The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  But none of the footmen from the grand houses all around, not even the butcher’s apprentice, had ever courted Annie, or asked her to walk out.

  No man with a good future in England wanted to be married to a squaw.

  The bread dough had risen twice. The tops billowed out of their tins. Millie was pegging the washing out on the line in the garden. Annie opened the oven and put the bread tins inside. There’d be fresh bread for her and Millie’s lunch, with a bit of cheese and cold lamb and the cucumber pickles in the larder, made just how she liked them with plenty of mustard, and the plum pie she’d made that morning.

  That young man’s eyes had lit up at the sight of that pie. She could tell he thought she’d made it fresh for him. But it wasn’t; she’d just had a hankering for plum pie, and Millie liked things soft, because of her teeth, which had fallen out somewhere between London and Sydney Town.

  William Marks. Not much to look at, short and red from the sun. He had gentle hands though, with the horse, and a good friend in the old man in the cart. You could tell a lot from a man by his hands and his friends.

  But she hadn’t sailed across the world just to marry a boy with a shy smile and dreams in his heart. Times were tough in the colony. She could afford to wait for the right offer—she was young, and the Drapers knew they had a prize in her. She was a cook who could not only make a jam roll to make a man used to salt mutton and damper weep, but one who wasn’t drunk every Saturday night.

  One day some man would visit the Drapers—not a young man maybe, but one with solid mutton-chop whiskers and a fine carriage and a house where she’d direct the servants. A man who was looking for a wife who knew the ways of a grand house, who could organise a ball, speak with the right accent. There was no shame in marrying from the kitchen here in the colony. What mattered was being able to turn from a cook into a lady.

  She could do it. In spite of the colour of her skin—not so much darker than a white woman’s—she could be a lady. There were so many men here, and so few women—and even fewer who could read, or speak and dress well. When she married she would never have to step into a kitchen again, except to give the cook her orders. Or maybe just to make a delicacy like neat’s-foot jelly, or a perfect ginger cake. She’d miss the cooking if she had to give it up altogether. She’d wear silk dresses and grand hats, and if anyone noticed the colour of her skin they’d think she’d caught a touch of the sun when out for a ride. Her children would be paler than her too.

  And as for Mr Marks…She smiled. It would do no harm to see him, once in a while. But marrying the likes of him? Never.

  CHAPTER 28

  Billy, 1842

  Love hurt.

  He’d come so far since the days on the ship from Bristol. He had money in the bank now, a name as a solid trader. But it still wasn’t near enough to win his Annie.

  He called in to see her every time he and Roman John brought in a cartload of barrels of tallow. Sometimes he brought wildflowers, picked along the track as he rode into town, strange star-like yellow flowers and bunches of spring wattle, or white flowers with prickly stems in midsummer. He gave her a hat for Christmas—Mrs John had chosen it for him.

  It seemed that Christmas was a proper time for presents, even though he and Annie hadn’t yet ‘walked out’ together, only chatted in the kitchen while she basted the turkey for the Drapers’ dinner, or rolled out pastry for jam tart. Once Mrs Draper found him there, podding peas while Annie peeled the potatoes. Billy stood up, embarrassed, but Mrs Draper merely smiled, and reminded Annie that Mr Draper liked runny custard, not baked, with his stewed pears.

  In return Annie gave him fruit cakes to take back with him, or bottled apricots. For Christmas she gave him a giant plum pudding, wrapped in a cloth, and told him how to boil it on Christmas Day. And every visit when she came out to say goodbye she brought an apple for Conservative: fresh from the Drapers’ apple trees from Christmas through to winter, then wrinkled from the storeroom after that. Conservative whinnied when he saw her coming now, stretching his neck out to get his apple faster.

  Billy knew that other men sat in her kitchen too, and not just delivery boys, or the man who sold the clothes props and the pegs. Once he saw a flash cove—no, a gentleman, he corrected himself—in a top hat come out of the kitchen door, and get into a carriage as he and Conservative stepped down the street. He didn’t like to ask Annie who he was, or why he might be there. He was afraid she’d tell him. It hurt too much. He didn’t want to know.

  Once the pedlar came by while he was there, with his cart full of saucepans and bolts of cloth, dresses made up in different sizes, men’s trousers and women’s hats. She tried on a hat with silk flowers around the brim. He’d wanted to buy it for her, but she shook her head. ‘You save your money. You’ll need it to buy your farm, to build your house. How much have you saved?’ she asked casually, as the pedlar clicked the reins and his cart rattled further up the street.

  ‘Seventy-six guineas, seven shillings and sixpence.’ It was a goodly sum, for a young man who had started with nothing. But even with farms so cheap now, it wasn’t enough, not for a place that had good water, where you could make a living and your family wouldn’t starve. Not enough to build a house, to buy the furnishings a girl like Annie would expect.

  A few years ago someone in Billy’s shoes could have borrowed money from a bank to buy his stock and farm; he might even have got the land given to him free. There had been fortunes to be made with free land and borrowed money, till the banks went bust, taking half the farmers in the colony with them.

  She nodded, as though that was about what she had expected. And then she sighed. ‘More tea? It’ll have to be the last cup, if I’m to get dinner on the table.’

  He saw it in the newspaper the day after that. The paper was blowing in the wind past his tent in the camp-ground—he wasn’t one to waste his money on newspapers, not now. But when he looked at the date this one was only two days old.

  The usual on the front pages: all the shipping news, ‘direct to Europe’, ’to Melbourne’, ’leaving Stryth’s wharf every Thursday’. Marriages, deaths, people being searched for in advertisements: ‘Mr Butter, surveyor, Woolloomooloo, a letter for you at the post office’; ‘Joseph Redman, contact your brother, Panama Company, Melbourne. News from home’. Stories from England and Ireland on the next four pages, with a few bits of gossip from the colony. And then on the last page, the bigger, cheaper ads displayed.

  ‘Forest Races, this Saturday, at Kitty Hill. Maiden Race, for all horses that have never won any advertised prize. Once round the course, ten pounds to enter. Prize one hundred pounds.’

  One hundred pounds! A hundred and seventy-odd pounds, which is about what he’d come out with, would buy a farm—one with decent water, cleared land and grass. It wouldn’t be enough to build a house, but he could keep boiling tallow till he’d saved up the rest.

  He showed the paper to Roman John. The older man was stiff now in the mornings, and preferred to sit by the fire with a mug of tea till the day warmed up.

  ‘What do you think of that?’

  Roman John peered at him over the paper. ‘You’re never thinking of entering?’

  ‘Why not?’ He could have danced around the camp-ground. ‘Conservative can beat any horse in the colony.’

  As if he heard his name the big horse looked up from the next paddock. He whinnied and cantered across the grass, swishing his tail.

  ‘He’s too old.’

  ‘He’s not. He’s stronger than he ever was.’

  Roman John sighed. ‘He’s too old for his first race. And you’ve never ridden in a race before, either. Yes, I know you’ve raced me. But a race like this with lots of riders isn’t the same.’

  ‘Me and Conservative can do it,’ said Billy stubbornly.

  ‘Ten pounds to enter. That’s more than a month’s hard work. Look, boy, there are tricks to riding in a race—tricks you haven’t learnt. Using your elbows to knock off the other riders—yes,
I’ve seen that done—and a thousand more I don’t know about, not being one to follow the racing game. And Conservative…’ Roman John hesitated.

  ‘What about him?’ demanded Billy.

  ‘He’s a nervous horse,’ said Roman John. ‘Yes, I know,’ as Billy began to defend his animal, ‘it’s because he was badly treated when he was young. But the noise of a racetrack, the other riders, other horses challenging him maybe—he’s a stallion. What if he tries to fight them? You need to train a racehorse early, son. You need to learn to be a jockey.’

  Billy was silent. ‘I’m still going to give it a go,’ he said at last. ‘There’s no horse like Conservative in the colony, no matter how old he is.’

  ‘But boy—’

  ‘I’ve got no choice! It’ll take me years to save up for a good farm at this rate.’

  ‘You’re young still. Another three years, five years, what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters if I want to marry Annie.’ He set his jaw stubbornly. ‘All I got to lose is ten pounds. It’s worth it, if I have a chance of Annie.’

  ‘You might lose your life. What if you fall in the crush and get trampled? What if you’re crippled all your life?’

  ‘I’ll risk it,’ said Billy.

  Roman John sighed. Billy hadn’t noticed before how white his hair had grown. His hands had a tremor as they held his stalk of grass to chew. ‘I’ll send a note to the missus then, to let her know we’ll be biding here in town a while. If you’re going to be a fool, then I’d better stand by you while you are.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Billy, 1842

  He showed Annie the paper.

  She looked at him in alarm. ‘What are you thinking of? Men get hurt in races! Why, a man died just last week, and another had his back broke.’

  Of course, he thought, she gets to read the Drapers’ paper, here in town. She’d know more’n me about what goes on in the colony.

  ‘The prize money is enough to buy a farm.’ He looked at her, across the kitchen table, over the broad beans she was podding. ‘Enough to ask you to marry me.’

  She was silent, looking down at the bowl of beans.

  ‘What do you say?’ he urged at last. ‘Will you marry me if I can win the race?’

  It wasn’t a romantic declaration. He knew it wasn’t romance she wanted.

  She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his. ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘Mr Marks…there is someone else. A partner of Mr Draper’s. He owns the hotel, and a couple of shops too.’

  ‘And a top hat?’ Billy remembered the man he’d seen.

  She nodded.

  ‘A rich man?’

  ‘Yes. He’s rich. His first wife died…’

  ‘And now he’s looking for another?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Has he asked you?’ The words twisted out without him knowing he was going to say them.

  ‘Yes.’

  His heart seemed to stop. ‘What have you said?’

  ‘I said maybe,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I said wait till his wife has been dead a year, and ask me then. If we marry too soon people will talk.’

  ‘You said yes!’

  ‘I said maybe, that’s all! You think I’d let you sit here if I’d said yes?’

  ‘But you will say yes to him,’ said Billy quietly.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth. I just don’t know.’

  He stood up, and folded the paper under his arm. ‘I’ll be racing Saturday. You can come and watch me if you like.’

  ‘No! It’s dangerous! You’re a fool to think of such a thing!’

  ‘A fool, am I?’ He picked up his hat. It no longer looked new, though he kept it just for these visits to Annie, and brushed it in between. ‘We’ll see about that on Saturday.’

  It’s the first time, he thought, as he walked down the path, that she hasn’t brought out an apple for Conservative.

  CHAPTER 30

  Billy, 1842

  He had never seen so many men, so many horses. Neither had Conservative. The big horse blew through his teeth, and skittered to one side when a passing cart spooked him.

  They tethered him with the other racehorses, and Roman John stayed to guard him while Billy put the money down to race. Horses waiting to race could have their knees cut, or be fed laudanum, said Roman John. You needed to keep an eye on your mount till just before the race.

  Billy watched as his name and Conservative’s were entered in the race book: ‘grey stallion, age unknown, no previous prizes, owner William Marks’.

  Someone was selling pies; other stalls sold rum, or gin, or lemonade. Ladies lifted their silk skirts over the dirt, next to bushies with cabbage-tree hats and trousers tattered to their knees.

  Bookmakers yelled odds from their tables under the trees. ‘Ten to one on the favourite! Six to one…’

  Billy stopped. Why had he never thought of betting?

  Because he’d never been to a race meeting since he was a lad back in England. Race meetings meant good pickings for pickpockets.

  If he won the race he’d make a hundred pounds. But if he bet on himself and Conservative to win he might make twice that, or even three times…

  But most of his money was in the bank. He had another ten pounds in case the entrance money was more than he thought, and a few shillings.

  No time to get the rest. He scouted from one to another till he found the best odds: ten to one. He had hoped it would be higher. Someone must have seen Conservative in the paddock.

  One chance. One chance only. If he lost he’d have lost two months’ hard work. He’d have lost Annie too. If he won…ten times ten…

  Another hundred pounds.

  He felt dizzy. It wasn’t the heat. It was knowing that this was the best chance he’d ever have.

  He stumbled over to the paddock and nodded to Roman John without explaining what he’d done. Conservative rolled his eyes, showing the whites. He was nervous.

  Well, thought Billy, so am I.

  He led Conservative to the saddling ground. The horse danced around as he tried to tighten the girth. He wasn’t happy, and he showed it. Suddenly he whinnied. Billy looked up.

  ‘William!’

  It was the first time she hadn’t called him Mr Marks.

  Annie wore a high-brimmed hat trimmed with roses, and a light blue dress. She ducked under the railings and ran up to him, holding her skirts out of the muck, dodging the other horses.

  ‘You’ve come to wish me luck?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve come to ask you not to do it!’

  She took his hand. It was the first time she had touched him. Her skin felt soft and warm. ‘I made up my mind. It’s you I want. I’ve saved thirty-four pounds; you’ve got your savings. We can get married with that. But don’t race. Please.’

  ‘Will you still marry me if I do?’ I’ve only got about fifty pounds now, he thought. I have to run this race…

  She met his eyes. ‘Yes. Win or lose, I’ll marry you.’ She patted Conservative, then reached into her reticule and took out an apple. ‘Should he eat before the race?’

  It was too late. The horse had crunched it. He butted Annie gently to show his pleasure, and she patted his nose again. ‘Good luck,’ she said—to the horse, not to Billy—and kissed Conservative’s black nose.

  Billy watched her stride off across the paddock, saw the men admiring her. But none it seemed dared approach her. Was there another woman in the whole of New South Wales who’d stride like that?

  He lifted his hand and stroked Conservative’s nose. ‘Well, boy. Looks like we’ve got to win.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Conservative, 1842

  It had been a long time since I felt confused like this. I was used to farms, to cantering down the roads with Billy on my back.

  Now we seemed lost in a crowd of men and horses. The horses smelt of fear, and the sweat that horses get when they are about to fight.

  Were we about to fight on this gr
assless paddock? Why? I wanted to get away somewhere quiet where there was only me and Billy, and Annie perhaps, with a whole bag of apples…

  I pulled at the tether. Most times Billy knew what I was trying to say. But he seemed intent on something I couldn’t understand.

  He led me to another paddock, a big round one. There were fewer horses here. I was glad. But the fighting smell was even stronger.

  He put the saddle on my back. It was lighter than the one I usually wore, and smelt of another horse. I stamped a bit at the unfamiliarity. A stallion yelled at me from not far away. I tried to rise to meet his challenge, but Billy tugged my tether down.

  I heard the ringing sound, and then a whooshing sound. A whip!

  I stamped, even more uncertain now. I had to get away! I had to—

  And suddenly Annie was there. She even had an apple. I crunched it, Annie on one side of me, with her good familiar smell of flour and apples, Billy on the other side, smelling of me. They patted me, and Annie bumped me with her nose. I felt better then.

  It didn’t last.

  Annie walked away. Billy tugged on my reins. He led me to a spot where other horses stood in a line. I stamped again. I tried to get away. But Billy held me firm. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please. For me.’

  I quietened enough for him to scramble up onto my back. But even he felt strange in the new saddle. I lunged at the horse next to me. Billy pulled at the reins.

  ‘No, Conservative. No!’

  ‘Get ready, gentlemen!’

  All at once I heard a shot. I reared a little, at the shock. Billy dug his heels into my sides, and lashed down with the rein. ‘Run, boy, run!’ he yelled.

  On either side of me the riders slashed their horses with their whips.

  I reared again, caught in the memories of pain.

  I could feel Billy struggling to stay on, hear Annie scream beyond the paddock fence. ‘William!’