The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  Billy nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘You remember Harry’s silk cravat? He wore a diamond pin in it an’ all.’

  ‘An’ his horse. Prime bit o’ flesh she were.’ Billy remembered every horse he’d ever seen. The best thing about being a highwayman would be having a grand horse. ‘That horse weren’t fast enough though,’ he added.

  Both boys were silent for a moment.

  Flash Harry had died on the gallows.

  But it were worth it, thought Billy stubbornly. Flash Harry had near ten year o’ glory, throwing sovereigns down on the bar for a drink, buying ribbons and silk dresses for his light-o’-loves. Every boy at Higgins’s school envied Flash Harry when he swaggered in, in them high polished boots of his with the silver buckles, with a bag o’ gold watches to fence.

  What was there else, for the likes of ‘im and Jem? Chimney sweeps died afore they was twenty, most like, the soot rotting their lungs an’ flesh. Get scurvy in the navy, or starve on a farmhand’s wage? Nay. You needed money to make money. At least if you was a highwayman you ‘ad a few grand years, with everyone lookin’ up to you, instead of a few bad ones.

  Maybe, thought Billy, if Flash Harry’d had a better horse, he might be calling stand and deliver yet. Holding up his pistols while trembling toffs tossed down their money bags…

  ‘I been thinking.’ Jem’s voice dropped to a whisper so Billy had to lean closer to hear. ‘You know what they says about this New South Wales?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s fulla forests. Trees so thick the peelers can’t find no one if they runs away. There’s highwaymen there, too. Bushrangers, they calls ‘em.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Shh. Keep yer voice down. Don’t want the ‘ole ship to hear. That sailor Tommy Two Tooth told me, last time the bucket came down, when I were ‘elping ‘im with the slops. Two Tooth says there’s country no white man’s ever seen. You can ride fer years and not see a soul. Mountains high as the sky, and only a dozen proper roads in the ‘ole colony.’

  An empty country? Billy had known New South Wales were goin’ to be bad. If it weren’t bad, why send the convicts there? ‘So what?’

  Jem’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs. ‘You daftie, don’t you see? England’s too small. Every tree in England has someone behind it waitin’ to inform to the peelers, but in New South Wales…why, they’d never find us. All we got to do is get ourselves a pair o’ horses. Just imagine, Billy boy. The two of us highwaymen at last.’

  Billy did imagine it. A big black horse for him—white would stand out if they held up a coach at night. A brown horse for Jem—a quiet one, for Jem weren’t no good with horses. Not like Billy. Every horse in the street did what he asked it to, from the carter’s big draught mare to the poor brutes what pulled the taxi cabs to fine ladies’ riding hacks. Master Higgins had said Billy could make a horse sit down and say its prayers. He’d even hired a horse from the stable, sometimes, and sent Billy to collect the loot from one o’ his customers who didn’t want to show his face in town. General, the horse’s name had been: a real high stepper, with a sweet mouth and—

  ‘I reckon we can do it,’ said Jem confidently. ‘Give us a few months to check out the lay o’ the land. Then we’ll escape together. Bushrangers in New South Wales. We’ve made it this far. Soon, Billy boy. We’ll be there soon.’

  But it was another two days afore Billy felt the change that meant they’d sailed out of the open sea into a harbour. The ship bounced now, instead of plunging up and down the waves.

  The last hours seemed longer than the whole nine months of the voyage. But even when he’d heard the yells of strangers on shore and the thud of rope as the ship was docked, still no one came to open the hatch.

  Another day passed…or was it night? There was no way to tell down there in the darkness. Until the world exploded into light.

  He put his hand up to shield his face. He had longed for the sun so long. He never guessed it could hurt like this.

  He heard rather than saw a rope ladder drop down in the golden glare—the same one he’d climbed down all those months before.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’ Jem felt his way from bunk to bunk.

  Billy followed him, between the narrow bunks, staggering from weakness. All around him men were trying to steady themselves, groaning and swearing, waiting till they were used to the light.

  Up the ladder he went, his hands almost too feeble to grasp the rungs. Up into that light so sharp it nearly cut his flesh, soft from so many months without the sun.

  Then at last he was on the deck. His sight cleared enough to look around.

  A dock, much like the one they’d left at Portsmouth, with wooden wharves and ships—two transport ships like theirs and a pair o’ whalers, with their big harpoons and barrels of whale oil, just like he’d seen back in Bristol. Even the shore looked much like home at first: barrels, carts and buildings of red brick and yellow stone. He could see houses—stone ones and ones made from slabs of wood—and yellow cliffs rising above the buildings, straggly shrubs climbing their flanks with determined roots, and windmills everywhere, the wide blades turning in the breeze.

  But then he turned the other way and faced the harbour, and all thought of home vanished. This land was…different. Big, like Jem had said. Even the sky looked further away.

  The harbour was vast, bigger than any Billy could have imagined, dwarfing the boats that bobbed on the waves: fishing boats and whalers and ferry boats, and a few canoes low to the water that must be natives fishin’. Green fingers of land jutted into the water, edged with black rocks. Most of the shore was lined with buildings, but behind them stretched trees, tall and blue-green.

  ‘That there’s what they calls bush,’ said Jem, holding up his arm so he could see despite the harbour’s glare. He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. Billy’s teeth were loose too after so long on water-stew. But at least none had fallen out on the voyage.

  Billy blinked again in the harsh light. It wasn’t just that he’d been in darkness, he realised. It really was brighter here. The sky was so blue it looked like it was painted. No wisps of fog, not even any clouds.

  The convicts were all out now, all who could stand. He wondered how many more were still lying in that stinkin’ hold, shivering in the water as they tried to find the strength to climb the ladder. Some dead maybe, unnoticed in the dark…

  ‘You! And you and you.’ A short man in pale trousers and shirt, with a bright pink cummerbund and a tall hat made out of some kind of dried leaves, poked the end of his whip at Jem and two of the others. ‘You follow me.’

  Jem glared up at him. ‘Watcher mean?’

  ‘I mean yer comin’ with me, and no lip, that’s what.’

  ‘How about me friend? I ain’t goin nowhere without Billy.’

  The man with the hat glanced down at Billy. ‘Don’t need no runts.’

  ‘Then you ain’t takin’ me.’

  ‘Ain’t I?’ The man laughed. ‘You got a choice. Walk free or come with a ball and chain.’ As he spoke two crew members grabbed hold of Jem’s shoulders and began to drag him to the gangplank.

  They couldn’t take Jem! Billy stepped after them, trying not to stagger. ‘I’m strong enough,’ he yelled.

  The man with the hat turned. He looked Billy up and down. ‘Three convicts are all I need today, and three is all I’m taking. Got here early to get the biggest.’

  ‘Taking where?’

  The man looked at him with something approaching sympathy. Did he once stand on a deck like this? wondered Billy suddenly.

  ‘Ain’t no one told you what happens now? You gets assigned to whoever will feed you for as long as you’re sentenced.’

  ‘Not a gaol?’

  ‘No, lad. Not if yer lucky. New South Wales is a gaol without walls.’ He gestured to Jem and the other two. They were on the dock now, Jem still struggling weakly with his captors. ‘We’re goin’ to Dargue’s place, out Parramatta way. I’m Dargue
’s foreman.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t take me as well?’ asked Billy desperately.

  The man hesitated. For a moment Billy thought he was going to agree. But the man shook his head. ‘I got me orders. You ain’t got a trade, have you?’

  ‘What’s a trade?’

  ‘Blacksmith? Groom?’

  The only trade he had were pickpocket. Billy shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. Maybe some other cove will pick you out.’ He bent his head and added softly, ‘You’re well out of it. Old Dargue’s heavy with the whip, and he don’t feed his workers none too good neither. You wait here till someone else picks you. I’m goin’ to seek a better place soon as I get me ticket of leave.’

  Only the first bit made any sense to Billy. ‘What if no one takes me?’

  The foreman stood back and shrugged. ‘Then you goes to government work, cutting stone or building roads. At least you get fed regular, down here in Sydney Town at any rate, even though it means gettin’ locked up in the barracks instead of out on a farm. It’s worse if you gets government work out in the bush. Aye, terrible bad that can be. Good luck, lad.’

  He strode across the gangplank.

  Billy peered through the too-bright light at the dock. Jem was shuffling between the two other convicts, dirty, pale, too weak to lift their feet up almost. Suddenly Jem looked back at Billy. ‘Remember!’ he mouthed. ‘Remember!’

  Billy nodded. He lifted his hand. They’d find each other somehow. They had to!

  His legs trembled, but he had to keep standing. Had to cling on to the one thing he now knew about how this place worked. Look strong. Get chosen by a farmer, so he weren’t locked up again. If he were locked up he wouldn’t be able to find Jem.

  Other men were on the deck now. They were dressed much like the first man, the same strange hats, the beards, and the boots. Were they foremen too? They walked up and down the rows of convicts, pointing to the biggest and strongest.

  None of them pointed at Billy. He tried to stand straight, but it were hard, after all those months below. An’ even back in London, he’d always been a small ‘un.

  A farm—a farm where there might be horses. A farm, with forest…or, what had Jem called it? bush around. There’d be a chance to escape on a farm. He could steal one o’ the horses easy, meet up with Jem.

  Someone had to choose him for farm work! He couldn’t face being locked up again. Not after the darkness of the ship, the rats in gaol, the memory of the workhouse stink…

  Suddenly desperate, he put out his hand and touched the arm of the man passing.

  Look them in the eye, Master Higgins had said. Flatties always think you’re tellin’ the truth if you look them in the eye. Sound respectful. Billy put everything he had into the plea. He looked up unblinking into the man’s brown eyes.

  ‘Please, sir. I’ll work hard, I promise I will.’

  The man turned. He was short—not much taller than Billy—but strong-looking, with grey hair brushed back neatly under his hat and a long grey moustache, but a clean-shaven chin. Good boots—you could tell a lot about a cove from his boots. These were made to fit, by the look of them, and well polished.

  ‘Will you?’ The voice was soft, considering. The dark eyes stared at him. Billy fought to keep from looking down. It was like this man could see into him. See who he really was.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Billy tried to sound firm, sincere.

  ‘Let’s look at your teeth then.’

  Billy blinked, but opened his mouth obediently.

  The older man peered at Billy’s mouth. ‘Not bad. No point taking a lad who can’t chew meat and potatoes out into the bush. Had any experience with sheep?’

  For a moment he was going to say yes. By the time they found out the only thing he’d ever done with a sheep was to eat a bit in stew it would be too late to send him back. How hard could it be to see to sheep? But somehow he couldn’t lie to this man.

  ‘No, sir.’

  The man smiled. Suddenly Billy knew that if he’d said yes he’d have walked on, leaving him there on the deck.

  ‘Any trade?’

  Billy met his eyes—met them easily now. ‘Not one that would be any use on a farm.’

  ‘You’re a town lad then?’

  Once there’d been fields around their cottage…Billy shut his mind to the memories. He’d done good in town, ha’n’t he? That’s who he were now. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pity.’ The man’s voice was gentle. He began to walk away.

  Billy stared. He should have lied…he should have…He darted forward before any of the crew could stop him, and touched the man’s arm again. ‘Sir, I’m good with horses.’

  The man stopped. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Billy grinned, suddenly confident. ‘I’m no groom, sir, I won’t tell you a lie. But people says I got good hands. Horses like me. I can quiet ‘em down.’

  ‘But you’ve never worked with them?’

  ‘Not so much as I’d like. But I can ride, and drive a cart.’

  The man looked thoughtful. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Billy Marks, sir.’

  ‘Can you read, Billy Marks?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A bit.’ Ma had taught him to read. So long ago…He added, ‘I’m a bit rusty now. But I can read a newspaper.’

  The old man nodded. ‘Wait by the gangplank, Billy Marks.’

  It had taken all his strength to keep upright; he felt he would fall into a puddle on the deck if he had to take another step. But he had to keep going for a little longer now. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Sir…what’s your name, sir? Who will I be workin’ for?’

  ‘My name is Roman John. I’m foreman at one of the Reverend Hassall’s farms.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr John. I’ll work hard. I promise.’ To his surprise he almost meant it.

  Roman John nodded. ‘We’ll see. This is your second chance, Mr Marks. Everyone deserves a second chance. Let’s see what use you make of yours.’

  He walked on, down the lines of convicts, assessing again.

  Billy walked unsteadily over to the gangplank, and leant against the rail. He looked over at the dock: already Jem’s cart had vanished.

  But Billy would remember. Somehow he’d find Jem again. They’d be bushrangers, roaming the mountains. On the bridle con, just like Flash Harry.

  Yes, this was his second chance.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Horse, 1831

  Day after day we stood there. The water grew thick and foul. Some of the stranger horses tried to stop the others drinking, but I nipped the hindquarters of any who tried to take control. That water belonged to us all.

  I didn’t know what it was to be a king, when I fought Highest. But now I knew what a king’s duty had to be.

  A king should protect his mob.

  Every few days the men pushed more horses into our canyon. Hunger nibbled at my belly. The mares nursing foals grew thin.

  And then one day it changed.

  I had been standing, half asleep, when the air behind me ripped apart.

  Men whipped their long hard tails, waving and cracking them about their heads. The fence that had contained us was gone.

  Were we free?

  The horses at the edge began to run, and then they screamed. More men lashed them, these ones on horseback. For long moments all was yelling, foals neighing for their mothers, long high cracks…

  And then I realised what was happening. We were moving—but we were not free. The men on horses surrounded the whole mob of us. They whipped our flanks if we tried to break away.

  I pushed my way to the edge of the mob. The other horses parted before me. I was bigger than them all. I had grown since I fought Highest.

  ‘Oi oi oi oi oi!’ one of the men yelled. The air sang above my head. The strap bit deep into my side, but I had seen my chance. If I could lead the mob up that gully we’d be free. I broke into a canter, and then a gallop. My legs were stiff, after moving so little for so long, but I forc
ed them forward.

  Were the others following me? I could hear hoofbeats. The whip thing shouted again. My back stung. I could feel blood flow down my coat. I put my head down and began to gallop.

  Another sting, and then another. Horses surrounded me: not my horses. These ones had men on their backs, the whips lashing back and forth. I stopped, swivelling my ears, twisting from side to side, trying to work out where to go.

  But there was no way out. I trotted on with my head down as, slowly, they forced me back into the mob.

  And so we plodded forward through the trees, into the world of men.

  They let us stop to drink by a river, the water curling through wide banks of sand, too deep to wade through and escape. They let us ramble along the bank and graze. It was good to taste fresh grass again, not to be crammed together in the canyon.

  The shadows lengthened. It seemed we were to stay here for the night; the river a barrier on one side, and men on horses prowling around us, stopping us from straying too far. By now all of us knew what the sting of the whip things was like.

  I lifted my head and called the others of our mob to me. We had been separated in the crush during the day. There was comfort in familiar smells, the foals nudging at their mothers for more milk. The sound of munching was a comfort too, and the gentle slip of water. Far off I could hear ducks complaining about our noise.

  A fire flared in the darkness. For a moment I felt edgy, wondering if it would spread. But the shadows of men surrounded it. It seemed the men could keep fire contained, just like they ruled us.

  The moon rose. We grazed and dozed and grazed again.

  Then in the morning we began to walk once more.

  Day after day we walked. It was a slow pace. Even the foals could keep up. We stopped to drink, to eat. After a while even I stopped trying to get away. Walking, eating, walking…

  I lost myself in the rhythm of our days.

  CHAPTER 6

  Billy, 1831

  There were only two other people in the dray, though it were pulled by nine big bullocks; the foreman, Roman John, and the bullock driver, who didn’t seem to have a name, and only spoke to the bullocks—in a stream of worse swearin’ than Billy had ever heard back at Mr Higgins’s. He lashed his whip across the backs of his cattle. Two driver’s assistants walked beside the dray, prodding at the great beasts with whips and rods.