Cookie had two arms, but one was small and withered, and kept hidden under his shirt. He’d let Billy see it when the boy had complimented his stew, a mix of mutton and potatoes with watercress from the creek thrown in. Greens was good for you, said Cookie.
It were hard work, helping with the shearing. First the sheep had to be washed, running them back and forth through the creek to get rid of the worst of the dust and prickles from their fleece, then their bums and any ‘blown’ patches doused with tobacco water to kill the maggots that could eat into the sheep’s flesh, and spoil the wool as well.
Billy’s job was to haul the sheep one by one to the shearers, hooking them with his crook, then turning them on their rear ends so the shearers could get to the belly wool first. His arms ached after the first morning, his hands were blistered, and his back was on fire. There were bruises down his legs and on his arms where the rams had kicked him.
He wished he’d never see another ram in his life.
It were good though to see the blaggards held down proper by the shearers and rigorously clipped, leaving gashes to be covered with hot tar.
The shearers didn’t mix with the convicts, didn’t even talk to them much. Billy asked if they’d met Jem at Dargue’s place but they just grunted and shook their heads. The shearers had their own tents, and their own cook and rations too. Four of the shearers were women, in long shirts and leather aprons, with their hair tied up in plaits under their hats. They were coarse-faced, giant women, twice Billy’s size and age, with beefy arms and their own strange lingo. But they were the first women Billy had seen in the country—the first he’d seen since he left Bristol, if you didn’t count the ragged natives and the wary mothers who had watched them as they passed through Sydney Town.
The women were good shearers, but. They’d brought the skill to the colony from Hanover, it seemed, and taught the other coves. Most of the women in the colony was married, but not these—or perhaps they were married, and still went shearing, for it were good money. They too kept to themselves, so there was no way to find out.
It took two weeks to turn the woolly sheep, grey as rocks and twice as stupid, into white shivering sheep, with red and black splodges where the blades had cut too deeply. The fleeces were pressed into big square bales.
Billy sat with his back against the stone wall of the barracks, spooning up his stew and letting the warmth seep into his sore muscles. Down past the barracks some of the other men had lit a fire, and were passing around a jug of rum. Old Cookie had a still, and brewed up grog from the potato peelings.
‘You’re not getting drunk with the others?’ Billy looked up. It was Roman John.
Billy shrugged. ‘Heard that two coves went blind after drinking Cookie’s rotgut. I like both me eyes. Besides, Cookie charges a penny a nip.’
‘Well, here’s your wages. How you spend them is up to you. You know how to work, by the way,’ he added, holding a couple of coins out to him.
Billy took them automatically. They were strange-looking things with the centre cut out. ‘What’s these?’
Roman John gave one of his small smiles. ‘Holey dollars—we don’t have many proper coins out here, but these are legal enough. Worth about two pounds, lad.’
‘But why?’
‘Like I said, they’re wages.’ He saw that Billy didn’t understand. ‘Convicts work ten hours a day. Anything over that you get paid for. You get extra for the shearing, plus what you did out in the hut.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re lucky you’re on one of the Reverend’s places. A lot of farmers don’t keep to the law.’ He nodded at the coins. ‘Hide them in your boots, boy. That way no one can steal them.’
‘Thank you—’ began Billy. But Roman John had walked away.
He was tired, but too sore to sleep. Too much to think about too.
He had money now. And a pistol. He could steal one of the horses easy. He could find Jem.
Dargue’s place was at Parramatta…but where was Parramatta? He had a vague notion it were back over them mountains, but he had to make sure.
What if Jem had escaped already? They might never find each other. The colony were small but the land was big. They might be murdered by the natives, or struck by snakes…Billy thought of the bones out in the bush. Those could be his.
Suddenly he was aware of shadows moving on the wall opposite the barrack door. Someone must be outside with a lantern.
He stood up silently, and tiptoed out. A single lantern shone at one end of the horse paddock. A darker shadow moved around it.
Billy ducked under the wooden rails. A horse was lying on her side, straining, about to give birth if he were any judge, not that he’d ever seen it before. The darker shadow was Roman John.
‘She all right?’
The man shrugged. ‘This is her first. She’s flighty, and a bit young for it. Thought I’d sit with her.’
‘Can I sit too?’
Roman John looked up in surprise, the white of his eyes showing in the darkness. ‘If you want to.’
Billy sat by the horse’s head. She tossed it from side to side, then struggled as though she was trying to get up. Billy stretched out a hand automatically. ‘There ye are, girl. You’re a good girl. A lovely girl. Don’t ye be fretting yourself none, you hear, ye’ll have a fine foal soon.’
He knew the mare couldn’t understand him. But the words didn’t matter. It was the tone, the fact that someone was beside the animal in the darkness. Someone who cared.
The horse calmed down. A shudder ran through her again.
‘Ah,’ said Roman John. ‘It’s coming.’
They walked together down to the creek that ran through the corner of the paddock to wash the muck from their arms. Behind them the foal was already nudging at her mother for milk.
‘You were right,’ said Roman John at last. ‘You’re good with horses.’
Billy nodded. What else were there to say?
Roman John finished washing, but he didn’t make any move to head back to where his own horse waited, cropping the grass in the next paddock. At last he said, ‘You’re planning to make a bolt for it, aren’t you?’
Billy said nothing for a moment, then looked up. ‘Why not?’
Suddenly he couldn’t be bothered bein’ polite, like he’d lick the boots of any man with power over him. ‘Why shouldn’t I make a run for it? It’s all right for the likes of you. Born with money, a toffy voice and a farm and a wife and a job that pays you proper dosh, not just a few coins and a bowl of stew.’
Roman John laughed. It was the first time Billy had ever heard him laugh. ‘Me? I was a convict, same as you. But I wasn’t going to stay a convict. I saved my money. Changed the way I talked too. That’s what separates a convict from a gentleman—the way you talk, the way you dress. I talk like the Reverend Hassall, and I don’t dress like a wild man from the bush.’ He glanced over at Billy casually. ‘You could have the same as me. Save your money. Buy a farm.’ He nodded at the horse and her foal, heads together in the moonlight. ‘Breed your own horses.’
A farm of his own. A wife. Properly fenced paddocks with lots of horses. His horses. It was as though a dream had slapped him in the face.
‘I’d even recommend you for your ticket of leave,’ said Roman John lightly.
Billy knew what a ticket of leave was now. It meant that you were free, more or less. Still a convict, but free to take any job you wanted. Or buy a farm.
‘Why?’ Billy let all his suspicion into his voice.
‘Because I was like you. Because you can work hard. You’ve got a mind too, and determination. Not a single sheep was unaccounted for out there, even without anybody watching you. And you were right.’ He nodded at the mare and her foal. ‘You’ve got a gift with horses. Well, what do you say? Still planning to go bush? There’s nothing I can do to stop you,’ he added. ‘I won’t even try. Or do you want to stay here? Save? Work?’
It was impossible to think. His body felt battered from the day’s work. His mind felt
shredded, as if someone had attacked it with a scythe. The years with Master Higgins, the workhouse, the ship, the journey here, the aching loneliness of the shepherd’s hut, and beyond it all some memories so clear, so beautiful he knew he had to shut them all away, or he might weep.
But I can cry, he thought, here in the darkness, the lamp away by the fence. Now, at last, he could weep.
Behind him he heard the mare whinny at her foal.
And the choice was clear.
‘Stay,’ said Billy.
CHAPTER 13
The Horse, 1833
Time passed. So did the birds: budgerigars in great green swarms above my head, Wonga pigeons pecking at grass seeds, keeping safely away from my hoofs. Parrots perched on the fence, and kookaburras nested in the hollows of the trees.
They were my only real companions now.
Sometimes other horses came, mares, mine for a few days till the men took them away. But I was just a strange stallion to them. I was no longer King.
Red Beard took me to the enclosure one more time. When he had finished I had great gashes all along my side. I felt the blood run cold when the breeze blew. I knew that the scabs would itch as they healed, even if I rolled on the grass to try to ease them.
That last time I bit Red Beard so badly on the arm that he screamed and screamed. I would have reared in triumph, but by then I was too dazed and sore.
He didn’t come again. I had beaten him.
Other men came. I kicked. I bit. Finally they left me alone too.
The frost left white whiskers on the wombat droppings. The grass orchids popped from the soil in spring. They tasted sweet, like the yam daisy tops.
And then men came with ropes; four men, with many ropes, and whips too. Four men to rope one horse, and lead him away.
We didn’t walk far. The sun was hardly high in the sky when we came to a big paddock. A paddock is a place where humans make the world into smaller places. This one had held many animals, for the ground was hard and bare.
There were other horses, and long railings to tether us to. A boy brought water in buckets; the other horses drank. The men who had brought me shook their heads when the boy came close. ‘Stay clear. He’ll bite you soon as look at you. Savage, this one is.’
The boy moved away. I shook my head, trying to tear away the tether. I tried to rear, to break free. The men nudged each other and nodded.
More men came. They gathered around the wooden railings of the paddock. A man started yelling, and the crowd grew silent. One by one the horses were untethered and led into the paddock. Then they were made to walk around and around.
I could hear the words, though none made any sense.
‘What am I bid for this fine animal? Did I hear ten pounds? Ten pounds it is. Do I hear eleven? Look at the head on her, pure Arab stock or near enough. Do I hear twelve…?’
One by one the other horses were claimed and led away.
At last they came to me.
I was tired then. Too thirsty to rear or bite. I let one man lead me into the paddock. The man began to yell.
‘Unbroken stallion. When have you seen a horse like this? Look at him, gentlemen! What am I bid for this fine beast?’
The sun flashed in my eyes. Suddenly the noise of the men, the yells, the smells, the strange bare place, were all too much. I tried to rear. For a moment the rope held me, then I managed to break free.
Men ran, and tried to grab my tether. I reared again, and gave a shout of challenge, and then they caught me. They pulled me down. The whip lashed at my skin.
I heard the loud man yell again. More yells, men and their noise and smells all around, strange horses, too much noise…
I pulled and reared, uncertain of anything except that I needed to be free.
CHAPTER 14
Billy, 1833
The horse auctions were in the paddocks on the edge of Bathurst, a good day’s ride from the farm. Drays and buggies and sulkies crowded one paddock. Horses were tied to fences, nosing for a bite of grass—horses that had been ridden here, not the horses that were for sale today; they were tethered well away from the noise and bustle.
‘What will you give me for him? Remember he’s unbroken. A bit spirited, that’s all. Fresh from the bush! Do I have a bid here, gentlemen?’
Billy stared at the horse rearing and twisting beyond the paddock railings. ‘He’s grand.’
This was the first horse auction he’d ever been to. At first he’d wanted to own every horse in the holding yards, then slowly he’d come to look at them more rationally, to look at their good points as the seller led them round the ring. But he’d never seen a horse like this.
Beside him Roman John shook his head. The horse was finally quietening, but still showed the whites of its eyes. ‘That horse can’t be tamed.’
‘How do you know?’ He’d been working the horses with the older man for six months now; long enough to realise the depths of Roman John’s knowledge.
‘Look at the scars on him. This is no stallion fresh from the bush. There’ve been many that have tried to tame this one, and failed.’
‘Maybe they didn’t do it right then.’
Roman John shrugged. ‘Makes no matter. If he wasn’t wild before, they’ve made him wild now. Someone has taught that horse to hate men. You can see it in his eyes, the way he holds his head.’
The auctioneer’s voice was wheedling now. ‘Come on, gentlemen, make a bid.’
‘A guinea!’ called someone from across the field.
‘A guinea for a grand stallion like this? Do I hear ten? Twenty?’
‘Sixpence,’ said Roman John. ‘That’s what he’s worth. Sixpence for boiling down for glue.’
‘Do I hear two guineas?’ called the auctioneer. ‘Three?’
‘But look at him! Wouldn’t he be worth buying just to put with the mares?’
Roman John shook his head. ‘We breed sheep, not horses. Keep your eye out for a nice quiet saddle horse to ride.’
‘Huh,’ said Billy. He knew the ‘nice quiet’ bit was a joke. He might not have ridden much before he came to the colony, but already he could stay on any horse at the farm. It was like he’d been waiting all his life for the other half of himself. Him and a horse, galloping after the sheep, jumping over logs, leaping across the creek, both of them stronger and steadier together than they’d be apart. His hands, the horse’s strength.
It just felt right.
‘Two pounds!’ The man wore a top hat, and carried a gold-topped cane. Roman John snorted. ‘Flash fool. He’ll break his leg first time he tries to ride him, and sell the poor beast to the glue factory.’
‘Two pounds? Do I hear three? Two guineas? Two pounds then, to the gentleman with the cane. Going once. Going twice…’
The horse reared again, tearing its head back and forth as it tried to get free of its tether.
I felt like that, thought Billy. As though there was too much to understand. But I was lucky. I got a second chance…
‘Two guineas!’ He hadn’t known he was going to make the bid till the words left his mouth.
‘Are you mad?’ hissed Roman John.
‘Three pounds!’ The man raised his gold-topped cane.
‘Guineas!’
It was almost all he had, everything he had earnt since he’d been working the horses with Roman John. The coins were stuffed down his boots.
He was crazy. He knew it, even as he held his breath, hoping there wouldn’t be another bid. What was he doing trying to buy a horse like this?
He waited for the man with the cane to bid again. Billy couldn’t top it, not unless Roman John loaned him the money, and he knew he wouldn’t do that.
The man raised his cane. The horse reared once again. The man leading him ducked just in time to escape the flashing hoofs.
The man put down his cane.
The auctioneer looked resigned. ‘Sold for three guineas to the young man over there! Going once! Going twice! Going three times. Sold!’
CHAPTER 15
Billy, 1833
There was a boxing match now in the ring where the horses had been auctioned, ten pounds to any man who could knock down the champion. Already three men had been carried out, their faces bloody, their bodies limp or contorted. Behind them cheers and boos rang out, and men called odds for bets. Billy and Roman John hardly noticed them.
‘You haven’t even checked its teeth, boy! How do you think you’re going to get it home?’
‘I’ll lead him.’
‘It must have taken three men, maybe more, just to get it here. And you think you can lead a savage horse by yourself.’
Billy gazed at the horse. It was tethered to the fence—the man who’d been leading the stallion had refused to try to take him further. The horse gazed at him out of the edges of his eyes, and stamped his feet. He was a clear grey, almost pure white. He was the biggest horse Billy had ever seen.
That horse could crush him. Tear him apart.
‘If I can’t lead him I’ll let him go.’ He hadn’t known he was going to say that either. The words surged up inside him, like a bucket rising from a well. ‘You can’t keep a horse like that prisoner. If he doesn’t want to work with you, then he should be allowed to go.’
‘And be caught again by the first lot of passing trappers.’
Billy shook his head. ‘That horse won’t be caught again.’ He turned to Roman John. ‘Lend me sixpence. Please.’
‘What for?’
‘To buy an apple.’
‘You think you’ll win him with an apple?’
‘No. But an apple will show him I want to please him.’
Roman John sighed. ‘I’ll buy you a bag of apples, boy. I’ll even haul you to the surgeon when the horse tries to kick you to death. I’ll have him check your brain while he’s at it. Maybe you lost it along the track.’
He vanished into the crowd toward the pedlar carts with their rum and pies and fruit.
Billy stood by the horse, carefully out of range of his teeth and hoofs, trying to keep his voice as calm and soothing as he could. ‘You’re all right now, boy. You’re a fine one, ain’t you? You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now. Me and you, we’ve both had second chances, and this is yours, see?’
The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger Page 5
