The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  Papa’s death had to have been an accident. Or maybe Richard—

  She shut her mind to that. The whole family shut their minds to that. Whatever Richard had done—or not done—was never spoken of, just as no one ever spoke of Rebel Yell.

  Richard had gone off droving before the inquest into Papa’s death. It was better, Mama said, that he not be there to answer questions. Mattie suspected Mama was afraid Richard might lose his temper, if the police or magistrate questioned him too hard.

  Richard came back once or twice each year; worked a few months with William or Elijah, then was gone again. Mattie could never work out if it was worse if he was guilty, and not in gaol, or if he was innocent, and living all his life with the suspicion.

  At least Richard is free, she thought. Not like Rebel Yell.

  She’d bring him extra apples in the morning, before the guests arrived. Sarah could come with her. Maybe if Sarah became Rebel Yell’s friend too then she could ride him when…

  When she was gone, and Rebel Yell would have no one else at all.

  Faintly she could hear the sound of tearing grass. It was comforting. Make the most of every second, Mattie told herself. When you didn’t know how many seconds you had left every one was precious.

  She’d enjoy the ball, watching the dancing, watching the ladies in their bright new gowns, just like she enjoyed the sound of her friend munching in the darkness…

  Mattie Jane slept.

  Next morning everything was underway before cockcrow: the jellies setting on the steps in the cold morning air; the puddings boiling in the pots on the stove; Elijah carrying in armful after armful of wood; pies cooling on the kitchen table; six big turkeys, stuffed, ready to roast; and a baron of beef already turning on the rod in the hearth, a few coals under it to make sure it didn’t cook too fast and toughen.

  Sarah’s job was to swat the flies before they could land and leave crawlies for the visitors to find. Mattie Jane would have liked to swat the flies as well, but darting about made her cough.

  Instead she scattered candle shavings on the ballroom floor, and watched while William dragged a bag of sand over and over them, till the floor was smooth as a mirror for the dancing.

  William rolled barrels of beer in from the dairy—Mama’s own brewing, as good as any beer around. There was a hogshead of wine too, and a fruit punch for the ladies, made with cold tea and juice from their own apples and lemons, and—luxury of luxuries—a pineapple, all the way from Queensland, ordered specially from Sydney, and chopped up small.

  The musicians arrived at midday—two fiddlers, and Mama would play the piano too.

  It was time to undo the rags, and brush her hair into ringlets. She and Sarah dressed together, so they could do up each other’s buttons behind. Mattie Jane had a new dress, pale blue with lace. She wished she was old enough to wear a hooped petticoat, to put her hair up, and have a dress that showed her arms and shoulders.

  Mama said she could when she was sixteen. People would talk if she put up her hair too early, and there had been too much gossip already about Markdale.

  But there was a long winter to live through before she’d be sixteen.

  By half past four the guests were sitting down to dinner. Ladies’ wide skirts took up so much room with their petticoats and ruffles that there had to be six tables for the forty-two guests. The family and Sarah served, with aprons over their good clothes. William Junior sliced the meats, and the girls brought in platters of vegetables, then pie after pie, and the plum pudding, refilling glasses with punch or wine or beer in between courses.

  Forty-two people, at ten pounds a head. Four hundred and twenty pounds, minus fifty to pay for the food and drink brought in, and ten pounds for the fiddlers.

  By seven everyone was dancing. Mama’s ball dress was older than Mattie Jane. But Mama sewed on new lace, changed the sleeves and put a wide petticoat under the skirts, so it looked almost new.

  Mattie wore her blue silk, and Sarah wore yellow, with matching ribbons in their hair. Of course the silk dresses were covered with white aprons, for even when the ladies and gentlemen were dancing, with other men standing against the wall and the older women on chairs, they needed drinks to cool them down. The candles and the fire looked festive, but they made the room so hot…

  Mattie tried not to cough as she edged toward the door, hoping to open it to let in some fresh air.

  Suddenly the door was flung open from outside. A man stood there, a young man, in a brown coat and hat, not evening dress. He held a pistol in each hand; there was a third one in his belt. Bushranger!

  A lady shrieked, and dropped her fan. The bushranger stepped forward and to one side so his back was to the wall, limping a little, holding his pistols high and steady.

  ‘Stand and deliver,’ he said, smiling as though it was all a joke, as though they should know exactly why he was here, without him having to say the words.

  Another woman screamed, over and over, till someone shook her, hissing at her to be quiet.

  ‘A damn—dashed bushranger.’ It was Colonel Foukes from over Goulburn way. He was flushed from drinking wine, and even more from anger, but he stopped moving when the bushranger pointed the pistols at him.

  The bushranger still smiled. It was a strange smile. There was anger, and sadness too. ‘If anybody moves again I’ll shoot.’

  Mattie knew him from the sketches in the newspapers William brought back from town. It was Ben Hall. She wondered where his gang was. Outside perhaps.

  Suddenly she remembered she should be scared.

  He had the clearest eyes she’d ever seen. He was about Papa’s height. He looked around the crowd with that sharp smile. Then he caught her staring.

  She smiled at him—she couldn’t help it. He smiled back, a different smile now, one that made his face look like it had been lit up by a lantern. His eyes looked warm now. She felt herself flushing in their heat.

  Beside her Sarah whispered, ‘Oh my. He’s the handsomest man in the world.’

  No, thought Mattie Jane. He just makes the other men look like they don’t matter. That’s why you think he’s handsome.

  He wasn’t looking at Mattie now, she realised with a pang. The brief interest had vanished. He pointed to the middle of the dance floor. ‘Watches. Jewellery. Any weapons.’ His words were sharp and clear. ‘Throw them down there. You too, sir. Don’t tell me you don’t have a watch in your pocket. Now stand back against the far wall. All of you.’

  The crowd moved as though they were a millipede with one head and lots of legs. Suddenly there were only three of them: Ben Hall near the doorway, Mama still at the piano, and Mattie Jane, standing alone on the dance floor.

  Sarah darted over. She tugged Mattie’s hand. ‘Come on,’ she hissed. ‘He’ll shoot you.’

  Would he? Mattie Jane had stared death in the face many times. She didn’t feel like it was in the room with her now. But Sarah was anxious, and she was her friend. She let her lead her over to the wall. Sarah clasped her arm, as though to make sure Mattie Jane didn’t move again.

  Now only the bushranger and Mama were left.

  Mama stood up from her seat at the piano. She looked more alive than Mattie had ever seen her, her dark eyes bright.

  ‘Mr Hall, I believe?’ She stepped gracefully across the polished floor, still shiny with its beeswax and the slide of dancing slippers, so the candlelight flickered on its sheen. One hand in its clean white glove held up her skirts. She held the other out to the bushranger. ‘How kind of you to join our dance, Mr Hall.’

  The bushranger stared at Annie, his pistols unwavering in his hands. His eyes flickered around the room, to make sure no one was moving, then gazed back at Mama. ‘Madam, I’m not here to—’

  ‘Not here to spoil a party? I’ve heard you never spoil a party, Mr Hall.’ Mama smiled up at him. She looked at him the way Mattie remembered her looking at Papa sometimes, as though telling him things that couldn’t be said aloud. ‘So join us. Enjoy yourself fo
r a night. It’s a sad thing to spoil a party.’

  His voice hardened. ‘It’s a sad thing to be hauled off to the gallows.’

  All at once Mama’s smile was gone. She met his eyes again. ‘Trust me, Mr Hall. No one here is armed. Drink and firearms do not mix—or rather, mix too well. You have nothing to fear from anyone here tonight. You have my word.’

  ‘And what is your word worth, madam?’

  ‘I have only broken one promise in my life, Mr Hall, and that I regret most bitterly. I won’t break this one to you.’

  Mattie tried to read the bushranger’s expression. He looked around the room, the pistols still held high. Mama laid her hand on his wrist. Her glove looked very white against his grubby jacket. ‘You have your pistols to keep you safe. Let my guests take their trinkets back. Choose a partner, Mr Hall.’ There was a hint of command in Mama’s voice now, like when she told Elijah that they needed more wood for the kitchen stove. ‘I am about to play a polka. Do you dance the polka?’

  ‘Yes. I know it.’ It was as though the anger and the strain had been wiped off his face with a wet cloth, like Martha had wiped Mattie’s when she was sick. Suddenly he grinned. He thrust his pistols into his sash. He beckoned toward the crowd.

  Mattie stared. He couldn’t be…

  Sarah nudged her. ‘He’s looking at you!’ Her voice was envious, but happy for Mattie too. Sarah’s the best friend in the world, thought Mattie vaguely, even as she stepped forward onto the dance floor, empty except for the small pile of jewels and watches.

  ‘Hold your hand out, so he can take it!’ hissed Sarah.

  The bushranger heard. He grinned again. Mattie blushed, and held out her hand. Out of all the grand women in the room, he’d chosen to dance with her.

  ‘Your apron!’ Sarah ran up behind her and untied the white apron strings at her back. ‘You can’t dance in an apron!’

  She was in a dream, a fever dream, but those were frightening, and this was the most wonderful thing in the world. The candlelight, the shining floor, all blurred together in one great burst of happiness and light.

  Vaguely she heard Mama playing the piano again, and the fiddlers beginning the tune. One of the guests bent to pick up his watch. The others followed, grabbing their jewellery then self-consciously starting to dance again, glancing at the bushranger and Mama. Then Mattie and the bushranger were dancing too, round and round and round. Her feet slid across the polished floor. His boots might have been dancing slippers, he moved so lightly. The room was spinning, the watching faces, the music and his eyes, those clear eyes looking down. She danced and danced. His limp didn’t matter. And she never coughed at all.

  And then the music stopped. She made herself breathe shallowly, so she didn’t cough. If she coughed she’d break the dream.

  He bowed, a funny laughing bow, still holding her hand. She wished she wore gloves like Mama.

  ‘Your first dance?’ he asked softly.

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re not afraid to dance with a bushranger?’

  She put up her chin. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’

  He looked at her. Most grown-ups never really looked at girls, except to make sure their hair was tidy, or they weren’t eating with their elbows on the table. But Ben Hall looked at her as though he was trying to see just who she was. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mattie Jane Marks.’

  ‘Marks? You live here?’

  She nodded, trying to ignore the tickle in her throat.

  He was laughing now, but not at her. ‘You’re your mother’s daughter, right enough. The courage of a lion, and big brown eyes as well. You’d make a good wife for a bushranger.’

  ‘I’m too young to get married.’

  She felt the flush right up her neck as soon as she’d said it.

  ‘I think you might be right. But I’m a patient man, if I have to be. What do you say?’ He bent his head and whispered in her ear. ‘Do you think you’d marry me?’

  Suddenly it seemed the most serious question she’d ever been asked. She hesitated before she answered. ‘Maybe.’

  He looked quiet now, all the laughter and the flirting gone. ‘I’ve never had anyone say that to me before.’

  ‘What have they said?’

  The smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Some screamed. Most said yes. They think being a bushranger is romantic.’

  ‘But it isn’t?’

  He laughed again. ‘Come on. Let’s dance again. We can talk as we dance and no one can overhear us. Have you learnt that yet, Miss Marks? You can be in a room full of people and no one can hear you when you dance. But in the bush a single footfall can crackle the leaves, and tell the traps you’re there.’

  ‘Is that how it is as a bushranger? Being afraid of the police all the time?’

  He twirled her round. When she had her breath back he said, ‘Sometimes. The police are mostly fools on broken nags.’ He shrugged. ‘For some men, bushranging is adventure. For others it’s a dream.’

  ‘But for you?’

  He looked down into her face. ‘For me, it was anger. Revenge. Getting my own back on the police who ruined me. They killed my cattle, left them to die of thirst in the stockyards, so the crows could eat their eyes.’ His voice was hoarse with grief. ‘Revenge on the wife who left me. It was a policeman who took my wife. Took my baby son, my farm, my life.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She could hear the honesty in his voice. It was the first time, she thought, that a man had ever talked to her so openly. ‘Maybe she just liked him better. But I’d have let her go as long as I could see my son. They didn’t have to destroy everything else as well.’

  She was going to cough if they kept dancing. She stopped near the open door, where a breath of fresh air trickled into the heat of dancers and candles. ‘My mama left my papa. I don’t know why she left, why she came back. She won’t speak of it, or about Papa either.’

  The bushranger glanced curiously at Mama, seated behind the piano, her fingers galloping with the polka. Mama wore her company smile. As Mattie watched she glanced over at her and the bushranger, considering. She nodded slightly, then went back to her playing.

  ‘Your mama is making sure I don’t lead you astray.’

  ‘Like she was led astray?’ Mattie flushed again. No one in the family had ever used those words about Mama. But they were true.

  He touched her cheek, a light stroke with his finger. ‘Life is complicated.’

  ‘Even for a bushranger?’

  ‘Especially for a bushranger.’ He hesitated. ‘There are choices I made I can’t unmake. I’d go back to the past, if I could. I’d do it differently. But you never can do that.’

  ‘Mr Hall.’ Mattie met his eyes. His eyes said more than his words ever could. ‘If I marry someone I wouldn’t leave them. Not ever. Not for anything.’

  ‘You’re young. It’s easy to say when you’re young.’

  ‘I’m not young. Not young in my heart. I nearly died, Mr Hall. The sickness is still in my lungs. It will kill me one day. I saw my papa hurt so bad he wanted to die, and finally he did. I watched it all. I’ve learnt some things, maybe, that older girls will never learn at all. One of them is that I would never leave anyone I love, who loves me back. Never. Not ever.’

  ‘What if I ask you to marry me again then, in five years’ time? If I live so long?’

  She couldn’t tell if he meant it. She thought, maybe he doesn’t know if he means it either.

  ‘Maybe I won’t be alive to ask, Mr Hall. But if I marry, it’ll be for true.’

  ‘For true, eh?’ He looked down at her. His eyes seemed to warm her all over again. He took her hand. ‘Let’s make a pact, Miss Mattie Jane. Let’s both refuse to die. And in five years’ time—or less maybe—I’ll ride up and ask you that question again.’

  It was as though warmth spread from his fingers into hers. For the first time since she’d first been ill she could almost believe that she wo
uld live; would live to marry, to have children; live to be an old woman smiling at her great grandchildren crawling on the rug.

  ‘What will you say?’ he whispered.

  She smiled. Suddenly it was as though the weight of her illness had fallen away. ‘You’ll have to wait till you ask me again, Mr Hall.’

  ‘You’re a grand girl, Miss Mattie Jane. A good girl.’ He lifted up her hand, and kissed it. ‘I’d better dance with someone else, or people will talk. It’s not good to be talked about—not if you might marry a bushranger.’

  ‘Dance with Sarah. Sarah’s my best friend.’

  ‘The other little girl?’

  ‘I’m not little!’

  He looked at her seriously. ‘No. You’re small, but your heart is as big as a mountain, and your courage too. Come on, introduce me to your Sarah.’

  She watched him dance. With Sarah, and then her again, and then with Sarah again too. And every fine lady in the room, she knew, envied them, dancing with a bushranger, his eyes as clear as the sky.

  And one day he was going to come for her again. She knew it, deep inside her heart. They would both live, and be together.

  CHAPTER 52

  Rebel Yell, May 1865

  There was music coming from the house, which wasn’t interesting, and strange horses in the other paddocks, which were.

  Scents are strongest at night. I stood there, munching grass, drinking them all in: the bush rats after the corn crop, the old man possum in the storehouse roof, trying to work out how to get in to my apples, the other horses cropping the grass, or lifting their heads to smell me too.

  I was used to horses coming and going these days. Suddenly a man walked across the courtyard. I kept on munching. People came and went these days, but they never came to me, except for my Mattie Jane.

  But he didn’t head over to the paddock with the other horses. Instead he came straight to me. I lifted my head.