Do You Dare? Bushranger's Boys

by Alison Lloyd

  Tommy was laughing. ‘Possum boy!’ he said.

  Jem laid a finger to his lips. ‘Shh! Can you help me out, Tommy?’

  ‘Sure, Mr Jem.’ Tommy smiled at him.

  Jem patted him on the back. Tommy was good to have as a friend, Jem thought – he liked to fit in with everybody and everybody to fit in with each other. Jem put the cheese and the flour in the bucket. ‘Take these. They’re for Mr Westwood,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll get them later.’

  Tommy took the bucket and gave a thumbs up. He walked calmly away across the paddock. Jem wondered whether Tommy realised the food was stolen. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t fair or honest to put Tommy’s people at risk. The Captain would take it out on them if he knew. Maybe he would drive them away, or worse. Hopefully the Captain wouldn’t find out.

  Jem went to join the muster. He lined up behind the men in the yard. His eyes met Alfie’s as he came out of the laundry. Jem nodded very slightly.

  Captain Ross stood on the verandah, like he was still commanding a ship. He had a short whip tucked under his arm. He went through a rollcall, starting with Mr Blain, and ending with Jem.

  ‘Yes, sir!’, ‘Yes, sir!’, ‘Yes sir!’ they answered.

  ‘I will not, WILL NOT, tolerate STEALING on this Station,’ said the Captain. ‘Not by man, woman or child.’

  Jem felt as if the words were directed straight at him. He looked at the ground. He didn’t want to meet the Captain’s glare. He was afraid the Captain would see into his heart and know he was guilty.

  ‘Today,’ the Captain continued, ‘the storeroom has been broken into. Supplies have been stolen. If the thief owns up now, his punishment will be twenty lashes.’ The Captain paused. Everyone’s eyes went to the whip under the Captain’s arm. ‘If he does not come forward,’ the Captain continued, ‘he will get fifty.’

  Jem shivered. Twenty lashes was a lot. But fifty – that was the most a convict could be given.

  ‘Mr Blain and I will make a thorough search of all quarters,’ said the Captain. ‘You are to remain in the yard until we are finished. Now is the criminal’s last chance to confess.’

  All the men were silent. Jem fixed his eyes on a dead weed by the pump.

  ‘Come on now,’ said Mr Blain. ‘Let’s have this over with. Short and sweet, hey?’

  But of course the men were quiet. Jem shot a look at Alfie. Alfie was chewing his lip. He looked miserable. But he kept his mouth shut.

  Mr Blain went up to the Captain and spoke softly. The Captain gave Mrs Goods and Alfie a surprised stare. Then he nodded.

  They began the search with Alfie’s hut. Mrs Goods gasped and looked very offended. Alfie looked like he might cry. Jem wished he could say something without giving himself away.

  Somehow Alfie held his nerve, even when Mr Blain tossed their blankets into the yard. A few long minutes later, the Captain and Mr Blain came out empty-handed. They went on to the stockmens’ lean-to, and then the stable.

  The wind whistled around the corners of the buildings and across the yard. The men stamped their feet and blew on their hands. Mrs Goods began to huff impatiently. She jingled the keys in her pocket. Jem saw Alfie wince at the sound.

  Eventually the Captain and the overseer returned.

  ‘One of you is guilty,’ said the Captain. ‘If you won’t own up, I will make an example of someone at random.’ The Captain pointed to the stockman next to Jem. ‘Five lashes for him, Mr Blain.’

  The stockman’s head jerked up.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘It could of been the Aborigines as broke in.’

  Shut up, you idiot, thought Jem. Can’t you just take it?

  The Captain tapped his boot thoughtfully with his whip.

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ said Mr Blain. ‘They steal cattle and sheep, all right. But they’re not smart enough to open a padlock. That takes keys.’

  Jem felt a flash of hate. He despised Mr Blain for thinking Tommy and his people were dumb. But he was also uneasy. Everyone knew cheese and flour weren’t bush tucker. He and Alfie had to make sure nobody from the Station saw Tommy with the stolen food.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied the Captain. ‘Five lashes, all the same,’ he ordered. ‘Then you are dismissed.’

  The Captain turned on his heel and went inside.

  9

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Alfie said as soon as they returned to the laundry. Jem knew he wasn’t talking about the washing. The swish of Mr Blain’s whip was still sounding in their ears.

  ‘Don’t growl at me, Jem. I’m telling you honest, because we’re mates. That wasn’t fair.’

  ‘It could’ve been worse,’ Jem argued. ‘Mr Blain went easy on him because the Captain wasn’t there. We did it to help Westwood and Horatio stay alive.’

  Alfie dumped an armful of frilly cloth into the copper. He chewed his lip as he stirred it into the water.

  ‘I know that. But, Jem, can’t you see that stealing makes trouble? Don’t you know how bad it is to be on the wrong side of the law?’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Jem. His dad didn’t talk about being a convict, but Jem had seen the scars criss-crossing his back. ‘Don’t carp at me, Alfie,’ he said irritably. He was feeling bad himself for what had happened to the stockman and he didn’t need Alfie to rub it in.

  ‘So how could they miss the stuff?’ Alfie demanded. ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘Gone,’ said Jem. ‘Tommy took it. But we’ve got to move it up to the fort, first chance we get.’

  Jem and Alfie did not get any time away from their chores until the next day. While Mrs Goods was baking they slunk around the back of the stables. Then they sprinted down to Tommy’s camp.

  Tommy was watching an old man carving a wooden spear. Jem would have liked to watch too, but he felt uncomfortable with the Aborigines watching him, even though they smiled.

  Tommy went to a hollow tree and pulled the bucket out. Jem brushed ants off the flour bag. It was emptier than before.

  Tommy patted his bare stomach. ‘Good tucker.’

  Jem was about to say ‘the flour wasn’t yours’, but then he thought, whose was it? May as well share it around.

  Alfie tucked the cheese under his arm. Jem slung the bag over his shoulder. Tommy got a wooden coolamon full of water, and a bark package full of bush medicine that he said was to put on the horse’s leg. Then the three of them hurried along the bank of the creek, where they were half-hidden by the trees.

  At the fort, Horatio galloped from one boy to another like she’d gone mad. She cheered Jem up straightaway. There was nothing like a dog for making you feel wanted, Jem thought. It was good to be back in the fort, where he and the boys were kings of their castle. Not a dirty rascal, as the Captain made him feel.

  They hauled up the big kettle and presented Westwood with the flour, the cheese and the water.

  ‘Well, boys!’ Westwood exclaimed. ‘This is flash. We can live like lords on this.’

  Jem smiled. It wasn’t hard to imagine Westwood as a lord, in the red velvet jacket.

  ‘Did anyone follow you?’ The bushranger looked into each of their faces, like he was trying to see whether they could be trusted.

  ‘No.’ They all shook their heads. Westwood looked down the hill and over the plain to check, just in case.

  ‘Good lads.’

  Tommy started a small fire. Westwood made dough on a piece of bark. Jem tried to keep Horatio’s nose out so they didn’t get dog drool in the damper.

  ‘Mr Westwood,’ Jem asked, ‘how long will you stay here?’

  ‘You want me to move on?’

  Jem shook his head. If the bushranger left, who would look after Horatio? Besides, Jem thought, the fort would seem empty without him. Jem liked Westwood. He was bold and friendly and free to do as he pleased, not like Jem’s father or the men on the Station.

  ‘My horse is almost good,’ the bushranger said. ‘Later perhaps I’ll push into the mountains. For now I
think I’ll stay put. If the law does find me here, I could hold them off. For a while anyway.’

  Alfie’s eyes widened. ‘Through the firing slits?’

  Westwood nodded. ‘Not the best, being on the wrong end of a muzzle.’ He sighed.

  Westwood moved the dough up high on a rock, out of Horatio’s reach. Her tail stopped wagging and her ears drooped. Jem laughed.

  But Westwood looked serious. ‘Time to check the barking irons,’ he said. ‘Hold the puppy back.’

  Jem did as the bushranger asked. Westwood took the pistols out of his waistband and laid them in front of him. Then he took a pouch from his pocket and removed a small pointy stone, a needle and a scrap of cloth.

  ‘What are they for?’ Alfie asked.

  ‘Cleaning. Australia’s a dusty country,’ Westwood said. He blew on the trigger piece.

  Tommy flinched, as if he expected the gun to go off.

  Alfie leaned forwards. ‘What does that do?’ he asked.

  Westwood explained: the stone was for sharpening the flint. When the trigger was pulled, the flint sparked against the pan and lit the powder there. The flame burst through the touch-hole into the barrel, and BAM! As long as the touch-hole wasn’t clogged up. Otherwise, no big bang and no shot.

  ‘And who wants that?’ the bushranger said. ‘Just a flash in the pan that does nothing, except give the other man time to shoot you.’ He gave a short laugh. But it wasn’t a happy one. ‘I hope to God that isn’t how I go.’

  Alfie was looking at the pistols with wonder. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the trigger sets off the hammer and moves the cover, so the spark can ignite the pan, which ignites the charge? What a wonderful mechanism!’

  Jem and Westwood laughed at Alfie’s enthusiasm.

  Tommy hugged his knees. His eyes had the same worried look as when he had warned Jem about the spirit in the creek.

  Westwood set to work, chipping the flint straight and sharp. Jem could see the muscles of his hand flex under the blue sun tattoo. Tommy stoked the fire. Horatio gave up on the damper and went to sleep with her head on Jem’s lap.

  ‘Mr Westwood?’ said Jem.

  ‘Mm?’ He tested the flint with the ball of his thumb.

  ‘When you leave,’ Jem asked, ‘could you take Horatio to my dad? He lives in a shepherd’s hut near Long Swamp, Bungendore way. She’ll be safe with him. He doesn’t like the Captain much. He wouldn’t mind you dropping by, if you said I sent you.’

  Westwood smiled at him. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, ‘since you boys are good cobbers.’

  Jem was glad. It was the best plan he could think of for Horatio.

  ‘That’s in good shape now,’ Westwood said. He tucked one pistol back into his waistband. The brass decorations shone in the sun.

  ‘I have powder, for the pan and the muzzle.’ Westwood patted the two different flasks slung over his chest on leather straps. ‘And I have shot.’ He patted the shotbag. ‘And we’ll soon have some belly timber. I could still do with. . .’ he paused.

  Alfie gave Jem a look. Jem guessed what he was thinking – what might Westwood ask for next? It would be impossible to get near the Captain’s money or the food store now he was on the alert.

  ‘If you boys can get me some paper,’ the bushranger went on, ‘then I can prepare some cartridges. In case of a fire-fight.’

  ‘Oh, paper!’ said Alfie. He looked as relieved as Jem felt.

  ‘We can do that, can’t we, Alf?’ Jem said. ‘Your mother’s got a stack of newspapers.’

  ‘Yes. I can say we’re using them to improve your reading,’ said Alfie.

  ‘You don’t need to go that far,’ said Jem. He didn’t want Mrs Goods to get an idea like that in her head. Or Alfie either.

  ‘What I’d give for an evening reading by the fire,’ said Westwood. He shut his eyes. ‘A full stomach, a pipe of tobacco, thoughts drifting with the smoke. . .and no troopers galloping to the door. . .’ He sighed. Then his eyes flew open, and they were grey and sparkling, as always. ‘Newspaper will do nicely.’

  Tommy had been sitting on the other side of the fire, watching the firearms warily. He stood up.

  ‘The fire’s good for cooking. I’ll be going now,’ he said.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Alfie. ‘We should go too. Before anyone misses us.’

  10

  When Jem and Alfie had dried the last dish that night, they went back to the kitchen. Mrs Goods approved of Alfie’s idea to teach Jem. She gave them a stack of newspapers. The Station’s newspapers arrived in batches, all the way from Sydney.

  ‘You ought to improve yourself,’ Mrs Goods said to Jem. ‘There are too many good-for-nothings in this country already.’

  Jem wished Mrs Goods would mind her own business. And he hoped she didn’t see the guilty look that went over Alfie’s face.

  Alfie and Jem pulled the long stool nearer the fireplace. Jem took off his boots and stretched out his feet. Mrs Goods’ kitchen was probably the warmest place on the whole Maneroo plain. Jem wished Horatio, Westwood and Tommy could be here too. At least Westwood and the puppy had food to eat, thanks to their gang. Jem was proud they had managed that. If it was Jem and his dad who owned the Station, things would be different, he thought.

  ‘Hey, Jem.’ Alfie nudged him with an elbow. ‘We’re supposed to be reading,’ he whispered.

  Jem held a candle above the newspaper. Alfie turned the page. Jem watched the steam rising from his socks.

  Suddenly Alfie breathed in sharply.

  ‘What?’ said Jem.

  ‘Read this.’ Alfie pointed to the middle of the paper.

  The printed letters flickered in the candle’s yellow light. To Jem they looked like black ants crawling on the page. ‘So?’ he said.

  Alfie looked at him hard. Jem was annoyed. Why didn’t Alfie read it out, if it was a good bit?

  ‘What is it?’ said Mrs Goods.

  Alfie looked at Jem, then his mother. His eyes travelled further down the page.

  ‘Um, this is near us,’ said Alfie. ‘See, that says “one thousand, one hundred and fifty acres” on the river are up for sale.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Jem. ‘Nice for some.’ Obviously the newspaper was for rich toffs. He was even less interested in reading.

  A bell tinkled within the house. Mrs Goods got up.

  ‘Yes, nice for some!’ she said. ‘Why the Captain has to talk with Mr Blain in his study, I don’t know. As if I haven’t enough to do with visitors coming tomorrow, and now an extra fire to set as well.’ Her skirts rustled as she went down the corridor.

  ‘Jem!’ Alfie burst out. ‘Listen to this.’ His finger went back up the page. ‘Twenty pounds reward or a conditional pardon. . .William Westwood, a prisoner of the crown, has effected his escape and is now at large. The Governor directs that a reward of twenty pounds will be paid to any free person or persons who shall apprehend the said prisoner, and lodge him in any of Her Majesty’s Gaols.’

  Jem whistled. ‘A reward?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alfie, very seriously. ‘That’s what it says here. A twenty-pound reward for catching William Westwood.’

  ‘That means everybody will be out to get him,’ said Jem. ‘Not just the Captain, every man on this station. And the other stations, if the Captain tells them as well.’

  ‘Or if they read the newspaper,’ Alfie said. ‘Keep the candle still.’ Alfie held the corner of the paper to the candle. The flame flared, lighting his face and reflecting in his eyes. Then it was gone. The paper’s ashes floated to the floor. The kitchen seemed darker. ‘They won’t read that one,’ Alfie said.

  Jem was surprised at Alfie. But it seemed to him that burning the newspaper had not changed much. Although the printed words were gone, the Governor’s announcement had not.

  ‘A reward of twenty pounds for William Westwood,’ Jem said. ‘Twenty pounds.’

  ‘That’s right, boys! A big fat reward, for sticking that convict where he belongs.’

  Jem and Alfie jumped. Mr
Blain was in the doorway. An old army musket was slung over his shoulder. He had a sneaky way of appearing when you least wanted him, Jem thought.

  Mr Blain rubbed his hands together. ‘We’re off on a manhunt tomorrow, boys, on the Captain’s orders. Mark my words. . .’ He leaned over Jem and Alfie. Jem could smell his rotten, tobacco-smoke breath as he talked. ‘It wasn’t Aborigines who stole our supplies.’

  Jem forced himself not to flinch. Was the overseer threatening him? Had Mr Blain seen him coming out of the storeroom?

  ‘They don’t have the Captain’s keys, do they?’ Mr Blain went on. ‘But the bushranger does. They were in the Captain’s jacket. I’d bet my life he’s not far away.’

  Mr Blain was wrong about Westwood using the keys, but he was right about him being close. Jem and Alfie didn’t dare say anything.

  ‘You stay out of the way, boys,’ Mr Blain ordered. ‘This is a dangerous business.’ The overseer kept rubbing his hands, as if he liked dangerous business, and keeping them out of it. ‘You go to bed.’ He held the kitchen door open for them, and locked it behind them.

  Outside the wind had dropped. A fog was gathering. It crept in wisps around the stables and the lean-to, and pressed up against the library window, eavesdropping on Mr Blain and the Captain. The whole Maneroo plain would be wrapped in it before morning, Jem knew.

  Jem and Alfie crawled under their scratchy blanket.

  ‘Why does it have to be twenty pounds?’ Jem said softly, almost to himself.

  ‘It’s a fair bit of money, I suppose,’ Alfie said.

  ‘It’s exactly what my dad needs to buy our land,’ said Jem.

  ‘Yes, but you don’t want Mr Westwood to get caught,’ said Alfie. ‘And besides, your dad is miles away.’

  ‘If the Captain catches Westwood, he’ll get that twenty pounds,’ Jem said bitterly. ‘When he doesn’t even need it.’

  A thought had slipped into Jem’s mind. It was a thought dark and commanding as a loaded gun. He could not help staring down the barrel of it with a kind of horror.

  Although his dad was twenty miles away, Jem was not. Jem had information that the Captain wanted – he knew where to find the bushranger. And the Captain had something he wanted – the land. Jem could bargain with the Captain.