Shepherd

by Catherine Jinks

  Rowdy hauls himself up onto Woodbine. Cockeye tamps down his powder.

  I drum my heels into Raisin’s flanks.

  She springs forward as I look back. That’s when Cockeye shoots.

  The ball hits Bolivar.

  ‘No!’ The horse falls to his knees, screaming, and that terrible sound is like a knife in my heart. But the crack of the carbine drowns it.

  Cockeye ducks. Rowdy’s ball hits a tree.

  Now Woodbine’s galloping after me, with Rowdy low in the saddle. (Bad seat. Too much grip.) Gyp’s streaking along, mouth open, tongue flapping, but she’s starting to fall behind Raisin. I hope she minds Woodbine because Rowdy won’t mind her.

  Bolivar. Poor Bolivar. Pray God Cockeye shoots him dead before he suffers any more pain…

  A gun fires, but it wasn’t Cockeye’s. Where did that come from?

  We’re pounding towards the foot of the hill. The road kisses its westernmost point, then swings around it in a loop before veering south again. There’s barely any cover on this end of the hill; the steep slope is all tawny grass and grey rocks with just a scattering of wind-blunted timber.

  Someone’s on the hillside. A dark dot, trickling towards the road.

  Carver.

  I push my pelvis forward and Raisin responds, hurtling along, leaving Gyp in a cloud of dust. Gyp’s a smaller target than Raisin. I need to get Raisin past that hill before we’re in range of Carver’s muskets.

  Come on, my beauty, come on.

  She knows she’s in danger. She heard Bolivar scream. But the road’s too rough for a racing gallop. It jars her gait—I have to pull her back into a canter.

  Carver fires. Raisin jibs. God ha’ mercy, that was close. We’re rounding the hill now and I’ve a clear view of Carver, for all I’m being thrown about like a cork on the sea. He’s running straight at us, slipping and sliding. He has a gun in each hand—two long black sticks. He slings one of ’em over his shoulder, raises the other one and fires.

  I feel the jolt as if the ball has hit my own body.

  8

  THE WORLD’S upended. I’m flying through the air and then down. Breathless.

  Stars.

  The darkness evaporates like mist. There’s the sky and the hilltop. And what’s that noise? Is it Gyp whining?

  Raisin. Where’s Raisin?

  When I sit up, pain shoots down my left arm. Did I break something? Gyp whimpers. Raisin…

  Raisin’s flailing on the ground. She’s been shot and there’s blood everywhere.

  My voice cracks when I say her name.

  Suddenly I’m blinded by dust as Woodbine skids to a halt nearby.

  ‘Quick! Up here!’ Rowdy’s leaning towards me, his hand outstretched. He’s lost his sheepskin.

  I’ve lost mine too. Where is it?

  ‘Tom, hurry!’

  But what about Raisin?

  Carver’s next shot makes Woodbine flinch and tremble. Rowdy grabs the reins to steady her. Gyp is barking hysterically.

  Carver’s coming. I can see him. He’s reached the base of the hill.

  ‘Now,’ screams Rowdy.

  Getting up is a strain. My leg hurts. My arm hurts. By the time I’m on my feet Rowdy is already reloading his carbine, shaking the ball into the muzzle.

  Carver must be reloading too.

  ‘Ow. Ahh…’ Sticking my right foot in the stirrup puts pressure on my injured left knee. I can’t use my left leg to push myself up. I can’t use my left arm to pull myself up.

  ‘Here.’ With a final jab of the ramrod, Rowdy finishes reloading. Then he slings the carbine over his naked shoulder and slides to the ground. ‘Grab the pommel!’ he orders, clamping his hands around my waist.

  Why is he doing this? Why did he stop for me? He’s putting his life at risk, and for what? For someone he barely knows…

  ‘One…two…three…heave!’ He’s stronger than he looks. All at once I’m in the saddle and Gyp is still barking and Carver—Carver’s across the road, aiming his gun. There’s a crack and a puff of smoke.

  Gyp yelps and falls silent. I turn. She’s flipped over.

  Oh God.

  ‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Rowdy.

  I try to dismount but he’s in my way. ‘I’ll get her!’ he says and turns to scoop her up. I can’t see for the tears. Where’s Carver? Where is he?

  I’m going to kill him.

  There he is, reloading: he’s just stepped out onto the road. I need the gun but my hands are shaking and my arm hurts and how the hell am I going to aim?

  ‘Tom!’ Suddenly Gyp’s lying across my lap. Rowdy put her there. He’s hauling himself up behind me; Woodbine staggers under the extra weight but doesn’t buckle.

  Gyp’s still breathing—whimpering—alive. She’s alive.

  Rowdy kicks the horse into a gallop. Gyp’s eyes roll. There’s blood on my hands but I can’t find her wound. Where is it? ‘She’s shot…she’s shot…’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ says Rowdy.

  Please God, don’t let her die. When I kiss her head she tries to lick me.

  The musket cracks again, not so loud this time.

  ‘Christ,’ Rowdy mutters. He’s pressed against my back, his chin on my scalp, his arms encircling me. He’s wedged so tight in the saddle that the pommel’s digging into my gut. Gyp’s clasped to my chest, cradled like an infant, shuddering with every jolt. Her heart beats next to mine.

  ‘At least he can’t chase us,’ Rowdy croaks. ‘Not without horses.’

  Raisin. Bolivar.

  Gyp.

  I can’t bear it. The sobs come tearing out.

  ‘Ah, now. Don’t fret. They’ll mend her at the farm,’ Rowdy offers. ‘We just have to get there.’

  With a nudge of his heels, he urges Woodbine forward. She’s already labouring; her hoofs hit the ground like cannon balls as she canters along.

  ‘Stop it.’ Can’t you feel the strain on her? ‘Slow down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Slow down or you’ll kill the horse!’

  Our pace eases as Rowdy shifts in the saddle behind me. I think he must be looking over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘They’ll not catch up now. Not on foot.’

  I don’t care if they do—not if Gyp dies. Woodbine’s gait slows even further, to a running walk. We’ve rounded the hill and are leaving it behind, following the southward sweep of the road. The bush is closing in again.

  ‘D’ye think they’ll leave off?’ Rowdy asks. I wish he’d stop talking; Gyp needs me. She needs everything I have.

  But Rowdy was there when I needed him; he saved my life. So I answer his question by shaking my head. Leave off? Why would Carver leave off?

  ‘They must know we’re heading for Mr Barrett’s,’ Rowdy counters. ‘Why wouldn’t they cut and run?’

  ‘No witnesses,’ I answer hoarsely.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Carver was lagged on account of a witness he left alive. He told me he’d never make the same mistake again.’

  ‘Aye, but he’d be mad to follow us,’ Rowdy argues. His voice sounds shaky. His breathing quickens. ‘There’ll be guns at Mr Barrett’s, and a deal more folk—’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Sure, we’ll have an army to fight for us—’

  ‘Are you blind? Or just stupid?’ God ha’ mercy, I shouldn’t speak so harsh, but we’re marked for slaughter…and Gyp’s dying…and I can’t bear it, I can’t…‘We’re on Mr Barrett’s horse, you fool!’

  Rowdy gasps.

  ‘Don’t you know her? Didn’t you work the horses at all?’ People don’t care. They don’t look. They pass by without seeing the beasts all around ’em. ‘Check in the saddlebags.’

  ‘The saddlebags?’

  ‘Check inside.’

  With the saddle pitching and rolling beneath him like a ship’s deck, Rowdy has a hard time reaching either of the saddlebags. All the same, he gropes for the buckles by his left knee. Gyp’s pant
ing. Her eyes are on mine—she wants me to stop the pain.

  ‘Shh…that’ll do. That’ll do, my good girl…’

  ‘Hell and damnation,’ says Rowdy. He’s pulled something from the starboard saddlebag. Something else hits the ground; he must have dropped it. An apple? I can’t be sure. We’ve already left it far behind.

  Rowdy thrusts a silver cruet under my nose and I bat it aside. I don’t want it between me and Gyp.

  ‘D’ye recognise that?’ Rowdy demands.

  I nod.

  ‘Is it Mr Barrett’s?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Mother o’ God.’

  I whisper in Gyp’s ear. I tell her I’m with her. I tell her she’s safe. I tell her I won’t leave. The forest slides past, but it means nothing to me. I don’t know how far we’ve come and I don’t care.

  ‘So they went to the farm first,’ Rowdy says at last. When I don’t answer, he adds, ‘They might have done it at night. Slipped in without rousin’ a soul. Killed the dogs. Rifled the kitchen and no one the wiser…’

  Oh, I’m sure. And cleaned up after themselves. And locked the doors. And fed the chickens.

  There’s nothing good left—nothing. Please God, take this cup from me.

  I don’t know what to do.

  When I first saw Gyp, I’d just arrived at the farm. I was waiting by Mr Barrett’s stables as he talked to George Trumble about the supplies that needed unloading from the wagon. All the dogs had run up to greet their master. Scylla was there. Nugget. Rex. Lion.

  Gyp was there, too, a little behind the others. She was the only dog who didn’t bark at me. After the rest of ’em had sniffed my boots and run off to inspect Mr Barrett’s purchases, Gyp stayed behind, studying my face with eyes the colour of treacle. When the overseer showed me to my bed, she followed us—until he sent her away. But she came back later, while I was mucking out the stables. And again that night, after dinner. And again in the morning.

  She was half-trained. Mr Barrett knows dogs but he’s a busy man. He never had much time for Gyp. The others were too ignorant and heavy-handed to train her up. They hadn’t the wit or the patience.

  I used my own rations and snared a few birds and soon Gyp was coaxed into the right habits. I never had to use a stick, because she was so clever. Mr Barrett noticed. He approved. He told the other lags that they should take their cue from me; my life was a misery from then on. Charlie and Jim shunned me and taunted me and did their best to damage my prospects. I wasn’t the one who wet my bed or let the chickens out. Charlie did that—and lied about it after.

  Mr Barrett should have realised I wasn’t to blame, but he’s like a man blind in one eye who doesn’t see the full picture and won’t turn his head to look. Why should he? To him, we’re part of the fixtures. If we’re faulty we can be replaced. Though he prefers us to the blacks, he doesn’t care enough to dispense proper justice. For a sworn magistrate, he’s far too hasty.

  The magistrates at my trial were the same. It was all over in a few minutes. When someone said, ‘The Queen against Clay,’ I knew I’d lost, because who’d lay a bet on a contest between the Queen and a twelve-year-old Suffolk poacher? Then the underkeeper, Cocksedge—he’d been promoted to head keeper after Clegg’s death— mentioned that he was the one who’d apprehended my father. Then the parish constable told the court that, in my case, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. He talked of my father, my brother and my Uncle John, transported for poaching five years before, who died of consumption on the way to New South Wales. Poaching was in our blood, the constable said: we were the most notorious poaching family in a notorious poaching village.

  No one spoke for me. Courts don’t work like that. Even Tobias from the beer shop stayed silent; he wasn’t about to admit he’d been buying stolen trout and partridges. When asked if I had anything to say, I couldn’t find my voice. It had deserted me, along with my wits.

  The magistrates sentenced me to seven years. They were trying their next case—‘The Queen against Lovett’—before I’d even left the courtroom.

  God knows I’m no stranger to unfair punishment. It’s the way of the world. You must endure it as best you can, but the burden is always lighter when you have a friend to share it with you.

  Whenever I was punished unfairly at Mr Barrett’s farm, Gyp comforted me. She slept in my bed and ate at my feet. She helped me to track snakes, gather sheep, scare crows, find chickens. She protected me. She understood me. She loved me. And now she’s going to die.

  The light tells me we’ve come a long way—the light and Woodbine’s weary tread. The shadows have swallowed the road. Woodbine is so tired that her head is bobbing and she’s overreaching. The change in her gait is what finally pulls my eyes away from Gyp.

  Gyp’s unconscious but still breathing. Thank God she’s still breathing.

  ‘We’re close,’ I mutter. Behind me, Rowdy jerks upright; he was swaying a little, earlier. Was he drifting into a doze? He must have been—he hasn’t said a word for at least an hour.

  He wouldn’t have had much sleep last night.

  ‘Whassat?’ he gurgles.

  ‘We’re close.’ I recognise the meadow where Mr Barrett has been clearing timber. I recognise that filled pothole—I filled it myself. I recognise the sweep of the cart tracks as they curve around an outcrop of boulders.

  Gyp and I have trudged up and down this patch of road many times.

  ‘How much longer, d’ye think?’ Rowdy asks.

  ‘Not long.’ Not long before I can wash Gyp’s wound, and dress it, and lay her down in front of the kitchen fire. She needs water, too. There’s no water in the saddlebags. There’s rum and cheese and tea-cake—Rowdy’s sampled all three—but no water to wash Gyp’s wound or wet her tongue.

  Rowdy shivers. The temperature’s dropping now and he must be getting cold with no shirt on his back. Goosebumps bloom on the scarred forearms draped around my waist like a sword belt. The reins hang limp in his grasp.

  And here’s the edge of the farmyard, which is full of stumps and rocks. The road swings by it, throwing off a driveway that leads straight up to Mr Barrett’s front door. I’ve grown accustomed to the style of house in this country, and the low-hanging verandas that I found so odd at first. Mr Barrett’s house has a wide veranda on all four sides; also a shingle roof, slab walls and two brick chimneys.

  Neither of the chimneys is smoking.

  ‘Hello?’ Rowdy calls. ‘Mr Barrett?’

  No one answers; no dogs bark. That’s bad. A loose chicken scurries across the road. From where we are, I can’t see the kitchen because the house is in the way. But I can see the stables, set well back to the right of the house. The stable door has been left open. At the building’s gable end, a rope dangles from the lift-beam above the entrance to the hayloft. Spinning slowly at the end of this rope is Nugget the wolfhound, hanged.

  ‘Mother o’ God,’ says Rowdy.

  Broken bottles litter the front steps of the house. One of the windows is cracked. As we slowly advance, passing to the west of the front parlour, a small hut with cob walls becomes visible. This is the cool-room, lying between the stables and the kitchen. Pools of dried blood stain the ground in front of it. Behind it, a cow lies motionless in the thick grass of the southern paddock, her belly bloated with gas. Poor Buttercup.

  ‘Christ,’ Rowdy whispers.

  ‘Stop.’ I need to take Gyp inside. I don’t know what we’ll find there, but Gyp is my only concern.

  Rowdy brings Woodbine to a halt and dismounts, nervously clutching the carbine.

  ‘Hello?’ he yells.

  Nothing stirs save Nugget’s revolving corpse and another chicken—Mrs Munns—bustling through the vegetable garden, which lies between the kitchen and the rear of the house. She’s picking at turnip greens.

  The garden’s picket fence has been flattened in one corner, as if by a falling bullock.

  ‘Look,’ says Rowdy. He points at a paper cartridge-tail trembling on the ground.
It flits away in the fitful breeze as I glance down at it.

  In front of us, the rickety kitchen is propped up by an enormous stone chimney that isn’t smoking. I’ve never known Mrs Trumble to let the kitchen fire go out.

  ‘Here,’ says Rowdy, reaching up for Gyp. I pass her to him gently, then slide down to take her back.

  My knee’s much better now, but my injured arm won’t bear her weight. After a failed attempt, I have to leave her in Rowdy’s arms.

  ‘Where d’ye want her?’ Rowdy asks, his gaze jumping about like a flea. I lead him towards the kitchen, past an upended bucket and a single shoe. I know that shoe. It belongs to Mrs Trumble.

  Slowly the kitchen door creaks open beneath the pressure of my hand. There’s no one inside—save for a nut-brown pullet called Lady Jane squawking in a cage on the dresser. The smashed plates, overturned chair and upended dish of stew tell me that something bad happened here.

  A hanging pot-rack dangles from two hooks instead of four, as if someone has been swinging on it.

  ‘There,’ I tell Rowdy, pointing at the scuffed boards in front of the hearth. ‘Put her there.’ The embers in the fireplace are black and cold but I can always build a new fire to warm Gyp.

  ‘Where are they?’ asks Rowdy, as he lowers Gyp onto the floor.

  I don’t answer. Now that Gyp is stretched out I can see where she’s been shot. The ball has passed straight through her hindquarters.

  Surely that’s a good thing? At least she wasn’t shot in the heart or the head…

  ‘Perhaps they ran away,’ Rowdy mutters.

  A copper pan has fallen from the pot-rack. I pick it up and dip it into the water-bucket that stands permanently near the stone sink. Then I grab a dishcloth, soak it, place the pan near Gyp’s head, gingerly dab at her wound with the cloth…

  When she twitches I pull back. Sorry. I’m so sorry.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll go and look,’ Rowdy offers. ‘You should bar the door when I leave—don’t let anyone else in.’ He turns to go, his gaze lingering for a moment on the knife by the dresser.

  ‘Woodbine,’ I tell him, so he won’t forget. Woodbine can’t be left sweaty and saddled. She needs water. She needs oats and a good rub-down.