Bill the Bastard

by Roland Perry

‘Tut 2 is the stallion,’ Sutherland said. ‘Tut 1 is the gelding.’

  ‘Should have been Tut Zero, shouldn’t he?’ Shanahan remarked.

  ‘Banjo reckons he will put Khartoum and Tut 2 out to stud if they don’t do that well. They are power horses, stayers. Banjo says that if they don’t win the Melbourne Cup, they will sire winners.’

  They strolled past stalls.

  ‘That’s Blackham,’ Sutherland said, pointing to a white mare.

  The Aborigine, Jackie Mullagh, splashed water near them. Hearing the conversation, he chipped in: ‘I’ve ridden her. We’ve clocked her up to a mile. Fastest sprinter in the world, at least Banjo says.’

  Sutherland introduced Shanahan to Mullagh, saying, ‘He’s our best jockey, trainer and rider, by far.’

  Mullagh grinned.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said, causing Shanahan to give a hint of a smile.

  ‘I want a really good trainer for my squadron,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sutherland interjected. ‘Banjo won’t let him go.’

  ‘Hey, I have a say, don’t I?’ Mullagh said.

  Shanahan changed the subject. ‘Where did he get these Arabian beauties from?’ he asked.

  ‘All I know is that Banjo did a deal with some big-shot Egyptians,’ Sutherland replied. ‘You’d have to ask him.’ He waved his hand at the stalls. ‘Banjo has them trained early in the day before the heat saps them.’

  ‘Is he serious about racing them?’

  ‘Yeah. He reckons he can get them all back home. Dunno how. It’s against regulations. But you know him, if there is a rule, he reckons it’s there to be broken.’

  They strolled on.

  ‘That sweet creature is Bill’s girl Penny,’ Sutherland said, pointing out an ungainly, overweight silver-grey mare. ‘She’s a packhorse. Some of the trainers think wee Penny is so ugly that they call her “hatful”, which I think is “hateful”! I might say “hatful” was a term unknown to me before I heard it here. But I think she’s a wee darlin’ mount, if ever there was one. Bill agrees wi’ me, but from a different perspective.’

  Sutherland noticed a flicker of a grin from Shanahan. The sergeant was beginning to realise that this response was the equivalent of a hearty laugh from anyone else. But Sutherland liked this reticence. It meant he was being listened to, which, as an immigrant to Australia of five years, was not often part of his experience.

  ‘He finds wee Penny most attractive indeed.’ Sutherland pointed to Bill. ‘They are always at it. We will see plenty of foals out of that union, I can tell you.’

  They reached Bill. He recognised Shanahan, nodded his head and moved forward. He brought his face down close to Shanahan, who stroked his nose and neck.

  ‘That’s more excitement in him than I’ve seen in the last few days,’ Sutherland remarked, ‘apart from when he can get at Penny. He doesn’t react much to anything. He is a very cool customer. He only goes berserk when someone tries to mount him. Otherwise, he’s a sweet lamb. He can get cranky, but they all can. You know, it might be their feet, something not even the best farrier can pick. Until it’s fixed they are moody and down. Not much different from us, really.’

  Shanahan ran his hand over the bullet wound. He moved around the side of the stall and examined where the second bullet had lodged and stayed deep. There was hardly a mark.

  ‘Why does Banjo keep him in here with the thoroughbreds? Can’t be taking him home for a Cup ride, can he?’

  ‘No one is really sure. Banjo believes he can find a trainer who can break him completely. No one has, so far. The nearest to “tame” him is Jackie. He has a go every other day. So far he hasn’t stayed on half a minute. But he gets on best wi’ the horse. They have a vague rapport. Jackie walks him, feeds him, waters him, hoses him, exercises him. He cleans out his stable. But mounting him stretches their friendship too far. Jackie gets chucked off every time. More bruises on him from Bill than a prize fighter gets in a lifetime. But he keeps getting back on.’

  ‘Robert the Bruce,’ Shanahan mumbled.

  ‘Aye, laddie, just like him!’ Sutherland said, pleased that the Scottish legend was known.

  ‘Can we walk Bill?’ Shanahan asked.

  They bridled the horse. Shanahan took him by a long rein and they wandered in a field of sand and scrub. Other horses were being exercised in preparation for the big event. They thundered by on a rough track.

  ‘I take them out most days,’ Sutherland said.

  ‘Should be every day,’ Shanahan advised, ‘to get them breathing. It relaxes them.’

  Later in the day, Egyptian notables, wandering English celebrities such as author Conan Doyle, and British officers’ wives all arrived to see the grand remount depot show. A wooden grandstand had been erected to hold a few hundred VIPs. Big marquees had been set up. Spectators would grow in number to a few thousand by the noon start time, including several troopers with the day off from patrolling the Sinai. They milled around behind wooden barriers that ringed the arena.

  Bill the Bastard was advertised as ‘the unridable one: See the world’s best riders attempt to tame him’. Paterson placed Bill as the last event on the program. He split the buckjumping show-riders and horse-breakers into a four-state squadron competition. This was followed by an ‘international horse-back wrestling’ competition. In the England versus Australia match, he reported that ‘one of my Queenslanders, a big half-caste named Nev Kelly, pulled the English Pommies off their horses like picking apples off a tree’.

  Before the final item, Paterson used a megaphone to inform the audience that only two horsemen had ever stayed on Bill for more than two minutes. The record was ‘a Captain Bickworth of the British Cavalry’ who stayed on him for two minutes and thirteen seconds continuously at Gallipoli. ‘A teenage recruit in 1914 at Liverpool is alleged to have stuck up there [on Bill] for about two minutes ten seconds. But that’s it, apart from our own number one trainer here, Jackie Mullagh. He has the record for the number of rides on Bill, but he has never stayed on more than 25 seconds.’ Paterson was so confident that Bickworth’s time would never be bettered that he offered the tempting prize of 50 pounds to any trainer, or anyone in the audience, who could do better. A hundred trainers applied. Paterson chose the five best, in his judgement, for the challenge, including the talented Mullagh.

  A saddled Bill was paraded into the arena to huge applause. He was ‘escorted’, like a prize fighter into a boxing ring, by six trainers. But he didn’t look ready for a fight. He didn’t prance, perform or kick up a fuss. He seemed passive and perhaps ready for a nice afternoon nap rather than an exhibition of jockey-throwing. The crowd and noise did not appear to perturb him.

  The trainers surrounded him as the first horse-breaker, a wiry, gaunt-faced character wearing yellow clown’s trousers, ran into the arena, looking for applause. Number 1 was marked on the back of his shirt. He spoke firmly to Bill, who just watched with a phlegmatic look. The man leapt on. Before he could grip the reins, Bill took off. The rider fell to the ground before the horse even attempted to buck. Bill circled the arena and trotted cheekily up to Number 1 as he scrambled to his feet. It seemed he might collide with him, but Bill pulled up short of the rider, leant back and performed his trademark curl of the lip. Number 1 went to mount him again, but Paterson disallowed it. ‘Once you’re off, Number 1, you’re off,’ he called into a loudhailer. ‘Next!’

  The second rider, a totally bald, bull-necked, stocky individual with a handlebar moustache, carried a stockman’s whip. Before Number 2 made a move for the saddle, he lashed Bill on the rump, then his back. Bill turned to face his tormentor. He reared up, front legs high and kicking. The rider backed off. The six trainers moved in and tried to control Bill, but this second rider could not even get a foot in a stirrup. Number 2 motioned to use his whip again but was admonished by Paterson and some of the trainers. He was disqualified. Paterson gave him a public tongue-lashing for his ‘abject stupidity!’

  The third
rider, a bow-legged, thin little man who walked with a heavy limp, was called for. He put his hands up and shook his head. He knew Bill. The horse was upset. There was no point in trying to mount him. It was a case of once broken, twice shy—Number 3 had acquired a severe knee cartilage problem after a twisting fall from Bill on a previous occasion.

  ‘Very wise, Number 3,’ Paterson remarked. ‘Discretion is the better part of valour.’

  The third rider was jeered. Paterson looked sharply to the main source of the noise. ‘Okay, troopers,’ he said, ‘would one of you like to have a go?’

  No one volunteered.

  ‘You too are very wise,’ Paterson said. ‘This horse will hurt you if he doesn’t like you. And he heard your comments. You are marked men!’

  This brought a roar of applause.

  The fourth rider strode into the arena. He was tall and gangling—all elbows and knees and wearing shorts, black socks and Roman sandals. The six trainers steadied Bill and held on as Number 4 climbed gingerly aboard. He held on to Bill’s neck as he began a manic dance near the arena fence. He did one complete circle and then bucked. Number 4 was thrown over Bill’s head and into the crowd, which parted so that he hit the ground hard. A medic pushed his way through the throng. The man was in pain. His lower leg was broken—bone was sticking through his shin—and his knee seemed dislocated. Number 4 was stretchered to an ambulance. Paterson thought of calling off the event, but the crowd reacted. They wanted to see Number 5, Mullagh, make his attempt.

  The horse was in a fearsome mood now. Mullagh knew he was on a hiding to nowhere. He asked the trainers to remove the saddle, and jumped on. The crowd, which was estimated to have been at more than 5000 by the time of this last event, applauded, whistled and cheered their approval. Bill reared up and stayed high like a trick pony. Mullagh hung on. Then Bill took two paces forward and bucked, his hindquarters lifting so high that it brought gasps from the onlookers. Bill then tilted sideways and Mullagh was off. He had lasted fifteen seconds, which wasn’t his best effort.

  The multiple leg injuries to Number 4 added to the show’s downside. Paterson wrote to a friend that the entire day’s performance left him with two men with broken legs, one with a fractured shoulderblade, two with crushed ankles and ‘about seven others more or less disabled’. ‘Of course Bill the Bastard didn’t let me down,’ he added with his usual acerbic wit, ‘put on a terrifying show. I knew he would add to the casualty numbers. Does every time.’ Nevertheless he praised his riders, saying he never had to tell one of them twice to mount a horse, ‘no matter how hostile it appeared’. The exception to this concerned Bill. ‘We had 100 applications to ride him, but there were 700 that weren’t game.’

  11

  THE WHISPERING

  LESSON

  Cath Phelan, the vet who had snubbed Paterson on his first trip from Australia, was at the party after the remount depot show. She stood out with her white dress and red broad-brimmed hat, belt and shoes. Paterson had offered her a job at the depot and she was there to discuss it with him. He fussed about her, making sure she was supplied with selective introductions to VIPs and endless champagne. Phelan still treated him with barely contained disdain, but he endured her attitude in the hope that she would accept his work offer.

  While she and the other VIP guests were feted with drinks and food, Michael Shanahan sought out Mullagh at the stables.

  ‘I want you with my squadron.’

  ‘Better speak with Banjo,’ Mullagh said, rubbing a bruise on his arm after his earlier encounter with Bill.

  Paterson was supervising a clean-up when Shanahan strolled over to him. ‘Major, could I have a little session with Bill?’ he asked.

  Paterson was unsure. ‘He’s had a rough day. All that bucking and jumping takes a lot out of him.’

  ‘I don’t want to ride him, just get acquainted again.’

  Paterson was bemused. ‘I won’t give him to you as a permanent mount, Lieutenant, for your own sake. You saw him today.’

  ‘He was in good form.’

  ‘Think you can break him, do you?’

  ‘I don’t want to break him.’

  ‘He won’t bend to anyone’s will.’

  ‘I know.’

  Paterson considered the lieutenant. ‘Like him, do you?’

  ‘Most interesting horse I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘He has a wonderful spirit. There’s an unusual intelligent streak in him.’

  ‘He’s very angry about something!’

  ‘Aren’t we all, Major?’

  They both smiled.

  ‘But you can have any number of the wild ones . . .’ Paterson said.

  ‘I saw them today—raw, spirited and unruly. Good stallions and mares among them. But Bill is only a bastard when he chooses. He usually lets riders up on him. Then he decides when they come down.’

  ‘Right enough,’ Paterson agreed. He signalled to a trainer for Bill to be brought to them. ‘You’ve got an hour. After that it’s bedtime for him and the rest of them.’

  Bill was irritable at this extra session with a human. It seemed he had had enough excitement for one day. But he remembered Shanahan so well, it appeared, that he also recalled the left pocket of his trousers where the licorice sweets once were. He nudged it. Shanahan laughed. He had none on his person. He heel-roped Bill, who kicked a little. It was late. He was hungry and thirsty, and tired.

  Shanahan had his Australian flag on a pole. He tapped Bill with it. Bill flinched at first, clearly expecting the kind of whip that had been used by one of his would-be ‘conquerors’ an hour earlier. Soon he was accustomed to the feather slap of the flag. Shanahan manoeuvred him this way and that, using the flag to waft around him or onto his tail-end to ensure movement in a certain direction. Bill snorted in protest but when Shanahan pulled gently on the reins, the horse responded and stopped jerking his head. Shanahan had him doing a left, right, stepping action, like the beginning of dressage training. Bill didn’t object. He played the game. He was worked back and forth, then around the yard. The next move was backwards. Bill took several minutes to get used to it, but again he obliged.

  Most of the guests at the party, along with about 200 depot employees, had filtered outside to the arena to watch this exhibition in training. Paterson was displeased that the Shanahan–Bill ‘show’ had disrupted the convivial flow of the celebration. The chatter had given way to almost silent fascination. Paterson looked at his watch.

  ‘He’s been at it forty-five minutes,’ he said to Sutherland, ‘another fifteen and that’s it.’

  ‘I’ve never seen any of the trainers work like this,’ Sutherland said. ‘He’s got Bill almost doing tricks.’

  ‘Pity he’ll kick him off anyway.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  A quarter of an hour passed.

  ‘Better wrap it up,’ Paterson said, ‘it’s almost dark.’

  Sutherland moved towards the fence.

  ‘Wait,’ Paterson said. They both paused.

  Shanahan was patting the horse’s side. He put his arm around Bill’s neck and left it there for several seconds. He put his left foot in the stirrup and lifted himself up parallel with the horse without throwing his right leg over.

  ‘We’re going to do this,’ Shanahan said matter-of-factly, ‘Okay, mate?’

  Bill stood stock still, as if in a trance. Shanahan mounted him. He patted Bill’s neck. Bill pawed the ground, but not aggressively. It was almost like a caress. Neither Paterson nor Sutherland had seen the horse do this. Shanahan nudged him with his heel. Bill moved forward. He was walked around the inside of the fence, ever so slowly building to a trot. Next Shanahan began to manoeuvre him, left, then right. Finally he edged him backwards.

  ‘Amazing!’ Sutherland exclaimed.

  ‘Just tricks,’ Paterson said. ‘The real “trick” would be at a full gallop.’

  ‘You’re right. But I’ve never seen anyone work him like that.’

&nb
sp; Shanahan finished his training and dismounted in near darkness to spontaneous applause from the hundreds of intrigued depot staff and guests who had watched most of the session. He tethered Bill, walked to his bag and pulled out some licorice sweets.

  ‘Not a reward,’ Shanahan said as he let the horse gobble two pieces from his hand, ‘just a thank you.’

  He was walking out of the camp to be driven to Cairo for a few days’ leave when Phelan hurried past military guards towards him.

  ‘Michael,’ she said, ‘I watched you with that mighty stallion. Quite a miracle!’

  They shook hands. In high heels, she was just taller than Shanahan. He continued walking. Phelan, and her strong perfume, kept pace with him.

  ‘Here for the show?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Banjo invited me. He wants me to work as a vet here.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘No. It’s too isolated for me. Cairo is lively. If I have to be in Egypt, that’ll do. My fiancé is based there. He’s a diplomat liaising with the British High Command.’

  They stopped walking. Shanahan waved to his mates, sergeants Mulherin and Legg, who were sitting in a small truck.

  ‘That’s my ride,’ he said, hoisting his kit on his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve got my car. Would you like a lift?’

  ‘I . . .’ Shanahan began hesitantly.

  ‘I’d love the company,’ she said, touching his arm. She glanced at the truck. ‘I’m staying at the Savoy,’ she said. ‘Your friends can meet you there.’

  ‘Why not?’ Shanahan said. He sauntered over to the truck.

  ‘My, you’re working well,’ Mulherin said.

  ‘Jeez!’ Legg remarked, ‘I saw her in the crowd. What a looker! And what a body!’

  ‘Settle down, fellas. She’s engaged. She has offered me a lift to Cairo. We can meet at the Greek cafe.’

  Mulherin and Legg looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘We’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow at our hotel,’ Mulherin said.

  ‘Better make it coffee in the cafe, late tomorrow morning,’ Legg remarked with a knowing grin.