For fifteen miles the rough sheet of iron had jarred and bounced over the ground behind the team of draft horses, scarring the mud with deep gouges which would still be visible years later, even in the grass of other seasons. But it seemed they could go no farther; the swirling creek would keep them on its far side, with Drogheda only a mile away. They stood staring at the tops of the ghost gums, clearly visible even in the rain.
"I have an idea," said Bob, turning to Father Ralph. "Father, you're the only one on a fresh horse; it will have to be you. Ours will only swim the creek oncethey've got no more in them after the mud and the cold. Go back and find some empty forty-four-gallon drums, and seal their lids shut so they can't possibly leak or slip off. Solder them if necessary. We'll need twelve of them, ten if you can't find more. Tie them together and bring them back across the creek. We'll lash them under the iron and float it across like a barge."
Father Ralph did as he was told without question; it was a better idea than any he had to offer. Dominic O'Rourke of Dibban-Dibban had ridden in with two of his sons; he was a neighbor and not far away as distances went. When Father Ralph explained what had to be done they set about it quickly, scouring the sheds for empty drums, tipping chaff and oats out of drums empty of petrol but in use for storage, searching for lids, soldering the lids to the drums if they were rustfree and looked likely to withstand the battering they would get in the water. The rain was still falling, falling. It wouldn't stop for another two days.
"Dominic, I hate to ask it of you, but when these people come in they're going to be half dead. We'll have to hold the funerals tomorrow, and even if the Gilly undertaker could make the coffins in time, we'd never get them out through the mud. Can any of you have a go at making a couple of coffins? I only need one man to swim the creek with me."
The O'Rourke sons nodded; they didn't want to see what the fire had done to Paddy or the boar to Stuart.
"We'll do it, Dad," said Liam.
Dragging the drums behind their horses, Father Ralph and Dominic O'Rourke rode down to the creek and swam it.
"There's one thing, Father!" shouted Dominic. "We don't have to dig graves in this bloody mud! I used to think old Mary was putting on the dog a bit too much when she put a marble vault in her backyard for Michael, but right at this minute if she was here, I'd kiss her!"
"Too right!" yelled Father Ralph.
They lashed the drums under the sheet of iron, six on either side, tied the canvas shroud down firmly, and swam the exhausted draft horses across on the rope which would finally tow the raft. Dominic and Tom sat astride the great beasts, and at the top of the Drogheda-side bank paused, looking back, while those still marooned hooked up the makeshift barge, pushed it to the bank and shoved it in. The draft horses began walking, Tom and Dominic cooeeing shrilly as the raft began to float. It bobbed and wallowed badly, but it stayed afloat long enough to be hauled out safely; rather than waste time dismantling the pontoons, the two impromptu postilions urged their mounts up the track toward the big house, the sheet of iron sliding along on its drums better than it had without them.
There was a ramp up to great doors at the baling end of the shearing shed, so they put the raft and its burden in the huge empty building amid the reeks of tar, sweat, lanolin and dung. Muffled in oilskins, Minnie and Cat had come down from the big house to take first vigil, and knelt one on either side of the iron bier, rosary beads clicking, voices rising and falling in cadences too well known to need the effort of memory.
The house was filling up. Duncan Gordon had arrived from Each-Uisge, Gareth Davies from Narrengang, Horry Hopeton from Beel-Beel, Eden Carmichael from Barcoola. Old Angus MacQueen had flagged down one of the ambling local goods trains and ridden with the engine driver to Gilly, where he borrowed a horse from Harry Gough and rode out with him. He had covered over two hundred miles of mud, one way or another. "I'm wiped out, Father," Horry said to the priest later as the seven of them sat in the small dining room eating steak-and-kidney pie. "The fire went through me from one end to the other and left hardly a sheep alive or a tree green. Lucky the last few years have been good is all I can say. I can afford to restock, and if this rain keeps up the grass will come back real quick. But heaven help us from another disaster during the next ten years, Father, because I won't have anything put aside to meet it. "Well, you're smaller than me, Horry," Gareth Davies said, cutting into Mrs. Smith's meltingly light flaky pastry with evident enjoyment. Nothing in the line of disasters could depress a black-soil plainsman's appetite for long; he needed his food to meet them. "I reckon I lost about half of my acreage, and maybe twothirds of my sheep, worse luck. Father, we need your prayers."
"Aye," said old Angus. "I wasna sae hard hit as wee Horry and Garry, Father, but bad enough for a" that. I lost sixty thoosand of ma acres, and half ma wee sheep. "Tis times like this, Father, make me wish I hadna left Skye as a young laddie."
Father Ralph smiled. "It's a passing wish, Angus, you know that. You left Skye for the same reason I left Clunamara. It was too small for you." "Aye, nae Boot. The heather. doesna make sic a bonnie blaze as the gums, eh, Father?"
