The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  I wanted my apple. I always had an apple after the master had worked with me. I deserved an apple now.

  Billy laughed, and clapped my side. ‘Better bring him what he wants, my girl. Horses and men too—give them what they want to eat and you’ll keep them happy.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’ She skipped at his side as they went in through the kitchen door.

  I waited for my apple. I knew the word. Most human words made little sense, but apple was a good word. My apple would come soon…

  It was late: the dew was making the air moist, the swallows were settling into their mud nest under the kitchen eves. The moon began to climb up the sky.

  I whinnied, and stamped my feet. Where was my apple? And then I heard a yell.

  I had never heard a sound like this. It was like a dingo, howling in the night, as though mourning the land taken from them by humans. It was more than that, and different.

  It was the master who was howling.

  What was wrong? What could have hurt him? There were no dingoes in the house, no strangers today either. Last night’s visitor had gone. I stamped my feet again. I neighed, and hoped that Mattie Jane would hear. I heard the master’s voice again. ‘Gone! How can she be gone?’

  Other voices then, boys yelling and girls crying.

  And then the door opened again. I heard footsteps across the gravel.

  It was Mattie Jane. Had she brought my apple? Instead of producing one she ran up to me, and pushed her face into my neck. ‘She’s gone. Mama is gone.’

  I nuzzled her. Suddenly my apple didn’t matter. I liked apples. But all at once I knew I liked Mattie Jane more.

  Mattie Jane wiped her eyes and stepped back a little, stroking my coat as though it comforted her to comfort me. ‘She must have gone this morning, before we were all up. I thought she was in the dairy, or down by the bees! Martha found a note on the mantelpiece, when she was dusting.’ Mattie Jane closed her eyes. ‘It said “I am gone away. I am sorry to cause such pain. I know I have done wrong. I love my family. Your loving mother”.’ She sniffed, and shook her head. ‘Rebel Yell, how can you love people and leave like this?’

  I bumped her with my nose again. It was all I could do.

  Inside I heard another howl. The master was howling like a dingo again, screaming as I had never heard a human scream before. Mattie Jane stood there in the gathering dark, still crying. At last she looked back toward the kitchen. ‘I must go back to Papa.’

  She kissed my nose. I tolerated it, because it came from Mattie Jane.

  Then she was gone.

  I never did get my apple.

  CHAPTER 39

  Billy, 1858

  He roamed from room to room, unable to believe that she was gone. He touched her shawl still hanging from the chair, the tassels of the lamp beside their bed.

  Half of her dresses still hung on the shelf; her hats still perched on their hooks. He had carved those hooks himself. No, one hat was gone, but not her best. He tried to drag the lost hat from his memory—a big straw, the one that she wore down to the paddocks, to shield her from the sun.

  Why was there no note to him?

  She must have gone with the man who had arrived last night. A young man, with dark hair and eyes, said Martha, trembling at her father’s anger, her face white with her own loss too. His name was Mr Campbell; he was from a strange land, far away. Not England—British Columbia, that was it. He spoke words in a funny language that Mama knew. His boots were patched. Two horses, one for riding, one to carry his packs, neither of them worth paddock room at Markdale.

  Had she ridden off on one of those?

  Somehow the thought of Annie riding off on a poor horse made it worse.

  He sat on the bed and cried deep howling cries. Dimly he hoped none of the family could hear. But he couldn’t stop.

  Why had she left him? Why? He had never beaten her, nor got drunk, no more than a little merry. He hadn’t gone with other women. How could any man do that who lived with Annie? All he had done was work for her, work for them all; given her a house, a gold necklace, pearls, a ruby ring…

  He checked. Yes, she had taken her jewellery. To sell, he wondered, for the man who had patched boots?

  He sat there dazed, trying to work out what to do. Gallop from road to road, yelling her name, asking for her at inns and farms? It would help to do something, to hide, to yell. But what if he found her? What would he do then? Cry, or beg? Force her to come with him?

  No, not Annie. He would never force her with fists or tears, never keep her against her will.

  But she had said she loved him! How could a woman like that leave a man she said she loved? Leave her children? The house and farm they’d built together from trees and tussocks?

  The night before he’d gone to town she’d held his face in her hands. She’d said she loved him then. ‘I love you, William Marks, even if you do spill pipe ash on my polished floor.’ And then she’d kissed him.

  What strange words had that man used to lure her from her home? What language could steal a wife and mother? British Columbia—what was that to him or her? No more travellers staying the night. Never again! No visitors either! Would they steal his daughters too with honeyed words? He’d sack the servants. He wanted no woman in the house who wasn’t Annie.

  All Billy had done was love her.

  CHAPTER 40

  Rebel Yell, 1859

  Things were different now. The master never came to work me. He worked none of the other horses, either, though sometimes I saw him sitting in the seat down past the orchard near the mound of dirt.

  But Mattie Jane still brought my apples every day, and stood with me, stroking my neck as I crunched them. She rode me too, short rides down to the river, then gave me another apple. One day she said, ‘I wish we could ride right across the hills. Ride into the sky and back. But I have to churn the butter, then darn the socks. There’s so much to do, now Mama has gone. And Papa won’t have servants in the house, not even since Elizabeth got married and left.’ And then she laughed, and sounded like my old Mattie Jane again. ‘If only some of those dratted boys would leave, or learn to mend their own clothes.’

  But most time now there was no laughter. Sometimes she pressed her face into my side and cried, hugging as much of me as she could reach. I tolerated it. My paddock would have been lonely if it wasn’t for Mattie Jane.

  No men and horses came to our paddocks now. Even the pedlar and his cart were turned back at the gate.

  The days went by. The swallows left for winter, then flew back to make new nests in spring. I grew older, and stronger too. It was hard to live in just one paddock when you longed to gallop like a storm. But Mattie Jane still rode me, and brought me apples every day.

  Then one day she didn’t come at all.

  I watched every time the back door opened, but still she didn’t come. At last, after days and nights without a glimpse of Mattie Jane, Martha trudged into the courtyard, and over to my paddock. Her apron bulged. I could smell the apples as she bent under the fence. I trotted up to her.

  But she didn’t hold them out to me on her hand, just scattered them among the grass. She watched me bend to eat them—even if it was an insult, an apple is still an apple. I was crunching the last when I saw a face peering from an upstairs window.

  It was my Mattie Jane.

  ‘Oh, drat the child, she’s out of bed again.’ But Martha sounded frightened, not angry. ‘She’ll bring the fever back if she gets a chill. I told her I’d bring you apples! It’s all she’s talked about for days!’ She lifted up her skirts and ran back to the house.

  Martha brought the apples to me every day after that, while Mattie Jane watched from the window. But she never came herself.

  Why didn’t she come? I wanted Mattie Jane more than I wanted apples.

  I stood there in my paddock and watched the window, waiting for my Mattie Jane.

  CHAPTER 41

  Mattie Jane, 1860

  It was hard to stay in b
ed, but even though she was much better now her legs wobbled like apple jelly when she tried to stand. Her head swam and she began to cough.

  She was always coughing now. The coughs hurt deep inside. Sometimes her throat felt like someone had lit a fire in it.

  Dr Evans had come again today in his sulky, and said the cold had gone to her chest. Later he heard him trying to whisper to Martha outside the door. Dr Evans was hard of hearing, and his voice boomed when he thought he was being quiet.

  ‘…might be pneumonia. Might even be consumption,’ she heard him say, and then, ‘We’ll pray it isn’t. That’s all you can do, lass, nurse her the best you can and pray and hope she’ll pull through.’ And then he said, ‘Has her mother been told?’

  Mattie Jane lifted her head off the pillow to try to hear Martha’s reply. No one had mentioned Mama since the day she left. Martha even shook her head when Mattie tried to ask where Mama was, and if she was coming back.

  Papa wouldn’t have Mama’s name spoken in the house.

  Mattie Jane cried for Mama to come when she was sick, when the fever was so bad she didn’t know what she was saying. Martha told her later—much later—that she had called for Mama all night, with Papa sitting stiff and quiet in the kitchen, till suddenly he flung himself out the door and rode away.

  It was late when he came back. He had sat with her while Martha slept; she remembered that. She remembered waking up and seeing his face, the tears running down into his whiskers, his callused hand holding hers. But he still never spoke of Mama.

  Now Martha was silent for a moment. Her voice was softer than Dr Evans’s, so Mattie was afraid she had missed her reply. Then Martha said, ‘We don’t know where our mother is, doctor. There is no way to let her know.’

  Mattie lay back on her pillow, trying to stifle her cough with her handkerchief. Mama had embroidered a rose on the corner, years ago. It was faded from many washings now, but Mattie Jane could still trace it with her finger, and think Mama was with her, just a tiny bit.

  Martha and Dr Evans went out to the parlour. Mattie closed her eyes and tried to think. It was hard to think, these days. Her mind felt muddled up like custard. Sometimes she was hot, and sometimes she was cold. Other times the world seemed to run together, like the colours that time Mary Anne had accidentally washed blue trousers with the sheets.

  Consumption. People died when they had consumption. Once, one night, embroidering by candlelight, Mary Anne had mentioned that Mrs Picker’s mother-in-law was dying of consumption. And Mama said, ‘Consumption took my family when I was small. Every single one of them. They all died one by one…’

  Then Mama had looked up, and seen them staring. ‘I noticed old Bessie is going dry,’ she said to Martha sharply. ‘Tell William tomorrow, will you? It’s time she was in calf again.’

  Mattie Jane wondered how long it took to die, when the consumption had you. It had taken Mrs Picker’s mother-in-law four years, hadn’t it? One bout of sickness after another, slowly getting weaker, till she died. It sounded like Mama’s family died much faster. Maybe sometimes consumption was quick, and sometimes slow.

  Mama would know. The tears burnt Mattie’s cheeks. If Mama were here she’d hold her hand. It wouldn’t be so bad if Mama was here.

  If only she could live long enough to see Mama again. How many months before she died? Or was it only weeks? Doctors and big sisters never told you what you needed to know most. Mattie Jane bit her lip. She’d do what Martha told her. She’d rest. She’d eat, even when her throat hurt and she felt anything she swallowed would stick going down. She’d get stronger somehow, even if it was just for a while.

  Because if she was going to die she didn’t want to spend the days she had lying in her bed. She was going to get strong enough to walk outside again, to smell the trees and feel the sun, to take Rebel Yell his apples herself.

  She wanted to see Rebel Yell. Even if she couldn’t ride him she could feel his big firm warmth, and breathe his horsey smell.

  He was her friend. Her best friend now that Mama had gone.

  CHAPTER 42

  Rebel Yell, 1860

  One morning there was no Mattie Jane at the window when it was time for Martha to bring my apples.

  No apples! No Mattie Jane!

  I pawed at the ground, and whinnied. I wanted my Mattie Jane! I wanted my apples too.

  Suddenly the kitchen door opened. There was Mattie Jane, with Martha’s arm around her, helping her stand up.

  Mattie Jane seemed smaller. She wore a shawl, although the day was warm. But she gazed up at the clouds wandering through the sky, and out at the trees on the hills. She smiled at me as her sister helped her slowly across the courtyard to my paddock.

  I had my head over the fence to meet her. She broke from Martha then and put her arms around my neck. I stood still. She felt so frail I was afraid she might fall if I swished my tail. So even though I could smell apples in the bucket Martha carried I didn’t move my head.

  At last Mattie stood back. She picked up an apple and held it out to me on the flat of her hand. I crunched it, then another and another, till the bucket was empty.

  Mattie Jane’s hand shook as she gave me the last apples.

  ‘Back to bed. Now,’ said Martha.

  Mattie nodded. Suddenly she began to cough, a deep hard cough that shook her body.

  Martha held her as she coughed. She yelled, ‘Elijah!’

  Elijah ran from the courtyard where he had been chopping wood. He lifted Mattie into his arms.

  Mattie no longer coughed now, but her voice was hoarse and low. ‘I’m getting better, Rebel Yell. I really am. I’ll come again tomorrow.’

  Martha shook her head. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘The sun is good for me. The fresh air. I’m sure it is.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I stood by the gate as Elijah carried my Mattie Jane back inside. I kept standing there till I saw her face smile at me from the window. I waited till she vanished again, then trotted down to the creek to drink.

  She didn’t come the next day, but she did the day after that. She walked by herself this time, slowly, though Martha walked close behind. She had just a few apples in her pinafore and not a heavy bucket.

  I whinnied, and nudged her with my nose, to tell her I was happy. Happy to see her and smell her and feel her hands. Having my Mattie Jane was even better than the apples.

  But then I ate them, crunching them one by one. An apple is an apple, and besides, it made Mattie Jane smile to see me eat. Martha smiled too, to see her joy.

  It was so good to have her back. The mistress was gone. The master ignored me now. But I had my Mattie Jane.

  CHAPTER 43

  Mattie Jane, 1861

  Mattie Jane worked the butter churn, using both hands now that the lumps were forming and the handle was heavy to turn, and trying not to cough.

  The consumption was still there. She’d learnt lots about it in the past two years, knew it lurked inside you, like a brown snake in the wood pile, ready to strike. Some weeks it seemed like it was hardly there at all. But consumption rotted your lungs slowly. She supposed that was why blood came now when she coughed too hard. One day the consumption would take too much of her lungs, and then she’d die.

  But for now at least she could walk around, and help Martha with the work, even if she had to pause often to get her breath, and stop the world spinning like it was trying to do the polka all around her.

  It was hard for her and Martha to keep the house going by themselves these days. There was no time to ride. She hadn’t been on Rebel Yell since her illness. She had to save her strength for her work. Her other sisters had all married. James was married too, off rounding up brumbies now—glad to be out of the house, she thought, and to work with other people. Papa had sold most of the breeding mares. There were no big horse sales at Markdale any more, or men bringing their mares to be mated with Markdale stallions.

  Markdale was a sad house now. Papa wouldn�
�t pay for servants or stockmen any more. The girls had to do the house and dairy work, and William, Elijah, Richard and Alfred had to work the farm.

  And it would get worse soon. Martha was engaged to be married to Alex Frazer. Then it would be just Mattie Jane to care for Papa and her brothers. At least now Martha did the heavy work—boiled the washing in the copper, puddling it as the water simmered, hanging out the sheets, the trousers, folding them and bringing them in. The washing was lighter when it was dry, so Mattie Jane could help her iron it. Martha hung out the mats every week, as Mama used to do, and bashed them with the carpet beater to shake out the dust. The dust made Mattie Jane cough as well.

  Mattie was eleven now. She could polish the furniture, mixing the beeswax and linseed oil to Mama’s recipe; could make pies and roast the meat. Her puddings were almost as good as Mama’s. But one girl couldn’t look after a houseful of men. Papa just didn’t notice. He never saw anything these days except his rum.

  Mattie Jane shut her eyes, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She tried not to think of Mama; tried not to cry when the work was too hard; when the nights stretched long and lonely without Mama singing or playing the piano, or reading aloud to them by candlelight.

  Mattie Jane opened the butter churn. The butter was in yellow lumps in the thin blue whey, ready to drain. The buttermilk was kept for drinking and washing her face and Martha’s, to keep their skin soft; the butter would be patted and shaped, some for the house and some to be kept in the barrel of salt water in the coolest corner of the dairy, for Martha to sell with the eggs in town.

  Papa didn’t know Martha sold eggs and butter, or if he did he never said. The egg and butter sales bought them flour and tea, for Papa never gave anyone money now. Martha and Mattie could make soap, leeching the lye for the woolshed over the fire. They could use honey instead of sugar, make potato cakes instead of bread for breakfast. But they still needed flour on occasion and, just sometimes, the solace of real tea.