Night Ride into Danger

by Jackie French

  ‘Where’s Mr Smith?’ Jem asked.

  ‘Gone to get more water. He’s funny. He was just sitting out here looking up at the moon, and smiling.’

  Jem wondered if Mr Smith had ever seen the moon in prison. ‘You’re not scared of him?’

  Juanita considered. ‘No.’ She grinned at Jem. ‘Anyway, Sis put the pistol I took from him in our carpetbag. Only one of them’s loaded — the one I took. Mr Smith couldn’t have shot any of us with his empty pistol.’

  Jem nodded. Mr Smith had shot Lady Anne, and he hadn’t seen him reload. Could he have reloaded the other pistol down at the stream? No. Mr Smith would need shot and wadding, a brush and powder flask — all in his carpetbag probably, and his carpetbag was still on the coach.

  Jem blinked. That loaded pistol was in the bag Juanita carried now.

  He regarded her cautiously. What if Ma Grimsby was right? What if natives did hold cannibal feasts? Except . . . except Amos Bighands was one of the grooms at Goulburn, and he was a native. Jem had known him for years. Cobb & Co employed lots of native grooms. Jem was sure they’d never eaten anyone . . .

  He realised that Juanita was looking at him strangely, too.

  ‘Don’t Red Indians scalp people?’ she asked, a little too carelessly.

  ‘Paw said white people took scalps,’ said Jem. ‘Maybe it’s something everyone does in America.’

  ‘I heard that the Indians are cannibals,’ Juanita offered.

  ‘I don’t think they are,’ said Jem warily. ‘Maw told me stories about how warriors would hunt buffalo — they’re like giant bullocks. Maw said the herds of buffalo were so big you couldn’t see the horizon. I don’t think people who hunt buffalo would bother eating people. Maybe being a cannibal is one of those things you say about people you don’t like. Maybe . . . maybe there have never been any cannibals . . .’

  ‘Yes, there have,’ said Juanita firmly. ‘I read it in the newspaper. There were those convicts who escaped in Van Diemen’s Land and ate each other.’

  ‘But they were English. I’ve never heard anyone say English people are cannibals.’

  ‘What else did your mother say about Red Indians?’ asked Juanita, more thoughtfully now.

  ‘How when you were made a man you got to wear an eagle feather. And stories, like how Balapooshe led people down from the sky to earth.’ None of the other students at the penny school where Jem had gone for a couple of years to get his letters when Maw was alive had known stories like that, he realised. Their stories were of Irish leprechauns who left pots of gold at the ends of rainbows — he and his friends had spent hours chasing rainbows to try to find that gold — or English elves or fairies who kept the cows’ milk sweet if you left them out a saucer full, or made it turn sour if you didn’t.

  It were as if the night suddenly did a somersault. I’m part-Indian, he thought, but I’m exactly who I was this afternoon. Except I’m not — I’ve become the boy who drove a coach and four and defied a bushranger.

  And the demure and insignificant Juanita had become a girl who would clamber out of a coach window to steal a bushranger’s pistol so a woman could have her baby on firm ground, not in a wildly rocking coach.

  He tried to count up all his ancestors who weren’t Red Indian, all of Juanita’s who weren’t native, then gave up. There were too many of them. Who had they been? What had they been like? All different, probably, and he might be a bit like some of them. But most of all he was just himself.

  He sat on a rock, ignoring its coldness. Juanita sat on another as the horses moved around slowly, still hobbled, looking for more grass or tussocks.

  ‘How far have you travelled with . . .’ Jem wasn’t sure whether to say your mother or your sister so he just said, ‘the señorita? You must have seen all over Australia.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Juanita. ‘We mostly see the inside of coaches and sometimes boats and lodging houses and theatres. We’ve been to Hobart and Launceston and Ballarat and Bendigo and Melbourne and Gulgong and Gundagai and Newcastle and dozens of other towns and you know what? The boarding houses are almost all the same and the view from the coach is mostly trees and farm houses and sheep or wheat or cows and all you can see from boats is water and the distant shore. There’s always the next theatre to get to and the next, so we don’t get time to look around. The lodging houses mostly just serve Irish stew. I hate Irish stew.’

  ‘I hate Irish stew too,’ said Jem gloomily, thinking of their next meal when they arrived in Goulburn. ‘When me and Paw have our farm we’re never going to have Irish stew again. Paw and I never get to see anywhere either, just this road time after time. Sometimes I see the river through the trees and I think, I could go fishing, but the coach can’t stop, except for mail or passengers. But you said men keep wanting to marry Señorita Rodriques. Don’t they ask you to go to dinners and parties and picnics?’

  Mrs Pickle gave an even longer shriek. Juanita waited till it was over before answering. ‘They ask, but we don’t go. There’s a note with flowers, or sometimes a bracelet or necklace and even a little gold nugget once, but we’re always off the day after the last performance. Sis can’t afford to turn down work. Being twenty-two only works now because she’s up on the stage with lights and make-up and the audience is way down on the other side.’

  Juanita glanced at Jem. ‘And I have to keep fastening her corset tighter and tighter. But we’ve saved nearly half of what we need.’

  ‘It sounds boring,’ said Jem frankly.

  ‘Sometimes there’s interesting people on the coach or at the theatre. I met a man with a monkey once — the man sings and the monkey dances. And there was a poet on a coach with us last year — he recited his poems all the way to Gulgong.’

  ‘Were they interesting?’

  ‘Not very. I’d like to write a diary but they’d get too heavy to take with us.’ She looked wistful. ‘You hear wonderful stories on the coach trips, Irish orphans off to marry men they’ve never met and a Russian prince, well, he said he was a prince, and a Californian gold miner who’d booked a seat for his wife’s ghost because she always travelled with him.’

  Jem stared. ‘He thought her ghost was in the coach?’

  ‘Oh yes. She even gave Sis a recipe for cornbread. Well, her husband passed it on.’

  ‘Paw loves cornbread. Maw used to make it.’

  ‘Sis made some last holiday. It was good. Now and then there’s a passenger who can read and will lend us their book or newspaper or magazine. I read whenever there’s no mending to do, but there’s usually mending — Sis wears a lot of holes in her stockings. We can’t keep many books, of course, so sometimes we buy a couple of second-hand ones if there’s a market near the theatre and trade them for other books later on. Sometimes there’s penny libraries too. I can use those as long as I finish a book before we leave or if we’re passing back that way again. I borrowed three books at the penny library in Goulburn. Do you ever take your encyclopaedia with you to read on the way?’

  Another cry, louder than the one before, and for even longer, too. Jem tried not to listen. ‘No. There’s too much wind to read up top. I whittle sometimes — I carved Paw a pipe last year — but it’s easy for the knife to slip when it’s bumpy. Mostly Paw and I talk.’

  ‘You and your dad? But he hardly says anything!’

  ‘He doesn’t talk to strangers much. But he tells me about horses, and how to tell good land from bad and makes me do my times tables. Sometimes we have a spelling competition.’

  ‘I bet I could beat you at spelling.’

  Jem grinned at her. ‘You could try. We could have a proper spelling bee one day.’ Except he’d probably never see Juanita again after they reached Goulburn, he realised with a pang. ‘Are you staying in Goulburn long?’

  Juanita shook her head. ‘We have tickets on the morning train. Sis has two weeks at a big variety theatre in Sydney.’ She shut her eyes. ‘I know exactly what our cottage is going to be like. It’s going to have blue curtains and a blue
flowered sofa and a big, enclosed iron stove and a water pump right in the kitchen so no one has to fetch the water and we can have as many baths as we want. And we’ll have a Coolgardie safe on the verandah . . .’

  ‘I’m going to have a bedroom of my own when we have our place,’ said Jem.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And a proper bed, not a truckle.’

  ‘And hens so we can have as many eggs as we want and roast rooster on Sundays,’ said Juanita, ‘and a Jersey cow with big brown eyes for milk and butter, and a strawberry patch.’

  ‘We’re going to breed some big horses as well as the horses for Cobb & Co, because Paw says with the railway extending there won’t be the same need for swift coach horses, but big horses to pull brewery carts and water carts will always be needed.’

  ‘We’re going to have cherry trees and apple trees,’ said Juanita dreamily.

  ‘And a creek with a pool deep enough to swim in,’ said Jem.

  ‘And peach trees and apricots —’ Juanita stopped. ‘What’s that?’ she whispered, pointing to a dark shape slowly moving under the trees.

  ‘It’s a wombat. Ain’t you ever seen one before?’

  Juanita shook her head. ‘They only come out at night, don’t they? I’m either in a coach or a train going fast, or at a theatre or lodgings at night. Do wombats bite?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jem. He grinned as she drew her legs up onto the rock. ‘But mostly grass, unless they’re protecting their babies or you frighten one.’

  A shriek ripped the air from over by the coach. Mr Smith appeared, carrying the empty tub. ‘Time to hitch the horses, lad.’

  ‘But Mrs Pickle is still . . . I mean the baby isn’t born yet,’ said Jem.

  ‘Can’t be long now. I want us ready to go as soon as she can travel.’ Mr Smith grinned at the wombat. ‘Have you two found a friend?’

  The wombat ignored him, slowly munching its way closer.

  ‘Come on, lad. I’ll help with the harnessing.’ Mr Smith bent and removed the hobbles from the closest horse. He took hold of the collar and led him back to the pile of traces and bridles. The horse turned obediently, with the resigned look of an animal who knows what is going to happen next, and that he may as well put up with it as there’d be oats at the end of the journey.

  Jem took off King Rex’s hobble and led him to the coach, then peered inside. Paw seemed to be asleep again, his breathing even.

  Mr Pickle appeared beside him. ‘I knew a man once got a bump on the head. Seemed fine he did, then just dropped dead the next day.’

  Jem stared at him in horror.

  ‘Pay no heed to him, lad,’ said Mr Smith testily. ‘Go and hold your wife’s hand, Pickle.’

  ‘The women don’t want me there,’ said Mr Pickle simply.

  ‘Wonder why that is?’ muttered Mr Smith, stroking Dusk’s nose. ‘Ah, you’re a fine fellow . . .’

  A scream echoed up to the sky and through the trees, so loud and long the moon seemed to shudder. Suddenly there was silence. Jem could hear the wombat munching again. Mr Pickle grasped the coach, terrified, his mouth open, as if he were too scared to speak the question he longed to ask.

  The wombat moved closer, unaware of four horses, a coach and all the human drama.

  ‘Should give that wombat a name,’ said Mr Smith quickly, obviously trying to distract Jem and Juanita.

  ‘What’s a good name for a wombat?’ asked Jem, playing along.

  A baby cried on the other side of the coach.

  ‘Patrick!’ cried Mrs Pickle’s voice hoarsely. ‘His name is Patrick.’

  ‘Violet!’ yelled Mr Pickle, racing round the coach.

  ‘I reckon that wombat’s name is Patrick too,’ said Jem, as he and Juanita and Mr Smith followed Mr Pickle around the coach.

  ‘You stop right there,’ Señorita Rodriques — or Carmel Jones — stepped around the makeshift screen. ‘Mr Pickle, you wait till Miss Lee tells you everything has been tidied up. I’m going to check on Mr Donovan and see if we can make him a bit more comfortable for the journey. Mr Pickle, you can support your wife and baby on one of the seats inside, so Mrs Pickle can have her feet up.’

  ‘She . . . she’s all right?’ stammered Mr Pickle.

  ‘Absolutely fine, and so is your son. A big fellow, too.’

  ‘Paw’s sleeping,’ said Jem. ‘But he was talking earlier.’

  ‘Making sense?’ asked Señorita Rodriques quickly.

  ‘Yes. Juanita gave him a cup of tea and a biscuit too.’

  Señorita Rodriques frowned. ‘He didn’t bring them up?’

  ‘No ma’am.’

  Señorita Rodriques shut her eyes briefly in relief.

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Smith sharply. ‘Into the coach, everyone.’

  Señorita Rodriques met his eyes. ‘Another twenty minutes,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ said Mr Smith resignedly. ‘But everyone will be ready to go the moment Mrs Pickle is in that coach. Pickle, your wife will be as comfortable lying on the coach seat as on the ground.’

  Jem wasn’t sure that the bumping coach would be what Mrs Pickle needed right after having a baby. But nor should she stay here on the chill ground in the middle of winter. The tinny air seemed to eat the heat of the fire. He kicked earth over the flames quickly while Mr Smith put the tub back on top of the coach.

  Twenty minutes later a beaming Mr Pickle helped his wife into the coach. Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed, but she looked deeply, unalterably happy. The baby in her arms was wrapped in a Spanish shawl. Jem peered at it. Its face was red and splotchy and screwed up like a raisin.

  He moved closer to Señorita Rodriques. ‘What’s wrong with the baby?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said indignantly. ‘He’s a handsome boy!’

  ‘But he’s all red.’

  ‘That’s what babies look like, mostly, Miss Lee says. You were wonderful,’ she added to the Chinese woman, wearing her man’s coat again and holding a top hat.

  ‘Is best happen for me in Australia,’ said Miss Lee, smiling for the first time. ‘Help another woman have baby. Be woman with other woman.’ She looked down at herself sadly. ‘Wish I meet husband as woman.’

  Miss Rodriques smiled. ‘I think we can do something about that.’

  ‘Not here you can’t,’ said Mr Smith grimly. ‘Everyone get on the coach. Now.’

  ‘Which is just what we’re doing,’ said Señorita Rodriques. ‘Mrs Pickle needs a comfortable bed and good food, and so does Mr Donovan. He needs a doctor too, and we won’t find any of those till we get to Goulburn, so the sooner the better.’

  ‘And the mailbags have to get on the train or we pay a penalty,’ came Paw’s voice from inside the coach.

  Jem turned to Mr Smith. ‘I’ll get you there as soon as I can. But not because you threatened me.’

  Mr Smith took a deep breath. ‘I know that, lad,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE DAWN

  The mist sat in faint layers between the coach and the stars, then vanished altogether as the horses trotted up the track. Jem’s hands grew cold again, and his feet, especially the one on the brake lever.

  But there was no time to think of that: he just had to peer into the dimness for ice, or a wandering Patrick — he would never think of them as wombats again — who might upset the horses as they tried to shy away.

  Kangaroos peered at them from the trees on either side, and miserable sheep the colour of mud. Jem slowed as they came to the first gate. Mr Smith hopped down and opened it; Jem drove through, then waited for Mr Smith to clamber on board again.

  ‘All all right back there?’ Jem shouted.

  ‘Fine and dandy!’ called Mr Pickle.

  Juanita’s head peered up at him. ‘Your dad’s sleeping. Sis gave him more potion to ease the pain from all the bouncing.’

  Jem nodded. He wished he could make the coach sway less, but speed always came with bumps and thuds. He cracked the whip as Mr Smith took h
is seat and fastened his lap belt again. The horses flattened their ears and King Rex whinnied. This was not how the night was supposed to go, and the horses knew it. But they gained their stride again.

  Through the second gate, past a logging camp, a small fire still glowing red enough to see the piled timber, the damp tents where the workers must be sleeping.

  The stars vanished slowly as black sky turned to grey. The east blazed pink and gold, but the two remaining coach lights still shone brightly as the horses maintained their pace. These horses had been bred and trained for fast journeys and short distances, but even with double the distance tonight, and the death of their teammate, they had been rested, and they still trusted the guidance of their driver.

  But it’s not enough, thought Jem, looking at the tight face of the man next to him as he glanced at Paw’s pocket watch. It was still fifteen miles perhaps to Goulburn, and there were only about two hours to get to the train station in time.

  The horses could easily do ten miles an hour, even tired, and the coming daylight would make the way easier, but it would come at a price. Soon there’d be small farms, and carts and stock on the road, all of which would slow them down, even make them stop while a herd of cows ambled to the dairy.

  Jem had never driven with other traffic.

  Yet he didn’t ask Mr Smith what time it was. Knowing the exact time would make no difference, for he would still urge the team to pound the ground as fast as they safely could.

  He’d have to hope everyone in front of them would hear Mr Smith blowing the bugle, and get to the side of the road fast. But even then he’d need to dodge them, for the way was rarely wide enough to pass easily. He’d need to slow at every corner, in case a mob of cows was round the bend, watch out for dogs who might chase the coach or even nip the horses’ legs, for stray goats . . . even driving in darkness had been easier than the stretch of road in front of him.