Bill the Bastard

by Roland Perry

  ‘Knees and hocks could be lower,’ he mumbled, almost to himself. ‘Not a bad animal. Huge barrel, good head.’ He stood back. ‘Damned big! Eighteen hands, I’d say.’ He stepped closer to the horse. ‘Hmm. Very good head indeed!’

  Allenby turned to Chauvel. ‘Waler, is it?’

  ‘It came from our remount depot so it must be, Edmund,’ Chauvel replied, preoccupied with examining his own mount before lifting himself onto it.

  ‘Never seen one quite as big as this,’ Allenby observed as he walked around the horse. ‘Got a name, has it?’

  Allenby looked to the troopers who had brought them the horses.

  ‘Ah, he’s called William, sa!’ one of them said.

  ‘William?’ Allenby repeated.

  ‘Yes, sa!’

  ‘Not King William, just plain William, eh?’

  ‘He is a Waler, sa!’

  ‘Ah yes. You Australians do have a penchant for simplicity.’

  Allenby hoisted his big frame into the saddle. The horse did not move a muscle.

  ‘Not much life in ’im,’ Allenby mumbled as he adjusted his derriere in the saddle. ‘C’mon then, William, you sleepy old thing. Let’s get going!’

  The horse stood stock still. Allenby was sweating in the heat. He twisted in the saddle and belted the horse on the rump. He swung his stirrups hard into the animal’s flanks. It put its head down and its tail stiffly out and charged straight off the road.

  A small section in the right-hand corner of the lined-up mounted troopers could see a disturbance near HQ. One witness saw a horse ‘head down, tail straight back, pig-root for the bush in a ball of dust’.

  Allenby had lost control and was just hanging on. Chauvel took off after him, praying the chief would not be bucked off. In a sudden flash Chauvel recognised the horse by its ferocious charge. It was Bill the Bastard. Chauvel had last seen him from a distance on the despatch run at Gallipoli. Bill wheeled in a semicircle back up to the road and down the other side, allowing Chauvel and his speedy mare to cut across close to him. Chauvel reached for Bill’s rein and held on. Bill slowed to a disgruntled trot, then a walk. A shaken Allenby took the moment to slip off and step away as Bill kicked back. The Rolls motored to them. Allenby was sweating profusely, his heart racing. Shaken, he slipped into the back seat of the vehicle, trying to regain some composure and dignity. None of his staff was brave enough to say a word.

  Meanwhile Brigadier-General Trew’s horse had been spooked by the incident. Chauvel let go of Bill’s reins and galloped after Trew, who had also lost control. Chauvel soon settled Trew’s Waler and trotted them back to HQ. They passed Bill, who was standing quietly by the side of the road chewing on some low scrub as if he was an innocent bystander. Chauvel had a quick consultation with his staff.

  ‘Find a rider who can take that mad horse back to the depot at Jericho!’ he said, fuming. ‘I don’t want to see it again.’

  ‘Only one bloke can ride him, General,’ a staffer said. ‘He’s a blackfella, sir, with the troopers: Jackie Mullagh.’

  ‘Pull him out of the parade, give his horse to the commander-in-chief and tell him to get “William” out of sight, otherwise the horse may be shot!’

  After a further twenty-minute delay Allenby—settled on Mullagh’s mare—Chauvel and Trew trotted onto the parade ground. A cheer went up from the troopers.

  Allenby, happy with his replacement horse, leant across to Chauvel. ‘Is that a reception of derision, Harry, or are they just happy to see us?’

  ‘Don’t believe it’s necessarily insincere, Edmund,’ Chauvel said. ‘I think they are like us. They don’t like being kept waiting half an hour in 100 degree heat.’

  ‘Quite,’ Allenby said as the cheering died down.

  Chauvel wished to know how Bill the Bastard could have been selected for the most important rider in the entire British army on the Eastern Front. The troopers who delivered the mount said they had just picked up the horses selected by the depot officer in charge. The depot officer said it had been a simple error. A trainer in the Jericho depot had followed instructions from Moascar to find a ‘big, stately, placid Waler’ for Allenby. The trainer said that the second biggest Waler in the depot was a very quiet pack mare named ‘William’. She was a chestnut, like Bill, who some knew by reputation to be something other than placid.

  ‘Why is a mare called “William”?’ Chauvel wanted to know.

  ‘She is very big and strong for a mare,’ the depot officer replied, ‘but you’d have to ask Moascar because she came to us months ago. She was always called William.’

  ‘Who ordered the horse for General Allenby?’

  ‘I didn’t take the call, General, the trainer did.’

  The officer said Bill was a much-respected ‘power’ packhorse of remarkable strength who, by order of Major Paterson at Moascar, was not allowed to be mounted. By chance, the depot officer explained, the trainer mistakenly saddled up Bill, not William. As it was only the commander-in-chief’s pride that had been hurt and nothing else, the trainer was fired from the Jericho depot and sent back to Moascar for disciplinary action there.

  ‘You’ve made a terrible mistake, Private Hickey,’ Paterson said, his face expressionless, when the wiry, redheaded trainer, accompanied by Sutherland, entered his office at Moascar. ‘There could have been an awful accident, with Bloody Bull!’

  ‘But there wasn’t, Major,’ Hickey remarked. ‘General Chauvel saved the day.’

  ‘Hmm. But Bloody Bull was badly shaken, I hear?’

  ‘I wasn’t there but, yes, I heard he was all shook up, sir.’

  ‘I must discipline you, Private,’ Paterson said. ‘You must take a week off in Cairo. You’ll need a depot car.’

  ‘Will my pay be docked, Major?’

  ‘Don’t think that will be necessary, but you will need expenses. Cairo’s best hotels and whorehouses are costly these days.’

  23

  THE OPPORTUNIST

  Charlotte cooled in her appreciation of Shanahan after her sisters’ hostility, but he kept bringing her gifts.

  ‘My God!’ she exclaimed one day at lunchtime when she unwrapped a gift of a stylish bottle of La Passionata. ‘This is my favourite perfume. I’ve never been able to afford it.’

  Shanahan played with his walking sticks, not making eye contact.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it was my favourite?’

  ‘I . . . um . . . I like it. I find it alluring. So I wanted you to wear it.’

  She scrutinised him.

  ‘What?’ he asked, looking up to meet her gaze.

  ‘C’mon, which girlfriend of yours wore it?’

  ‘I got it at that special apothecary in Piccadilly, the one near Simpson’s. The assistant showed me a few samples.’ She looked sceptical as he added, ‘You know, they make their own perfumes and sell a few imported ones. I liked this best. It’s from Paris.’

  ‘You went to that trouble . . .?’ she said softly. ‘So thoughtful. Thank you.’ She kissed him. ‘Stanley wouldn’t . . .’ Charlotte checked herself.

  ‘Stanley wouldn’t what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said with a pensive expression.

  ‘Don’t tell me he bought you this?’

  ‘No,’ she said, almost inaudibly, ‘no, he didn’t.’

  Shanahan never missed bringing her flowers when they went out, and never the same kind, except for red roses, which he gave her twice. He began asking her out to music hall shows, which they both loved. He would get tickets for performances at Hoxton Street, the London Empire on High Street, Shoreditch, at Collins’ on Islington Green and his favourite venue, the Olympia Music Hall. Charlotte quickly realised that Shanahan was a very active individual who had overcome his disability with verve and a zest for life that she had not experienced before. He handled his two sticks with such skill that he could keep up with anyone while walking with just a slight limp. He kept fit with an exercise regim
e to put an Olympian to shame and always seemed to have energy to spare.

  After watching a production of The Merry Widow at Leicester Square in London’s West End, they walked into an alley where he had left his motorbike. Three young toughs were taking turns trying to start it.

  Shanahan hustled down to them, leaving Charlotte looking concerned.

  ‘Hey,’ he growled, ‘get off that bike!’

  One of them jumped into the sidecar, bouncing it up and down.

  ‘Get off!’ Shanahan said as he reached them.

  ‘Huh, peg-leg!’ one jeered. ‘What are you goin’ to do abart it, hey?’

  Shanahan didn’t answer. He balanced his left side with the two sticks and threw a sharp punch at the jaw of the one on the sidecar. The youth fell with a groan and his head bounced on the cobblestones. Another one gesticulated as if he would retaliate. Shanahan swung one of his sticks hard into the second youth’s rib-cage, knocking the air from his lungs and causing him to slump to his knees in pain. The third ‘tough’ helped his mates to their feet and the three staggered off down the alley. Seconds later, Charlotte reached him. He examined the sidecar.

  ‘It’s a bit loose,’ he said, ‘you better hop on behind me. I’ll fix it when we get home.’

  ‘My God!’ she said as she straddled the seat and placed her arms around his chest to hold on. ‘You really threw a punch there. That fool will be sore tonight.’

  ‘I used to box,’ he said, and added softly as they sped off, ‘haven’t got the footwork these days.’

  The next weekend, Shanahan invited her a second time to join him for a drive down to Hove near Brighton. Charlotte hesitated. Stanley Butler was going grouse-hunting in Scotland again but she was unsure about spending a Saturday night with another man.

  ‘We can take two rooms at a nice guesthouse,’ Shanahan said, anticipating her concern.

  ‘You’re so sweet to me,’ she said, squeezing his arm, ‘so understanding.’

  After leaving their bags at the guesthouse, they decided to dine early near Brighton Pier at a cafe overlooking the water. They had just walked in the cafe door when Charlotte went white and her hand went to her mouth. His eyes settled on a good-looking, tall man with a moustache sitting opposite a shapely young brunette. They seemed intimate. Charlotte turned and walked out.

  ‘Take me home!’ she demanded as she slipped into the sidecar and buried her head in her hands. Shanahan drove along the beach road. There was a cool breeze. People were promenading. Shanahan looked back. Charlotte was sobbing gently. He pulled the bike over and parked it outside a fish and chip shop.

  ‘C’mon, girl,’ he said, helping her out, ‘let’s eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she snapped.

  ‘I am,’ he said, leading her into the shop. He called a waiter over and helped her choose a meal. She hardly said a word for five minutes.

  ‘It was Stanley, wasn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Why did he lie?’

  ‘Funny-looking grouse,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ she said, looking up. Then she scowled. ‘Very funny! Not now, Michael, please!’

  Shanahan convinced her to stay at the guesthouse. He was asleep in his room when he was woken by the door opening. Charlotte entered and slipped into the bed beside him. She hugged him. He eased himself over to face her.

  ‘Ever made love to a one-legged man before?’ he asked, drawing a gentle smile from her.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, and added coyly, ‘I’ve never made love to anybody . . .’

  Charlotte confronted her fiancé Stanley Butler a day later. He confessed to an affair with a secretary and Charlotte called off the relationship.

  Shanahan saw his opportunity. He invited Charlotte to dinner at Scott’s, an upmarket West End restaurant, and proposed. He had borrowed money and bought a smart diamond engagement ring. Charlotte was stunned. She knew he was ‘keen’ but because of his laconic manner, she had not been sure how much he appreciated her. Now she knew.

  After recovering from the shock, she asked for time to think about it.

  ‘No, no time,’ he said. ‘I want an answer right now, tonight.’ Seeing her bewilderment, he added, ‘. . . or tomorrow, or next week. In fact, whenever you feel inclined to say yes.’

  She laughed. He plied her with wine. After several drinks, she said: ‘You know, I’m twenty-seven next month. Almost an old maid! Not getting any younger.’

  ‘Wish I could use that line,’ Shanahan said. She wasn’t sure if he was being funny or frank, but she giggled anyway.

  ‘Bloody Australia!’ she said. ‘I’m going to join the convicts.’

  ‘I take that as a “yes”,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

  24

  THE RUSE

  Harry Chauvel, who had been knighted and promoted to lieutenant-general, devised a shrewd plan to fool the Turks before the last important thrust to drive them from Palestine, Syria and Arabia. The secret aim was to move his Light Horse force west to the coast at Jaffa where they would be hidden in orange groves. They would wait for the British infantry to make a shock attack and punch a hole in the Turkish defence forces in Palestine’s north. Then the horsemen would emerge from the orange groves, thrust through the gap in the Turkish lines and ride north. The aim would be to defeat the one enemy army there before sweeping east to take on the second enemy army in Palestine. After that it planned to ride further east and north to tackle the third Turkish army, which was being harassed by Lawrence’s Arabs in Jordan.

  Chauvel had to make the Turks believe his force would be staying in the Jordan Valley. It was September 1918. His 34,000 horsemen and cavalry would have to succeed, otherwise, when the war ended, the Turks might still be in Palestine, Syria, Jordan and Arabia, which would mean they would retain that territory in a carve-up following an armistice. In effect, the Turks would maintain their dominance in the Middle East, as they had done since the sixteenth century, making the past three years’ effort by the British amount to securing just the Sinai and acquiring southern Palestine.

  Part of Chauvel’s ruse was to stage a five-event race meeting near Jericho, not far from the Turkish defences on the Jordan River. The Turks’ scouts and spies would be able to see the build-up to the event. A program was to be printed and distributed in all major towns, and primarily Jerusalem, to make sure that the Turks knew about it.

  Chauvel called a meeting at his Jericho HQ days before secretly driving to his HQ at the village of Sarona, five kilometres north of Jaffa on the coast, where he would oversee the build-up of horsemen.

  ‘The main event should be billed as a Melbourne-Cup style race,’ he told several select officers, ‘but we can’t call it that. It won’t be a handicap event.’

  ‘How about a cross been Palestine and Melbourne,’ one officer suggested, ‘the Palbourne Cup?’

  Chauvel winced. ‘Bit insipid and obscure,’ he replied, ‘need a bit of alliteration. Something like “The Cairo Cup”.’

  ‘The Jericho Cup?’ a second officer proffered.

  ‘That’s better. It has a sweet ring to it. That name also lets the Turks know where it is.’

  The Jericho Cup was adopted.

  ‘And the length?’ Chauvel asked. ‘Must be at least two miles.’

  ‘Longer,’ another officer suggested. ‘That will mean we can use leaflets saying that the biggest and strongest Walers in the entire force will be tested in the race. Hopefully this will make the enemy believe the authenticity of the event. The Turks would know that our eighty strongest horses would always be in the front line of any attack. If they think they are racing in the east, clearly we could not be planning anything in the west.’

  ‘Let’s make it three miles then,’ Chauvel decided. ‘Make sure the horses are not watered for, say, twenty-four hours before the event. That will mean they will go harder when they get wind of the well as they head into the straight.’

  ‘General Allenby has asked that Major Paterson’s big Arabian thoroughbreds be i
n the event. They would not be in any attack, so that helps.’

  ‘It would be good to have Bill the Bastard up against them,’ a third officer commented.

  Chauvel nodded. ‘I saw him do the despatch run at Gallipoli. He was strong and covered more than three miles speedily enough. But no one can ride him, except that Aborigine . . . what’s his name, Mullagh?’

  ‘He hasn’t stayed on him for very long,’ the third officer remarked. ‘Besides, Major Paterson ordered him not to be used as other than a packhorse, out of respect for his efforts at Romani.’

  ‘That directive applied only to battle,’ Chauvel corrected, ‘I don’t think it matters if he is in a race.’

  ‘But could Mullagh last three or four minutes on him?’ the first officer asked.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Chauvel said.

  More than 10,000 spectators—including 5000 British infantry and Indian soldiers, about 1000 Anzacs not required in Jaffa, and 4000 bribed locals—lined the rough dirt and sand track just outside Jericho. The crowd’s size gave the meeting an authenticity. Turks guarding their camps on the Jordan River used binoculars to see the build-up of the spectators. The event promised to be gruelling in the projected 90-degree Fahrenheit temperature in early autumn.

  Betting was rife, especially among the Anzacs, and some sizeable wagers were laid out with bookies from as far away as Cairo. Many Light Horsemen, stealthily tucked away at Jaffa and waiting for the order to attack, put money on the Jericho Cup.

  The fifth and final race on the program had fifteen starters. The non-Walers were the big Arabian horses owned by Paterson, including Khartoum, Tut 1, Tut 2 and Blackham. Jackie Mullagh agreed to ride Bill the Bastard. Most of the alleged ‘smart’ money was on the powerful black stallion Khartoum. He had the fastest times by far over the Melbourne Cup distance of two miles and had been clocked and trained over this distance for two years. The next best times had been scored, in order, by Blackham the white mare, Tut 1 the gelding and Tut 2 the stallion. Two stayers from South Africa had been able to clock faster times than the remaining nine starters. Bill had never been timed with a jockey on him and the only guide was his Gallipoli despatch run, but that had been without a rider for most of the distance.