he surveyed his land. Having once doubted if it were humanly possible for Wangallon to ever mean more to him, this year proved otherwise. His son Angus was now eight and, having fought off the various ills of childhood, Hamish was convinced that at last he had a worthy successor. When the time came, and he supposed it must, although he would fight death like every other foe, Angus would take his father’s place. There was still much for the boy to learn and although Angus retained a child’s capacity for foolishness, Hamish knew anything and anyone could be moulded.
The stallion started at something in the grass. The animal, a flighty newcomer to Wangallon’s stable, backed up at the slightest movement and was yet to take a liking to both bridle and bit. Hamish was determined to teach the horse a measure of respect, for he intended gifting the animal to Angus at Christmas and expected the stallion to display all the attributes of a highly domesticated animal. If he didn’t he’d be gelded. The horse wound its way steadily through the thick stand of ironbark trees. Hamish noticed the lack of grass growing in the densely timbered area and decided at once to have them felled. They could use the timber for a planned dividing fence while simultaneously increasing the stock-carrying capacity with the increase in grass coverage.
‘We’ll use this timber for the fence,’ called Hamish over his shoulder to Boxer, Wangallon’s head stockman.
Boxer rode with his rifle resting across his doeskin thighs, the edge of his pale coat flapping against the chestnut mare’s back. ‘Righto, Boss.’ Spitting out a well-chewed wad of tobacco, he ran his tongue around his mouth, the pink tip of it flicking unsuccessfully at the dark juices dripping down his chin.
Hamish dropped his shoulder to skim the sticky boundary of a bush spider’s domain. The large bulbous body scuttled sideways in useless anticipation as the distant bellowing of a bullock team and a series of whip cracks announced the end of the morning’s ride. A speck of movement appeared in the hazy distance, growing on approach to resemble men. Hamish and Boxer drew level to follow the open channel mounded on each side by dirt. It was a tributary of the main drain that ran east to west and would eventually rejoin another arm some six miles on, watering two grazing paddocks in the process.
The bullock team was dragging a wooden one-way plough along the predetermined path of the drain; behind it a wooden tumbling tommy scoop, also bullock drawn, gathered up the loose dirt. Hamish and Boxer rode past the drain-making contraptions. Both plough and scoop would need to make a series of passes before a usable channel appeared. Some distance ahead a team of men straddled the breadth of the drain’s proposed passage, their faces red with fatigue. The rhythmic swing of axes and the dry strike of shovels gave off dull thuds as the men removed the numerous trees and fallen timber that lay in the path of the oncoming machines. Nearby a campfire expelled a stream of smoke into the cold air. Hamish could smell damper cooking.
Boxer rode across to the foreman and there was a gruff order to down tools. The men turned as one to slowly walk forward. Employed specifically to work on the drain, Hamish noted the men were a motley assortment of varying ages. Jasperson, Wangallon’s overseer, had assembled a team of misfits. One wore a stained patterned waistcoat, another sported trousers sheared off roughly below the knees, three wore mismatched trouser braces, while most of their shoes were tied up with twine to stop the soles coming off. The sight of these bedraggled men took Hamish back in time to the steps of The Hill Hotel & Board over forty years ago. Filthy from days spent in the saddle, mourning the loss of his younger brother on the goldfields, he too had experienced the hollow-eyed despair these men carried with them.
Dismounting, Hamish walked across to the campfire, leaving his horse in Boxer’s care. The doughy scent of coal-baked bread competed with skin unaccustomed to water and soap. It was a heady aroma.
‘You the boss then?’ The high-pitched voice came from the waistcoat wearer. The lad fiddled with potatoes in a saddlebag, shifted his eyes like a food-scavenging goanna. Later the potatoes would be wrapped in wet newspaper or bundled into green bark and rested among the fire’s embers for their lunch. The lad was younger