Bugs

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bugs 

 

William tossed his felt hat into the mud upon hearing the cheers of found gold coming from the next claim over. 

“Those fucking chinks have found gold again!?” he cursed. 

William’s long leather boots were fixed in sludge, and sweat mixed with a light rain were trailing lines through the harsh creases of his face. Creases too deep for a man of around thirty years. 

“Ease up Billy, some folk are just luckier than others” replied Matthias. 

Matthias had known William since their arrival together into Port Phillip. He was a much softer man than William. Matthias grew up on the east side of London in a small apartment complex wedged between two decrepit buildings like book ends threatening to crush the books. He’d been convicted of assault after getting beaten up in an alleyway, the kind Jack the Ripper would have salivated over. A lucky kick to the groin caused his assailant to crumple and, reaching for the rain-soaked cobblestones below, slip, bashing his skull in. He was not prepared for the world of chaotic violence that William had since thrust him into. His manner indicated to William that Matthias was a weak man, almost delicate, and this vexed him to no end. 

“Luck my arse.” William said. “They shouldn’t even fucking be here. This whole area should be ours to dig.”  

“We’re from London, Billy. We shouldn’t exactly be here either.” 

Their claim was staked three weeks ago by William, Matthias and John Taylor, their friend currently down the shaft. They’d dug six feet down and had slowly begun the arduous task of digging across, smashing out quartz and placing wooden struts in to keep the thing from collapsing. 

The field was up in the north of Ballarat, the Seventh division, Creswick they called it. The area had been home to miners for a couple of years now, spreading themselves around Ballarat in a desperate search for gold. Their particular claim rest on the field’s northward slope. Looking down the boys could see the land extend into a sea of white tents, crashing and breaking as the rabid dogs fought over the scraps and pissed into the petulant waters that ebbed, then flowed away. Alluvial mining had turned the once clear waters to a dense soup of yellow and brown. Most of the diggers had departed north before the state had separated a few years prior. At the discovery of gold southward, they’d flocked back.  

John was one of the bouncing kind. He’d spent the better part of five years chasing gold across the country and arriving too late. “Fear of missing out” they call it, and he reeked of it. He’d only ever found enough to pay for his journey to the next field. 

“I’m getting nothing down here you bugs” John yelled out from the depths.  

He’d learnt the term “bugs” from a wandering Irishman and took a fancy to it. Now William and Matthias were both synonymously known as “bug” and it was easier to just go with it than to try and point out that John was undoubtedly American, through and through. 

William pulled his billiard pipe out of his trouser pocket and packed it with some cavendish leaf. Striking a lucifer on a small piece of sandpaper he’d recently used to clean the billiard, he puffed deep and settled himself down on a large rock situated directly behind, his feet still clamped firmly in the mire. 

“You can knock it off Johnny,” William yelled back. “I’ve an idea for the morrow” 

At 5am the boys roused themselves from an early night’s sleep with the intention of claim jumping the Chinese shaft. Hopping across the stream that flowed down into the encampment, they approached the hole. 

“Fuck this thing’s dug weird,” John said. “Why have they dug it all round like?” 

“I dunno, but it’s obviously working for them.” William replied. 

“How deep do you reckon?” John threw a small pebble down, but no sound returned. 

“You don’t reckon we’ll get scrag’d for this do ya?” Matthias stuttered. 

“For claim jumping some celestials?” William laughed. “Mate if anything we’ll be applauded. That main bloke and his pall ought to just find another claim Matty. They can fucking take ours.” 

They positioned themselves around the mine in various capacities. John moved himself toward the spare buckets and tools for some quartz smashing duties and William and Matthias both moved toward the rope before stopping and looking at each other. The rope was tied down to a small metal loop sticking out of the ground and extended in the other direction to a wooden a-frame that jutted over the opening, and finally ended at a large pail, about 3ft deep and just as wide. It hung precariously over the bottomless pit, splintered and threatening to rip apart at the first provocation. 

“Down the shaft Matty.” William snapped. “I was down there before John. It’s your turn boy.” 

Matthias knew that wasn’t the case but replied with “yeah alright, sure Billy” all the same and carefully climbed into the bucket as William slowly lowered him downward. 

The dawn’s early rise splayed rays through great gum branches that lit the boys and brought added anxiety to Matthias, while supercharging William’s blood into overdrive. Adrenaline shot directly to his fists as he waited, eagerly for the fight ahead. It had been a while since he’d pounded flesh and he was still haunted by his humiliating beat-down in London before the Pentonville days. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” 

The voice came from a Chinese man appearing from the tent flaps not 30 feet away. He was a portly fellow with a moustache that flowed down past his chin. White as porcelain and wispy as smoke. William recognized him as the leader of the pack. A pack of around four in total, but it was clear this man wasn’t the hard work type. He tended to bark orders at the other three. Some kind of businessman, William guessed. He was still buttoning his trousers as he trudged toward the trio. He yelled something in another language and three more men exited the neighbouring tents in quick succession. They’d camped a short distance from the claim, and they looked prepared to fight for what was theirs. They were all still in their undergarments, bamboo long sleeve tops and bottoms with their box hats roughly pulled on. Their knuckles shined white, hackles raised, and jaws clenched firmly in determined upheaval. 

“Your hole is that way Chinaman.” William stuck a finger toward his old claim. 

“Billy lift me back up!” Matthias yelled from about six feet down the shaft. 

The whole field had begun to fill with diggers all peeling themselves from their tents to continue their work, but they froze in anticipation of the fight about to take place. John grabbed a hatchet from his area and headed over, as William tied Matthias’ bucket back down to free his hands. The Chinese began to move in, backing up their corpulent leader, who was standing slightly ahead. William and John were shoulder to shoulder in front of the hole, about two feet from their adversaries. The fresh air blew a calm resentment between their perpetual gaze as the corella’s shrieked their violent approval. 

“Billy get me the fuck outta here!” Matthias screamed. 

Everyone topside ignored the boy’s anguished pleas. 

“Better move on back where you came from boy.” The Chinese leader said. 

“That’s rich coming from you Chinaman,” William spat back. He slid his left foot forward and raised his fists directly in front of his face, so his vison was partially blocked by his own fingers. “Are we going to have a problem?” 

The man shouted something, and the Chinese moved forward. The first hit clocked John across his jaw, tumbling him backward. William threw his right hand directly toward the diaphragm of the second man and crumpled him over, but this opened him up to the third, who threw a left directly into William’s right kidney. John, still trying to find his footing after the first strike, tripped over the tie-down and landed directly onto the rope suspending Matthias in the shaft. The jolt heaved the bucket upward for a moment, and then, as it begun its sharp descent, it tilted slightly. Matthias’ weight on the wrong side forced the bucket to violently spin, throwing him into the hard rock wall, and plummeting him downward, into the dark. 

## 

William awoke to find himself pressed in bed. The harsh white canvas hurt his eyes as they adjusted to his surroundings. He was in a tent. Hospital he figured from the look of the instruments laid across the table, past the foot of his bed. Long metal utensils used for torture in some circles. The tent was triangular in its construction and peaked directly above his feet. There were a few feet of empty space between the bed and the table and pure emptiness on either side. The emptiness gave him a sense of isolation that he knew too well. He tilted his head over to the left and noticed someone had gone to the trouble of tying the tent flaps all the way from top to bottom. He tried to lift himself from the bed but found his body much heavier than usual. He heaved, shoving his palms into the linen by his sides but found he hadn’t the strength to lift his torso for more than a second. 

The flap on the tent seemingly stretched open to reveal a nurse gliding in toward the bed. She was dressed entirely in white, highlighting her olive skin and deep chestnut eyes. 

“How are you feeling today Mr. Cuthbert?” she said. 

“Where am I?” William snapped. 

“You’re in the doctor’s care Mr. Cuthbert,” She replied casually. 

“Alright,” he replied. “And when can I leave then?” 

“I’m sorry Mr. Cuthbert, but we can’t have you passing the sickness onto other folk” 

“Sickness?” 

“Well yes, you don’t remember?” 

William shook his head. 

“You have typhoid Mr. Cuthbert.” The nurse continued “I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you separate from anyone else until you get over the hump of it.” 

She had a manner that was inviting and warm. Not like the thugs and whores William had been used to. He lost himself in her eyes and could feel she genuinely cared for his wellbeing. 

“Call me Billy,” William said. “How long till I get over it, Nurse…” 

“Montez” the nurse replied. “But you can call me Lola” 

“Alright Lola, so how long does this thing last? How’d I get it?” 

Lola sauntered around the room, lighting incense in golden copper pots. Each was adorned with two Fucanglong dragons wrapped around either side. Three claws arched down and suspended the pot about two inches above the surface of each table. A fourth claw shot out from either dragon and in that claw, they clutched small pearls to act as handles. A single crane perched upon the lid, its neck stretched toward the heavens with both wings outstretched in initiated flight.  

Lola lit each pot and then waved at the smoke. 

“This is some sort of royal treatment,” uttered William. “The folk up at Ophir don’t treat you quite like this” 

“You’ve been to Ophir?” the nurse replied. 

“Yeah sure, made a small fortune up that way before heading south. Place dried up and I’d heard about the gold findings down Ballarat way, so here’s where I came.” 

The Nurse put her hand upon William’s brow, pressed her lips together and made a low hum sound as if to indicate something was wrong. 

“When was the last time you ate, William?” she asked. 

“I don’t remember how I quite got here, let alone when I last…” William was interrupted by a terrible tightening of his chest. He rolled away from the nurse and involuntarily heaved so hard he thought he might burst a vessel in his eyes. He retched and expelled a bright green liquid from the depths of his being out onto the dirt floor. He breathed deep and felt the blood drain from his face as everything turned to white. 

## 

William and Matthias readied themselves at the distant sound of a horse neighing. They were situated on a narrow dirt path heading westbound from Melbourne. Tall gums lined the path and sheltered them from the sun beating down from the north, as well as serving a resting place for the many native birds. William turned the black mare he and Matthias rode to face the sun and dismounted. 

“Alright Matty, you know the drill,” William started toward the tree line. “You keep ‘em occupied and I’ll take up the rear” 

The sound of horse hooves began to draw closer. 

“When’s it your turn to be the bait?” Matthias asked. 

“Fuck off and do your job!” William shot back. 

Matthias was taken aback at the sudden change in tone but was also used to William’s mercurial nature. 

William liberated his 1849 Colt revolver from his breast pocket and took his place amongst the trees, about 100 feet from Matthias. The path was off the main road, an old road by the day’s standards; dusty and narrow. It begun to weave like a snake coiling to attack about 500 feet up the road. William pressed himself into a large, rough, gum tree. The peeling bark dug into his sides, but the bright daylight did nothing to conceal his position, so he pressed in harder. 

From around the bend behind several bottlebrush trees appeared two men, side by side on horses. Upon seeing Matthias and the black mare turned to block the path, one of the men rode forward and lifted a revolver of his own. An older model than Williams, perhaps a Dragoon or a Walker. The light reflected off the barrel and shone Matthias in the eyes. The man looked rough as guts, dishevelled hair, yellowed teeth and a Machiavellian grin that indicated he was actually quite happy about this encounter.  

The second man seemed the exact opposite. He clutched the reigns of his chestnut gelding and tucked in tightly behind. His face was hard and gruff but fearful. A kind of innocent, hard worker that never expected nor experienced violence and wanted none of it. 

“What’s this then?” the thug yelled out. “Fantasies of being a bushranger, eh?” 

Matthias rested his own pistol upon the mane of his horse. “No fantasies chum, you’re being robbed by the legendary Billy Cutthroat” 

William who’d been, very gently, sneaking down the path from behind, screwed up his face in disgust. He’d joked about that nickname with Matthias, but never expected it to be used as an intimidation tactic. 

“Hand over your gold and…” 

Smoke poured out the end of the thug’s pistol and Matthias’ eyes widened. His sidearm dropped as both hands clutched his throat. The mare reared up, throwing Matthias to the dirt with a loud thud before bolting off back toward Melbourne. Matthias’ hands never left his neck as he fell. He made a horrific gurgling noise as the sanguine water poured between his fingers, like someone had opened the floodgates and the river of life was running out. He scrambled his feet in panic through the dust and his eyes begged to be saved from the inevitable doom riding down upon him. 

William took aim from thirty feet back and fired at the thug. He hit nothing. The thug turned his stallion violently around to face him and mid turn, William took another shot. This time he managed to hit the stallion just behind the front leg, dropping it instantly and throwing the scamp forward. The man behind raised his arms in the air and William ran toward him, skidding in the dirt as he halted directly below. The horse had saddle bags loaded with digging gear resting toward its rump. A pick and a shovel stuck out in opposite direction from either side and the man sat frozen atop, looking down at him in panic. William smiled and shoved his colt into the man’s belly, pulling the trigger. He crumpled forward and let himself fall as William grabbed onto the back of his shirt, giving him a helpful pull down. Climbing atop the gelding, he turned it toward Benalla and rode hard. The cold wind stung his face as he pushed the horse into a gallop and a fruitless shot rang out behind him. William rode and rode until the sun dipped below the horizon and the gloaming gave way to stark blackness. 

## 

The doctor entered, peeling the tent entrance apart and sealing it firmly behind him. He checked the incense levels in the pots, making sure they were still burning before turning to face William. William had woken in a pool of sweat. His yellowed sheets were sopping with his stench. The fabric was wearing thin and beginning to tear from the instinctive foetal positioning, most likely caused by the mines being dug in his gut. Or at least that’s how it felt. As he rolled back and forth, the sheets would stick to his flesh and pull at him, like denizens of hell, dragging him under. 

“What the fuck is happening to me doc?” William grunted through clenched teeth. His knees were pressed into his chest again. 

“It’s the typhoid Mr. Cuthbert.” The doctor replied. “Have you taken anything? Before being brought in I mean?” 

“I took some of that rattlesnake oil in town. They said it ought to help with the aches and pains.” 

“Hmm, right.” The doctor moved to the table and unrolled a leather satchel across the bench, revealing metal instruments.  

“Your symptoms are quite severe. Some of the worst I’ve seen. Can you tell me what day it is? Do you know how long you’ve been here?” He asked, taking a long spoon shaped implement from his gear and moving toward William. 

William thought for a moment, but the doctor cut him off before he could hazard a guess. 

“William have you heard that everyone has four humours, or liquids?” The doctor asked. “Blood, Phlegm, Choler and Melancholy. I’m afraid in instances as bad as these, yours are well out of line. You mentioned you took rattlesnake oil in town?” 

William nodded. 

“You see, that certainly should have helped. I’m afraid there’s something else at play here.” He moved closer, brandishing the spoon in Williams face. 

“If you want to live through this Will… do you mind if I call you Will?” 

William nodded again, focusing more on the pain in his abdomen than the words the doctor was saying. 

“Yes, if you want to live through this Will, you’re going to have to trust me. I’m going to realign those humours, but it’s not going to be pleasant. You’re going to have to work with me here Will. Do you think you can do that?” 

The doctor wore a grin like a hungry snake. Mouth wide and teeth barred, hissing at William in a tone that tried to sound like concern, but struggled with its own eagerness and trepidation. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike. 

“Ok.” The doctor let out a sigh and straightened up. “The first humour I want to work on is the Phlegm. I’m going to remove as much as I can as you have an excess it seems. I need you to roll onto your back Will and open up. This is going to be a tad uncomfortable, but you’ll feel much better in no time, I’m sure.” 

William did as he was told, slowly forcing his knees down so his calves stuck to the bed. The cold metallic tool slid past his tongue, making him gag. The doctor pressed his hand against William’s forehead to keep him still and began to gouge away, scooping out chunks of yellow that soon gave way to red. William choked and fought as much as he could, but the bed sheets wrapped around his arms and restricted his movement. He tried to focus on something, anything. He found a spot on the white canvas and stared into it. Trying to forget the yellow and the red, he stared for white. Until all that existed was white. Until he was in the white. 

## 

William Cuthbert and Matthias Clarke arrived in Port Phillip, New South Wales on the 3rd of February 1849 on The Eden. A barque merchant ship built on the Thames, now repurposed to move “Exiles” from London. As secure as the boat was, the crew weren’t. There were over two hundred men crammed into its belly, and every last nerve of every last man was worn away by insufficient personal space. One of the convicts beat another to death, smashing his knuckles through cheekbones because the man was “unbearable to listen to anymore”. 

 Ten thousand people flocked the streets of Port Phillip that morning to protest the arrival of convicts in an otherwise convict-less district. William and Matthias, being led off the ship, could feel the disdain in the air. It was thick and hot and stuck in their ears, telling them how unwanted they were. They walked up the beachfront with one hundred and ninety-seven other men under the hot sun. The sound of the cicadas nearly outmatched the yells of protest as William and Matthias followed the footprints in the sand ahead of them. 

The top of the beach gave way to a wide dirt road supressed by pavement and lined with barber shops, pubs and an assortment of other small businesses. On a small empty block off to the left of the street rested a large tent that could easily be mistaken for a makeshift hospital. 

“So what do you reckon, Billy?” Matthias asked, nervously eyeing the crowd. 

“About what?” 

“About the free lodgings and food? Are you goin’ to take the offer?” Matthias stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and pulled his shoulders in as if he were cold. 

“Matthias, we had lodgings and food in prison. We had it sitting there in the dark for two goddamned years. All alone for what?” William spat. 

“To meditate on our sins” 

“Ah, you bought into the shit, did you? This was my ticket to a new life and by God if I’m goin’ to start that at the beck and call of some other” 

“Well what then? What’s your plan? Become a sneaksman in the night?” Matthias laughed. 

“I haven’t a plan other than my freedom. I’m a half decent carpenter, I’m sure work’ll find me plenty. What’s your trade again?” 

“Shoe making” Matthias replied, scratching his head. “You can take your freedom Billy. I’m thinkin’ I might take the easy route. Things have been hard enough.” 

They arrived at the tent and took their place in line. The men were being herded past a table to sign their names away, and then out the back to be allocated jobs based on trades either learnt in prison or back home. William and Matthias stopped at the flimsy wooden table, side by side. 

“When am I free to go?” William scoffed at the official standing behind the table. He was a clean-cut man, shaved and proper, wearing a suit and sweating because of it. 

“You received your pardon prior to disembarking.” He shot back. “If you don’t want work, you’re free to go. But don’t expect any help from the crown. You’ll be on your own.” 

“Just how I like it” William smiled. He turned to Matthias and patted him on the back, “Have a good life Matty.” 

With that he exited the tent the way he came in, pushing past the other exiles and out into the street. He breathed deep, turned, and strode off at a brisk pace.  

A couple of the men broke off from the mass of seething hatred, noticing William’s untenable departure. They’d been digging fence posts in a nearby field when they heard the crowd of protesters and followed the sound into town, tools in hand. 

William turned a corner and headed further away from the business district and into the residential. He hadn’t a cent to his name and no food, but figured with everyone gathered at the waterfront, he might be able to steal his way to a new start. 

The street sloped uphill and was lined with wispy ironwood trees on either side. He came across a small workers cottage toward the end of the road, weatherboard and a little worse for wear. The tin roof was rusting, and the gutters drooped in places. A splintered decking out front finished the image of dilapidation and the picket gate had been left ajar, giving William the impression that no one was home. He moved his right leg up the step to begin walking the tile path toward the front door, when he heard it come from his left. 

“Hey you fuckin’ pebble!” 

William turned in time to see the blackened bottom of a shovel swing across and into his face. 

## 

William woke with searing pain in his throat. It felt like someone had scraped his throat raw, and then he remembered the doctor had. He managed to pry himself up and, sitting on the bed, looked around the room. The tent seemed smaller now. Much smaller. The table at the other end of the room was practically touching the foot of the bed, and the entrance seemed almost close enough to touch. William eased himself onto his feet, balanced into a stance and attempted a step toward the exit. His legs gave way and he came crashing down, slamming his elbow on the side of the bed. Small drops of blood landed on the dirt and seemed to bury themselves as the sandy matter covered over, like dropping lead into quicksand. The days and weeks had all merged and he had no idea how long he’d been in that bed. Long enough for his legs to forget their use, it seemed.  

He crawled, dragging his motionless bottom half ever closer to freedom, but as he grasped the tight canvas fly and ripped it open, he discovered a wall of pure quartz before him. It shone bright and hurt his eyes. Slowly it begun to illuminate further until William pulled the fabric back together. He turned his body around and found the opposite wall of the tent rush forward and stop, placing itself against the bed, as if it had always been there. His area was now infinitesimal. Nothing but his resting place, the table at its foot and enough space for standing between the bed and the entrance. He gripped onto the bed and heaved himself up, his legs still dragging beneath him. In it lay a man with a creased face. Eyes sullen and dark, sinking almost impossibly into his skull. His skin was pale, and he opened his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. William forced himself backward, clenching his eyes shut, toppling over his hopeless legs and landing on his back, in the dirt. 

In time, he pried his eyes open and found himself back in bed, the doctor looming over him. He glanced down at the sudden pain and heat coming from his left arm to find the doctor struggling with a brass square object. He pulled at the contraption and William’s skin, sticking to it, ripped away. The object had nine blades sticking out the end as the doc furiously tinkered with it. 

“The blades are meant to go back in automatically.” Doc muttered to himself. 

“What have you done to me?” William managed to rasp out. 

The doctor leaned in so close William could smell the Kangaroo steamer on his breath. He grinned maniacally and said “Blood, William. The next humour to balance out.” 

“What happened to the nurse?” William whispered as he felt the blood pour from his body. He preferred her to this cretin. 

“Do you mean James, my orderly?” The doctor asked. “In the four weeks you’ve been here, We’re the only two you’ve seen.” 

“Nurse Montez,” William forced the words through his savaged throat. “Lola.” 

“Lola Montez!?” The doctor laughed. “The famous dancer? Alright, Will.” 

William felt tired. The blood kept spilling from the nine slits across his forearm and it seemed to him that the tent crept in closer. His eyes lazily rolled around the room. The doctor had seemingly disappeared, and the tent kept advancing. He could almost reach the roof at this point, if he could raise his arms. He thought back to Matthias. When did he see him last? He couldn’t recall. He was a pain in the arse, but he was a good kid. What had happened to him?  

The tent lowered and tightened. The entrance, the quartz wall, they were pushing against the bed now and the roof was inches from William’s face. He wondered if his crew had managed to find gold without him, Johnny and the other kid. What was his name? 

William cocked his head to the left and took a deep breath before the tent wrapped around his body and squeezed. Enveloped in white. Nothing but white. One with the white. 

 

The End.