’ll make it through. Took a bad fall.’ He sighed. ‘The place is meant to reform, not destroy.’

  ‘Uch! The only thing that reformed me was getting out,’ said May, shaking her head.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the doctor. ‘Lucky girl. Fitzpatrick’s a good man.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I had better be getting on the road. Looks to me as if the weather could turn.’

  Declan, his body shaking, watched as the doctor climbed into his wagon and drove down the road away from Kilcullen. As strongly as he’d ever known anything in his life, Declan knew he had to escape. Immediately.

  The doctor had been right about the weather; that afternoon the sky darkened as if it was already turning to night as the rain started to fall.

  ‘Always happens when the master goes away,’ said May, the washing flapping around her face as she dragged it from the line. ‘The storms here are worse than back at home in Ireland. There’s never any warning. The creek goes from a trickle to a torrent – everything turns to water.’

  ‘The master is away?’ Declan asked May, hardly believing his luck.

  ‘Yes,’ said May. ‘He’s left for Hobart for business for a few days, and isn’t back until the end of the week.’ May looked up at the clouds. ‘He’ll likely be caught in the storm on the way.’ May walked back to the house with an armload of linens. ‘You may as well feed Mrs Mud now, Declan. Who knows how long this is going to last?’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  The master was gone and there was a storm darkening the skies. This is my chance, thought Declan. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Mud,’ he said, scattering the straw in the pigpen. A roll of thunder, loud and heavy, cracked in his ears, making him jump. Declan was glad for it; the violence of the storm helped to block out the doubts in his mind. If he was caught, would he be locked up in the men’s gaol at Port Arthur? How much use would he be to his brothers then? What would happen if it really was Danny in the hospital with a broken back? How would Declan get inside?

  Lightning flashed across the sky. No time for questions, thought Declan. He took one last look at the gardens then turned and headed for the back of the property, and Iron Creek. And though he felt sad to leave it, and sorry to have let his new master down, Declan knew he could never have stayed. Danny, he thought, I’m on my way.

  Declan was drenched in the heavy rain as he followed the path towards Iron Creek. The storm will hide me and buy me some time, he thought.

  Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw a pale, ghostly figure coming towards him. His heart raced and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. What was it? Seconds later he saw that it wasn’t a ghost at all; it was Hilda. Her white dress and coat were drenched to the bone, her hair hung around her face in long wet ropes.

  Just as Declan was about to hide from her, she saw him and screamed. ‘Declan! Help!’

  ‘Hilda?’ Declan cried out. ‘What is it?’

  Hilda ran to him. ‘Harry! Harry!’

  ‘Is Harry all right?’

  ‘I don’t know! I lost him!’ She had to scream to be heard over the pounding rain. The wind whipped the words from their mouths.

  ‘What are you talking about? Where?’

  ‘We were at the stream . . .’

  Declan froze. No . . . Please no, he pleaded silently.

  ‘And now Harry is drowned,’ Hilda was sobbing. ‘He was swept away . . .’ She fell onto her knees, burying her face in her hands.

  Declan pulled her up sharply. ‘Show me where, Hilda!’ he yelled hoarsely.

  ‘But I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You do know, Hilda! We’ll go back for some rope and then you must show me where. Quickly.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Hilda! Now!’ Declan sprinted to the shed and grabbed a large coil of rope. Then he grabbed Hilda’s hand as they ran down the path through the sodden wheat, toward the stream. Declan heard it before he saw it. Mother of God! Could it really be the same Iron Creek? he wondered. The stream had risen; the water foaming and tumbling as it threatened to flood over its banks. Declan was terrified. ‘Where did you see him last?’ he
shouted above the roar.

  Hilda pointed to a small dip in the embankment. ‘We were building a boat. But the boat got washed away, and then Harry tried to save it.’ She began to wail.

  Declan ran along the water’s edge. ‘Harry! Harry!’ he called. If the boy were still alive, how would they ever be able to hear him above the din? Declan searched the rushing water, dreading what he might find washed against the banks. Soon there wouldn’t be enough light to see a thing – what then?

  Declan looked up into the branches that hung over the stream – might Harry have had the strength to pull himself up out of the water? No way, he thought. Harry was only six. ‘Harry! Harry! Where are you?’ he called. If only it wasn’t so hard to see!

  Suddenly something dark against the white foam caught his eye. Declan looked closer. Harry! The boy was wedged between two rocks, the water rushing past him on all sides. His face was turned away from Declan, pressed into the rock to which he clung.

  ‘Hilda!’ Declan shouted. ‘Come here!’

  ‘Harry!’ Hilda cried out, running down to Declan. ‘Oh, Harry! Harry!’

  ‘I’ve got to pull him out.’ Declan passed Hilda the lamp and the rope. He would have to get into the water.

  ‘Be careful, Declan.’

  Declan lowered himself into the rising stream, feeling it rushing against his legs, cold and furious. Harry isn’t too far out, he thought. If I can just reach him I can pull him onto the bank.

  By now there was hardly any light. Everything seemed made of water and shadows. He stepped deeper into the current, feeling it surge against him, as if the stream itself wanted him to fall.

  ‘Harry,’ he called to the little boy. ‘I’m going to help you.’

  But Harry did not lift his head.

  Is he dead? Declan wondered, fear coursing through him. What if the rocks have trapped his corpse? ‘Harry! Harry!’ he called again. Declan leaned toward the motionless boy, and felt his feet slip on the muddy bottom. He grabbed onto a branch that was hanging down into the water.

  He was close enough to touch Harry’s arm. At last Harry lifted his face from the rock. ‘Harry!’ shouted Declan. ‘Take my hand!’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I can’t!’ he sobbed.

  ‘You’re going to be all right!’ Declan shouted back. ‘Take it!’

  Harry barely had the strength to shake his head. The force of the water against Declan seemed to be getting stronger. ‘Harry!’ he pleaded. ‘Let go of the rock. Please.’

  At last Harry lifted his arm from the rock and reached out to Declan. Declan grabbed Harry’s hand tightly in his own. But just as he did so, the branch that he was holding broke from the tree. It fell into the water, knocking loose one of the rocks that had wedged Harry. Declan felt himself being dragged under the water.

  Suddenly it all came back to him. It was dark, the ocean was so cold and Col so heavy in his arms . . .

  Declan kicked and spluttered, gasping for air as he came to the surface. He would not let go. He would not let his brother die – not this time.

  The current pushed the boys, spinning and swirling, into the middle of the river. Declan had to fight to stay afloat. He hit against rocks and his feet were being dragged along the bottom. But he would not let go.

  Suddenly, something took Declan’s weight from behind, pinning him and Harry back against the riverbank. Their bodies were caught against a huge tree, whose leaves and branches acted as a kind of sieve, trapping them as the water rushed over him and the boy in his arms. Declan knew he only had seconds before its force would push them through the wall of branches. And surely they would drown.

  Declan felt his strength ebbing away as he gripped Harry’s body. How much longer could he hold on? If the river wants Harry, then it’ll have to take me too, thought Declan desperately. I can’t break another promise.

  ‘Declan, Declan!’ It was Hilda. She was on all fours on the bank, holding out her hand to him.

  She’s not close enough, thought Declan. ‘Use the rope, Hilda. The rope!’

  ‘Take my hand!’ Hilda shouted back.

  ‘No, Hilda, the rope!’ Declan knew that any minute they would be crushed by the weight of so much water. Its roar in his ears was so loud he felt his head would burst.

  Then Declan saw Hilda grab the rope she’d left on the bank. Now they might have a chance. ‘Throw it over us, Hilda. Then around the tree.’

  Hilda leaned into the water and made a loop, holding both ends in her hands. Then she tried to throw the rope over to the boys. It missed, and was tugged out into the water. ‘I can’t!’ she shouted.

  ‘Try again!’ Declan felt the current trying to pull Harry from his arms.

  Hilda tried again. ‘Got it!’

  Thank God, thought Declan.

  She tied the ends around the trunk of the tree whose branches held them. ‘Take my arm!’ Hilda called. ‘The tree will hold you steady!’

  With his one free hand, Declan took hold of Hilda’s hand, the rope firmly looped against his back. She pulled him just close enough to the stream’s edge for him to feel the ground beneath his feet, and to heave Harry to the bank. Once he was on the bank, he dragged the younger boy clear of the water.

  ‘Harry, are you all right?’ Hilda cried.

  Harry lay coughing and spluttering on his side.

  As Declan collapsed with relief beside Harry, he felt a great weight lift from his chest.

  Harry was alive.

  But then an unbearable sadness washed over him, as though someone that he loved was leaving him forever.

  Harry lifted his head. ‘Declan!’ said the boy.

  If Declan had had the strength, he would have wept.

  ‘Hilda! Declan!’ It was Mr Fitzpatrick coming through the darkness carrying a lamp. May and Violet were close behind him, their faces pale and frightened. When they saw Hilda, Declan and Harry, they both burst into tears.

  ‘Children, are you all right?’ Mr Fitzpatrick grabbed Declan roughly by the arm and pushed him away. ‘What have you done to them?’

  ‘No, Papa,’ said Hilda, stepping towards Declan. ‘Declan saved Harry. Harry would have drowned if Declan hadn’t come.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Fitzpatrick took Harry in his arms and held him close.

  ‘Yes, Papa. He was caught in the river.’

  Harry lifted his head weakly. ‘It’s true, Papa. Declan saved me.’

  ‘But what were you all doing by the river in a storm like this? I had to turn back, it was so violent.’

  ‘Harry and me were playing – we didn’t know the river could change so quickly,’ said Hilda.

  Mr Fitzpatrick frowned. ‘Where was Declan?’

  ‘He found me,’ said Hilda.

  ‘What were you doing all the way out here in such weather, Declan?’ Mr Fitzpatrick asked.

  Declan knew if he told the truth he would never get back to Danny, but it seemed the river had taken his power to lie. ‘Sir . . . I was . . .’

  ‘Declan.’ Mr Fitzpatrick frowned. ‘Were you trying to run away?’

  Declan knew he had no choice but to confess. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Papa, please leave him be. Without him Harry would have died,’ said Hilda.

  ‘Let us get back to the house,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick, suddenly brisk. ‘Harry is frozen to the bone.’

  Declan stumbled up the hill towards the shed; he could barely walk – he had given everything he had to the water. He didn’t even have the strength to worry about how long he had before Mr Fitzpatrick sent him to Port Arthur. Just as he was about to take the path that led to his loft, Mr Fitzpatrick stopped him.

  ‘You will come to the house where there is a fire and May can prepare something warm for you to eat.’

  He thinks I’ll try and run again, thought Declan. And he’s right.

  After May had given him dry clothes and set a bowl of steaming soup on the kitchen table, Mr Fitzpatrick pulled out a chair and sat opposite Declan. ‘Are you unhappy here, Declan? Do you want to
be in gaol again?’ he asked.

  Declan could see Mr Fitzpatrick genuinely didn’t understand. ‘Yes, sir. Yes, I do.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘My brother was there, sir. But now I think he might be in the hospital. The doctor said there’d been a boy who was beaten almost to death.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s younger then me and I promised my mother I would take care of him.’ Declan felt his throat tighten. ‘And I haven’t, sir. I’ve failed.’

  Mr Fitzpatrick looked at him steadily. ‘But you took care of Harry, Declan. You could have let him drown.’

  ‘I’m glad Harry’s safe,’ Declan said quietly. ‘But . . . ’

  ‘But he isn’t your brother,’ finished Mr Fitzpatrick. ‘And so tomorrow, when the storm has cleared, we will take the wagon to Port Arthur to find him, whether he’s in prison or hospital.’

  Declan swallowed, hardly believing what he’d heard. Was he dreaming? Had the storm sent him mad? ‘We can . . . we can go back for Danny, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick firmly. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t do something about it when I first took you from the prison. I recall you telling me about your brother then.’

  Declan had to fight back his tears. No adult had ever apologised to him before, or even just listened. Nobody had cared. There wasn’t any thank-you he could say that was big enough for all he felt inside. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  ‘You can stay in the house tonight, Declan, where it’s safe and dry,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick kindly.

  But though the house was warm and comfortable, Declan wanted to be in his loft. He wanted to go over all that had happened and to think of Col, Danny and Seamus. ‘I will stay in the loft tonight, sir, if it’s all right by you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick. ‘I imagine you’ve a lot to think over.’