The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  The horse stared at him, rolling his eyes, then glanced away, shifting restlessly at the noise of the crowds.

  ‘They beat me too, back at the workhouse. Got scars all down me back. It’ll be a fine life we have together.’ Billy paused, a memory seeping back. A short man with dark hair, holding the reins of a coach. His father? Had his father been a groom then, or a coach driver? Had he too loved and lived with horses?

  ‘Here you are.’ Roman John held out a small sack of apples. ‘Bruised. I got them cheap.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’ll notice.’

  ‘You’re going to get your fingers bitten off. Or yourself crippled when he kicks your knees.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You think? Well, aren’t you going to give him an apple?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘Not till things are quieter. He can’t concentrate on me yet.’

  Roman John stared at him, then at the horse. Finally he sighed. ‘I’ll set up camp for us again. Looks like we won’t be leaving here tonight.’

  Billy nodded. ‘Could you bring me a bucket of water, first?’ The horse whinnied, and stamped his feet. The tether held him to the rail.

  One by one the carts left, along with the men on horseback. A few fires blazed by tents beyond the paddock—men who, like them, had decided to stay another night. Most were drunk, lifting their stone jars and singing. Two were wrestling, rolling on the ground, while a small mob of onlookers cheered them on. A lone man sang to himself in a high, wordless voice—one of the freed lags so often seen, their minds and bodies rotted away by years of imprisonment, pain, bad food and loneliness.

  Roman John would be by one of the fires, guarding their cart. Beside Billy the horse blew through his mouth, gazing at the bucket of water. He seemed steadier now without the noise and confusion.

  ‘Are you getting used to me, boy?’ He’d been talking like this all afternoon. He’d never talked as much before. Most times he knew the horse was too scared to hear his voice.

  ‘You want water, boy?’ He lifted the bucket up to the horse.

  The horse stilled. Then as Billy drew closer his teeth flashed down at Billy’s arm.

  ‘No you don’t.’ He kept his voice even. ‘No biting. You don’t bite me and I won’t bite you. Here.’ He bent down, and grabbed a fallen branch beyond the rails, then used it to poke the bucket toward the horse. ‘Go on, boy. Have your drink.’

  The horse rolled his eyes again, then bent down to the bucket.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Horse, 1833

  The water tasted of wood and man, but I was thirsty. This new man hadn’t come close enough to bite yet, or kick.

  I waited for my chance.

  The shadows grew into darkness around us. I could smell smoke. The small man beside me didn’t move. He kept on making noises. They were good noises, for a man. Sensible and soothing ones, not yells and fuss. He smelt good too, a sweet smell that I had never come across before, but which made my mouth water just the same.

  He had another smell as well. A smell of horse.

  The night grew thicker. Another man came, bringing more water, and a blanket. ‘Billy,’ he said. ‘Billy.’ The small man who talked to me answered.

  Billy. His name was Billy.

  The second man went away. The small man Billy wrapped himself in the blanket, and lay down just beyond my reach. I drank again. The night grew cold around us.

  I dozed, and watched the night. The stars shivered in the great black fur of night. Before it was dawn the Billy man was up again, talking to me.

  This time he held out his hand.

  I almost bit it. But the night had calmed me down. I was hungry too, and something he was holding smelt good.

  I took what was in his hand and crunched it between my teeth, then leant forward, sniffing for more. It tasted sweet and good and I was hungry.

  He held out another to me, and then one more.

  Slowly, very slowly, he untied the rope. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s find some grass. There’s good grass over there, and a creek too. Come on, boy.’

  I almost pulled away. But he was leading me where I wanted to go most, where there was a smell of water that hadn’t been carried in a bucket, where there was grass the other horses hadn’t trampled. And so I followed him. He tethered me again, but this time with a longer rope, so I could wander about and eat.

  He sat down, his back against a tree, and watched me, still talking.

  CHAPTER 17

  Billy, 1833

  ‘Well?’ Roman John chewed on a grass stem. ‘Think you can tether him to the back of the cart?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘I’ll have to lead him.’

  ‘What?! It’s a three-day walk back to the farm. More.’

  ‘He’ll be used to me when we get home then.’

  Roman John sighed. ‘You’re worse than a boy in love. Very well. I’ll see you back there.’

  Billy looked up. ‘You trust me?’

  Roman John’s voice went gentler than he’d ever heard it. ‘Yes, boy. I trust you.’

  Something hard seemed to shatter inside him. He felt like crying, without really knowing why. ‘Thank you. He’s a good horse,’ he added quickly. ‘He’s just been treated badly. Give him time and he’ll be the best horse in the colony. He just needs a chance.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roman John. ‘He just needs a chance. I’ll see you in three days then, or four.’ He lifted up the reins, then hesitated. ‘You know, if I had ever had a son, I wouldn’t mind if he was just like you.’

  The cart rattled off before Billy could reply.

  The other stragglers were leaving the camp-ground too. Billy decided to wait till they had gone before he tried leading the horse down the road. One of the men changed course and rode up to him. ‘He’s a grand-lookin’ animal. Good luck with him, boy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The man laughed, showing worn stumps of teeth. ‘I’da liked to buy him for me ownsome, but old Dargue wouldn’t be having it. Don’t get no time fer horse-breaking when ye works fer him.’ He clicked his tongue. His horse began to step away.

  Billy kept one hand reassuringly on his own horse’s side. He’d already realised that men frightened the big animal. ‘Please,’ he called. ‘Do you know Jem Knightly? He was taken to work at Dargue’s place. We was—we were on the same boat out here.’

  The man turned. ‘Jem Knightly? Aye, lad. I knew him. He’s gone now, but.’

  ‘Gone where?’ Had Jem turned bushranger, like they’d planned?

  ‘Gone to his maker.’ The man laughed again, as though life and death were just a joke. ‘Tried to take off with one o’ the master’s horses first week he were there. Master shot him. It were right good shooting…one shot to his chest were all it took.’

  Billy let the words flow over him. Jem was dead. His only friend.

  No, that wasn’t true. He had Roman John. He even had a horse. He had a future too. He felt guilt, as well as pain. He had so much now, while his mate had only six feet of dirt.

  What if Jem had managed to escape? What if Jem had ridden up today, looking for him? What would he have done?

  Billy knew without thinking. He’d chosen his life six months before. A solid life, not a bushranger’s, with a farm, a wife one day, if he was lucky, with children sitting by the fire. A conservative life, not the adventures of a bushranger, roaming the mountains till he died…

  Conservative.

  The horse pulled slightly as a passing cart startled him. Billy gentled him automatically. ‘That’s all right, boy. You’re a fine big lad. Nothing to scare you here.’ He stroked the horse’s nose. The horse blinked and snorted slightly, but allowed it.

  ‘That’s what I’ll call you, boy. Conservative. No more adventuring for either of us. You’re settling down with me.’

  Conservative whuffled through his nose, then bumped his head against the sack, looking for more apples.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Horse, 18
33

  It was soothing being led along the track.

  At first we saw other men and horses, but we left the road until they’d passed us by. At last there was just us, and the animals and bush.

  There were no more sweet things in the sack. But I found I had come to like the sound of his voice, the way his hands patted my neck.

  I had been lonely. Now I wasn’t alone.

  He was still a man, and I still hated men. But I had been frightened too. Slowly I began to feel there was no need to be frightened now. If he had left me untethered I’d have galloped away. But I no longer tried to bite him, or kick him either.

  We passed a creek. He drank when I did, my tether in his hand. I could have pulled away. I didn’t. He let me drink as long as I wanted, standing by me waiting till I’d finished.

  The first day or two he ate things in his sack. The last day he ate nothing. But he still let me linger on the creek flats, eating the new grass, and when I was thirsty allowed me to lead him away from the road, to where I could smell water.

  He treated me as though I were still a king.

  It was growing dark when at last we came to another place of men. I could see a light between the trees. I could smell sheep and other horses, as well as men.

  I snorted, nervous; felt his hand again, and heard his voice, soothing me, so when he at last called out I didn’t try to break away in fright.

  ‘Hoi! Any dinner left? I’m starving!’

  CHAPTER 19

  Billy, 1833

  Billy waited three months before he even put a saddle on Conservative.

  For the first week he let the big horse run free with the others in the horse paddock. There were no other stallions there. Roman John put the one horse that was likely to challenge the newcomer in the sheep paddock.

  Every morning, before his other work began, Billy brought Conservative apples, or a slice of damper, or dumplings taken from the stew. The stallion grew used to him. At last he even trotted up when he saw him coming, butting him with his head to get the treat.

  He let him eat, patting his neck. After a week he attached a lead rope to the head collar he always left on. He simply led the horse at first, back and forth across the paddock, then out the gate and around the farm, through the sheep, past the men digging up potatoes or harvesting the corn, letting him get used to strange animals and people, and unfamiliar movements.

  Slowly he taught the horse when to halt, and when to go, rewarding him with carrots or young turnips when he ran out of apples.

  Walking, trotting, sometimes with a blanket on his back, sometimes without, teaching the horse commands with hands, with voice, the clicking of his tongue or a whistle. Just once he brought out a whip, to try to teach the horse when to go faster. But Conservative showed the whites of his eyes just at the sight of it.

  No, thought Billy. Conservative had been frightened by whips too often. He would never let the horse be whipped again.

  Once the horse was used to being patted on the nose he began to take the head collar off at night, putting it back on in the morning. And then he introduced a bit and bridle. Conservative resisted the bit for several days, but Billy didn’t push too hard and by the end of a week the horse was ready to open his mouth to accept it most times.

  At first the other men scoffed. Why waste so much time on a horse? There were horses in plenty, especially now, with the price of wool so low. Few men could afford a good horse. Get rid of this one and buy one already broke, they told Billy.

  But as the weeks went by the men too grew used to the sight of the young man and the horse, slowly learning about each other as they walked around the farm. And Roman John simply watched, his eyes content.

  At last Billy knew it was time to put a saddle on Conservative’s blanket. It was time for the big horse to choose.

  Would he let himself be ridden, be mastered by a human?

  If he didn’t…Billy’s heart clenched. If he didn’t Billy would keep his word. He would let the big horse go.

  CHAPTER 20

  Conservative, 1833

  Billy fed me two pieces of damper that morning, spread with something sweet. They were not as good as apples—nothing was as good as apples—but they were still good.

  I ate them slowly, lifting my lips up as the sweetness tickled my teeth. Billy waited till I had finished, then put on my headstall and my lead rope, and led me out the gate toward the trees.

  I waited for him to lead me round. Instead he stopped, and removed the rope and headstall. I stood there for a moment, uncertain. Then suddenly I realised.

  I was free.

  I stepped a few paces into the bush. The shadows flickered on either side. I waited for the feel of the rope, the whip…but there was nothing, though I could smell Billy behind.

  I glanced back at him. He stood there, watching me. I stepped over to a tussock, bent and tore and chewed, then went forward again to an even greener patch of grass, where the trees had been cut for fence-posts.

  Behind me, Billy didn’t move.

  I bent my head. I ate. There was more grass further on…I lifted my head and began to canter…

  And then I heard his whistle. It was the signal he had made so many times before, asking me to come to him when I was in the paddock.

  I knew that I could run. Gallop away, beyond the world of men. Find a mountain, a place with good grass and water…

  But I had good grass and water here. And Billy.

  He whistled again.

  I stopped. I turned and cantered back. I butted him in case he had an apple in his pocket.

  He didn’t, just some more damper. He patted my neck, then leant his head upon it. I stood there, feeling his heart beat against my skin.

  That was the day he first climbed onto my back.

  Once I would have thrown him off; stamped on him and bitten him, reared triumphant and galloped off.

  Today…

  Together Billy and I were more than we ever were apart. My strength, my legs, my speed. Him guiding me, deciding where we’d go. Both of us watching for obstacles and opportunities, staying safe.

  Partners, that’s what we were. Equals, different from each other, but better together than apart.

  The two of us, together.

  CHAPTER 21

  Conservative, 1834

  We rode together every day now; rounding up sheep, stupid creatures with wool instead of hair. It was a joy to race around them, send them scurrying back toward the farm. Sometimes we rounded up the roos too, just for the fun of riding.

  When we rode past other men working on the farm they stopped and stared, admiring me, admiring us.

  We rode to another farm, where the man called Roman John lived. There was a tree that smelt of apples. I ate one, but it was hard and sour. I spat it out and Billy laughed.

  Later, he brought me something he called plum pudding, a piece for me and a piece for him. We ate together then he led me down to the creek to drink. It was dry that year; the creek had shrunk to pools, thick with tadpoles, smelling of ducks.

  It was a good time, learning what we both could do.

  Once we rode for days to yet another farm. There was a mare there who interested me. Billy left me in the paddock with her. A few days later when he came to get me he was throwing bright coins in the air. ‘Look at this, boy! Two guineas and all due to you.’

  I nosed at his back to see what he’d brought me. ‘Jam tart,’ said Billy. ‘They gives you good grub here.’ He shook his head. ‘I should say, they feed you well at this establishment.’ He laughed, and stroked my nose. ‘We’ll have our farm yet, old boy, especially if this foal is as good as I reckon it’ll be.’

  It had been grand being in the paddock with the mare. There had been other horses too, but none had challenged me. It was almost like being King again.

  Almost, but not quite. The horses back at the farm didn’t challenge me either. But they obeyed the men. They didn’t belong to me.

  It was good to be canter
ing along a track with Billy again. Suddenly I flared my nostrils. I could smell horse…and man as well. And then they were on us.

  The new horse was smaller than me: a bay, with strong short legs. The man was bigger than Billy. He had cloth tied across his face. He pointed something at us, something I thought I’d seen before.

  ‘Yer money or yer life,’ he said.

  Billy pulled at my reins. He almost seemed to be laughing. ‘This is a turn-up for the books.’

  The other man frowned above his handkerchief. ‘What d’yer mean?’

  ‘My friend and I…we were going to be like you. Bushrangers.’

  ‘An you think that makes us friends too? Half the lags in the colony aim for to be bushrangers, but they ain’t got the stomach. Get off that horse. Take yer shoes off too, and empty yer pockets.’

  I could feel Billy sitting still above me. Slowly he slid off my back, and patted my side. ‘You think you can ride him? Be my guest.’

  There was triumph in the bushranger’s voice. ‘I kin ride anything. He’s my horse now.’

  The bushranger dismounted. He threw the reins of his own horse over a broken tree branch, then reached for me.

  The bushranger knew enough not to get within reach of my hind hoofs. But as soon as he reached for my reins I turned my head and nipped him on the arm. I felt his bones beneath my teeth.

  The bushranger screamed. He stepped back, blood welling from his skin. The stick wavered. He used his good arm to reach over to his horse, and grab a whip.

  A whip! I was about to turn to kick him when Billy caught the man a blow on his arm.

  The bushranger dropped the whip. His other hand stayed steady, pointing the long thing at Billy.

  ‘Move an inch an you gets it,’ he growled.