Tell her, go on, you urge yourself. Come on now, you foolish, stubborn…
But something in you just doesn’t want to.
Molly is staring at you, one eyebrow cocked. She has noticed that you’re behaving strangely. ‘What are you muttering about?’ she asks sharply.
If you tell Molly that the boy stole the chicken, go to scene 26.
If you cover up for the boy, go to scene 27.
You force the truth out in uncomfortable shoves.
‘One of our chickens was stolen – the fat black-and-white one. A native boy did it. I would have run after him … but he had a knife.’
Molly is upon you immediately in a whirlwind of sympathy.
‘A native! Dear God, no wonder you look pale! Oh, you’re shaking! Didn’t I tell you not to go out? Good grief, his whole family has probably surrounded us. Chickens – next they’ll be having sheep, and then they’ll kill every one of us, too. Why not!’
Molly, usually so bossy and practical, is in a right lather. You want to tell her to stop being hysterical – there was absolutely nothing frightening about the boy, or the native man you saw at the market in Hobart Town either. But then you remember the master’s words to you on your first journey out to Bothwell: You must never leave the grounds unaccompanied, or it will be the last thing you do.
Suddenly Molly gasps. ‘Joe! He’s out there cutting firewood! Joe! At least he has the axe,’ she says desperately, ‘if they don’t spear him from behind. Jooooe!’ she hollers out the doorway, flushing crimson, turning back and forth like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
It’s as if you’ve told her there is an army of ogres charging over the hill wielding clubs and spears – not that a bare-chested boy with dimples and a hen under his arm was here and has since run away.
Joe appears in the doorway, looking sweaty and perplexed. ‘You ladies all right in here?’ he asks.
Molly flings herself on him like a tightly coiled spring.
She’s sweet for him! you realise in wonderment, watching a blush rise to Joe’s sweaty brow and hearing the tears catch in Molly’s throat.
‘Natives!’ she blurts. ‘Did you see them, Joe?’
‘Not a thing,’ he admits. ‘They’re quiet, though – famous for being quiet as they move. We should tell the master. What did they take?’
‘A chicken!’
‘Just one chicken?’
‘That’s just the start! Don’t you shrug at me! They’ll be back, and next time—’
‘I’m not shrugging. I just thought from the noise you were making …’
Molly is livid now. She marches out of the room.
Joe looks at you helplessly and scratches his head. ‘Guess I’ll go and chop some more wood, then,’ he says and ambles off.
YOU’RE NOT SURE what Molly told the master, but by dinnertime it’s clear that he takes the same fearful view of things as she does. You hear him say as much as you serve the roast chickens that night.
‘We must teach them a lesson,’ the master is saying, and Mr Jenkins nods firmly, while Mrs Wright looks terrified and Mr Wright pats her hand and puffs out his chest like a protective rooster.
The skin on the back of your neck prickles horribly. What does he mean by that?
‘They’ll know who’s in charge around here once I’ve introduced them to my musket,’ Mr Jenkins says grandly. ‘It’s the latest model from Britain. It arrived just last week. Fires like a dream – crack!’ he cries.
You realise that you’ve stopped your serving. Dread curdles in your stomach. He can’t be serious?
But Mr Jenkins just chuckles, and Mr Wright does more hand-patting, for Mrs Wright has jumped at the sudden sound of his shout.
YOU LIE AWAKE in bed that night, hearing echoes of the men’s boastful voices in your mind, as proud as boys pretending to be kings. Introduce them to my musket. Teach them a lesson. You toss and turn, the dread in your stomach growing into a storm.
As you left the room after dinner, you heard the master say: ‘Before dawn tomorrow – agreed?’ and the murmur of the other two men’s assenting voices.
Oh God, you pray, what have I unleashed? Please stop it, please.
You dream of men on horses. Screams. Running through the bush. Your bracelet lost and broken underfoot. Men with growling mouths full of dog’s teeth. A chicken with a broken neck. Blood. Silence, but for your heart pounding.
YOU HEAR SOUNDS of the master and his two friends leaving on horseback before dawn. Molly acts righteous and self-satisfied all day long, while you are unable to keep your mind on your daily chores.
When the master finally returns late in the afternoon, you and Molly are given the task of scrubbing his clothes.
There is sweat and dirt on his shirt, as you expected, but then you see the patches of blood, slowly turning the soap froth a pale-pink. Your own blood runs cold.
The drumming of the clothes being kneaded back and forth across the washing board is the only sound between you and Molly for a long time.
Eventually she says: ‘I thought he’d frighten them off … that’s all.’
You struggle to find your voice. Is this the boy’s blood in your washing water? His mother’s?
‘He was only a boy, Molly,’ you mutter in a choked voice. ‘It was only a chicken.’
Molly shakes her head, as if trying to erase a horrible picture. ‘That’s how it starts,’ she says grimly. ‘Just one chicken, and then before you know it … No. It’s for the best, what the master did. He did it to protect us.’
You drop the damp clothes into the bucket and race outside, your fists clenched. The only noises in the garden are the bird calls, but in your mind, you can hear pounding hooves, gunshots and screaming. Vomit is rising in your throat, but you
