Shepherd

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘Richard Clay,’ said the vicar, ‘you must prepare yourself—’ My father’s gun was loaded. He half-cocked it and said, ‘Get out.’

  I’ll swear to this day, it wasn’t the musket that dispersed the men in our kitchen. It was the look on my father’s face. It sent the underkeeper fleeing, and the vicar and curate along with him. A farrier called Styles held his ground, along with Colley the blacksmith and the parish constable—until my father took a step forward and said, through his blackened teeth, ‘Was it Clegg?’

  The constable opened his mouth, then thought better of speaking. He nodded instead.

  ‘Tell him he’s a dead man,’ my father continued, quite calmly. ‘Tell him no matter where he goes, no matter what he does, I’ll always be on his trail. He’ll never have another moment’s peace while he’s living—and that won’t be long. You tell him that.’

  This was the baldest truth ever spoken. Clegg was in his grave by the month’s end, having been stalked like a hind before the final shot finished him. I don’t know if that shot came with a warning, but I doubt it. A poacher’s greatest weapon is stealth.

  You’d be a fool to warn anyone who’s bigger or quicker or better armed than you are.

  Carver sits on a fallen log, hunched and bloody and ragged. On the ground to his left lies the duelling pistol. To his right he’s placed a musket where he can reach it easily. He’s nursing his other musket, which is probably cocked; I can’t see the hammer from here, so I’m not sure. If I were Carver, I would have cocked it.

  Tucked against the log, just under his rump, is a half-opened cloth bundle leaking supplies: a round of cheese, a hunk of mutton, a tin of tea, a bag of sugar. The sugar-bag is slightly split. That’s why the ants are raiding it.

  He’s watching the horse. I knew he would be. He’s skulking behind a screen of foliage, waiting for me to approach Woodbine so he can shoot me dead. Every so often he bites into a heel of bread, tears off a mouthful, chews, swallows.

  As the crumbs rain down, the ants pick ’em up.

  Peep-peep-peep. Though the thorn-beak above him is becoming more and more frantic, he pays no heed to its piping and fluttering. Good. He’s so fixed on the horse that his ears aren’t tuned to the noises around him.

  I need to line up my shot, but I can’t do it down here. I have to stand. So I shuffle sideways—very slowly and very, very quietly—until my swollen nose is almost pressed against the bark of a big white gum tree covered in scribbles. The tree is so wide that it blocks my view of Carver. Pray God it blocks his view of me.

  I’m holding my breath as I straighten my knees, sliding up the tree trunk until I’m finally standing. Once on my feet, I begin to adjust my grip on the carbine, inch by cautious inch. Carver coughs. Then he groans. His ribs must be hurting him.

  When he coughs again, I cock my gun. Now I just have to aim it.

  I’ll wait until the next gust of wind. In a forest full of tossing, nodding branches, Carver may not spy a gun barrel emerging from behind a tree. He’s not looking this way, but there’s no telling what he might glimpse from the corner of his eye.

  The sight of the food makes my mouth water. I’m glad I ate this morning, else my stomach would be growling like a mastiff. Carver chews slowly and doggedly. His breathing is laboured. The coat he’s wearing is so stiff with blood you could break it across your knee.

  And here’s a puff of wind. The bush sways and dances around me. Leaves rustle. Boughs creak. I raise the carbine and point it at Carver’s back.

  Now.

  For a moment I feel dizzy; the muzzle wavers. How am I going to do this? To shoot a man in the back—to shoot him in cold blood—is wicked. A sin. Will I go to heaven if I kill Dan Carver? What if Gyp’s waiting for me there, and I never arrive?

  Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

  I take a deep breath and pull the trigger.

  It’s a flash in the pan.

  Carver spins around, wildly firing his musket, but I’m already running and I’m faster than he is. Oh God, oh God, he’s got three guns. I duck as he shoots again. The ball smacks off a nearby tree. A branch slaps me in the face and the bush is so dense that it tugs at my clothes and they rip.

  Carver fires. The ball sends up a spurt of dust.

  Three shots. He has to reload now and I’m well ahead; if I can increase the distance and stay in thick scrub I might lose him.

  Please God…

  My foot drops into a hidden hole and I go crashing, rolling along the ground. I drop the carbine—leap to my feet again—snatch up the gun and away I go. I can hear Carver lumbering along behind me. I can hear him gasping for breath. God help us, is that sun up ahead? Am I making for the meadow?

  I can’t be. I’m well past the meadow. This must be another, smaller clearing but the scrub is the only thing keeping me alive. Once Carver can see me—once he has a clear line of sight—

  His next shot whizzes past and I duck and drop, plunging into a tangle of tightly matted undergrowth about four feet high. It scrapes my face and tweaks my hair and tears my clothes, but I’m past caring. This is my only chance. I’m not a hare. I’m not a sheep. I have to start thinking like a hunter.

  I turn my carbine around so that I’m holding it like a club.

  ‘I’m going to drive you out, you little bastard!’ Carver cries hoarsely. He fires into the thicket, then begins to crunch through it. Suddenly he stops. Paper rattles.

  He’s reloading again.

  ‘You always thought you was sharper than me,’ he continues, gasping and wheezing, ‘but that ain’t why you’re a dead man, Tom Clay.’

  The sound of the ramrod tells me he’s just a few yards away. But I can’t reach him. I can’t see him. All I can see are twigs and nuts and leaves and flowers—and the big, red ants marching across the ground in front of me, just a few inches from my boots. Ants like that will bite like dogs, and there’s nothing I can do to stop ’em running up my leg if they’ve a mind to. A single movement will show Carver where I’m hiding. I can’t risk that.

  ‘You know why you’re a dead man? Because you thought yer dog was sharper than me,’ Carver continues. More paper. More tamping. He’s loading another gun. ‘I hope yer dog died slow, Tom Clay,’ he croaks. He’s coming closer. ‘I hope it squealed like a rat. I hope you had to break its bloody neck to put it out of its misery.’

  A gun fires. That was close. I can smell the black powder. He’s stopped to reload again; rip, tap, scrape, click.

  A gust of wind shakes the bushes. My heartbeat is making my hands tremble. Please, God…please, God…please, please, please…

  ‘When I’m finished with you,’ Carver growls, ‘I’m going to find what’s left o’ that dog, and cut off its ears, and pull out its teeth and wear ’em.’

  There. Just a glimpse of his legs passing a few feet away, and—

  A gun explodes overhead as I slam the butt of my carbine into the back of his good knee.

  He pitches forward. His pistol goes flying and he lands on his face, flattening the bushes beneath him.

  I jump up and grab the pistol and fire, but nothing happens. It isn’t loaded. So I hurl it off into the bush, as far as I can throw it, and raise my carbine over the back of Carver’s head. I’m about to ram the stock down onto his skull when he grabs my ankle. He yanks and I fall, dropping my gun as I hit the ground. Before I can get away, he seizes a handful of my hair.

  I’m screaming, I can’t help it. I flail at him but when I hit out I don’t connect. He rolls over onto his back, dragging me with him. Tears spurt from my eyes. Then he clamps his forearm across my throat so I’m pinned to his chest.

  He starts squeezing.

  I claw at his arm and kick at his legs but his hold only tightens. I stretch and lunge and grope for my carbine, until the tips of my straining fingers brush against its smooth stock. But Carver shoves it aside with his free hand.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he grunts.

  I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. He’s pressing harder. My eyes feel as if they’re about to pop from my head. Frantically my hand flails about, reaching for something—anything—a stick. A stick.

  ‘I could do this to yer spine,’ he grunts in my ear. ‘Snap it in two.’

  My fingers close on the stick and then I feel something else underneath it. Sand. Big, coarse grains of sand piled up around a little hole. The ants’ nest.

  With my last ounce of strength I jab my stick into that hole and keep jabbing, again and again. I want the ants out. I want ’em swarming. I want ’em spitting mad.

  ‘We’re going to have some fun when you wake up,’ says Carver. The dark’s closing in, but I can’t let it—not yet—my lungs are bursting, my neck’s breaking, my head’s spinning…

  Carver yelps and flinches. Then he loosens his grip to flap at something on his ear.

  I snap to attention.

  My vision clears just as he roars, ‘Little bastards,’ and I know the ants have got him. I know it even before I swing my legs up over his head in a neat backflip, breaking his hold. Over I go. Perfect roll.

  I scoop up my carbine and dive into the bush.

  The last time I was caught, a gamekeeper kicked my legs out from under me. He came up behind me in the pouring rain, clapped his hand on my shoulder and knocked me to the ground. Then he took my brace of pheasants and put a gun to my head.

  The pheasants weren’t for my dinner. I’d been planning to sell ’em. After Jack was killed and my father was hanged, I had no livelihood. No trade. All I had was poaching. It was that or the workhouse—and no one ever gets out of the workhouse alive.

  I was sent to the same gaol where my father had been held six months earlier. I knew what to expect when I arrived because I’d called on him there, just once, before they hanged him. Bury gaol is a foul den but no worse than the Lord Lyndoch. At least the floor of a prison stays firm under your feet.

  My father didn’t hit me when I told him I’d brought no food. (I’d barely enough to feed myself at the time.) Instead he asked me about his new dog, Pontius. I told him the dog was well. Then he asked me about Colonel Newton’s latest underkeeper. I told him the latest underkeeper was sly, but not such a bully as Clegg or Cocksedge.

  My father said it was strange I hadn’t fallen to the gamekeeper’s gun; he had always expected it. My brother had been more skilled, yet the keeper had done for him. It made no sense.

  I said nothing.

  My father rambled on about the other coves in his cell, the clergyman who kept bothering him, the cruelty of his gaolers, the ignorance of his judge. He chastised me for not bringing Pontius. He didn’t ask me how I was faring on my own. I don’t think he cared.

  He told me to come to the hanging with his friends from the Mackerel’s Eye and see how a man of courage met his fate, but I didn’t. I had no wish to. And for once I knew I wouldn’t be punished if I disobeyed.

  I did see two folk hanged at Bury gaol while I was there. The gaol had a great stone gatehouse with a flat roof, and the hangings took place on that roof, in full view of the crowds gathered outside. Those inside were also marshalled to watch the proceedings, which many of the prisoners enjoyed very much. The governor employed the famous hangman William Calcraft on both occasions. A great cheer went up when Calcraft grabbed the restless legs of both dangling men and pulled down firmly. He does this to break necks, I’m told, but it has become such a habit with him that the crowds feel cheated when he doesn’t.

  Calcraft hanged my father—and my father, I heard, was granite to the end. This was no great comfort to me then, and it isn’t now. My father lived hard and died hard, and would scorn me for doing less. I don’t doubt that he would have admired Dan Carver’s endurance.

  I know he would have thought Dan Carver the better man.

  I’m running. My throat hurts. My scalp burns where Carver yanked out my hair, but he must be feeling worse than I am. Surely he can’t stay on his feet for much longer?

  I gasp for breath as I beat at the brush with my carbine—and here’s the clearing I wanted to avoid. The fallen tree that made it is a monster, wider than a ship’s mast and longer than a steeple. Shall I climb over it or go around?

  Climb over; its bulk will shield me when I’m on the other side, please God. The bark’s rough, so there’s no end of footholds. Hand over hand, up to the top and—

  A gunshot. Christ. I slip down the other side and land, winded. Something’s wrong. My hand—my left hand—I’m looking at the third finger and it’s not there. It’s gone from the first knuckle up, blood spurting, pain welling. Pain. But I can’t stop; I have to run. Grab the wound. Hold on tight.

  Sweet Jesus, it hurts. It’s white-hot agony. The carbine thumps against my back as I stumble back into the bush. He’ll follow the blood. Should I stop to bind the stump? I can’t. I can’t stop.

  No need for silence now—not if he can follow my blood trail. Fast and noisy wins the race. But I’m gut-sick and the pain is like a hammer and I trip, stagger, fall; the jolt nearly kills me.

  He’s still coming. I can hear him.

  Up again, teeth clenched. Go, Tom. Keep moving. Arm’s numb, hand feels molten. I’m dizzy and there’s blood everywhere.

  The next shot’s wide; it loses itself in the scrub. And now I’m back at the cave but I can’t hide in there, I’ll be cornered. He’s bound to find me. As I pass its dark mouth, I notice dog tracks. Fresh.

  What if…?

  One f lick of my fingers leaves a spatter of blood near the entrance to the cave. It might delay Carver, at least for a minute. He might stop to check whether I’m inside. Meanwhile, I’m retracing my route back to the farm. Out of the clearing. Under the half-fallen tree. Keep going. Keep going. I’m getting wobbly—have to stop for an instant and lean against the nearest tree to catch my breath. I’m all pain. There’s nothing else.

  None of Pa’s beatings was ever this bad.

  I push myself off a shaggy tree trunk and stagger forward, trying to concentrate on the marks left behind by Carver—the snapped twigs, the loose threads, the dents, the scratches. I didn’t leave much of a trail myself when I passed this way before. I should be proud of that. No footsteps to speak of, thanks to the fleece on my soles. No black hairs. No smashed bushes.

  No blood.

  Another shot rings out. I flinch, but not because it was close. Did Carver just fire into the cave? I think so. I hope so. He’s lagging behind…

  And here’s the river: good. Instead of following Carver’s tracks, I splash upstream a few yards—I’ve a goal in mind now, and there’s a quicker route to it than the one I took when I was tracking Carver. I can’t stay here, though; I need to be in the bush. I’m like a hare in a field on this riverbed.

  But I can hardly think through the pain—and the smooth, tumbled rocks are treacherous when you’re dizzy. The water carries my blood away. That’ll break the trail, though not for long. Blood spills onto the boulders as I haul myself over ’em, back into the forest.

  I’m feeling faint—tired—and nearly fall over a dead sheep before I smell it. How did I miss that stench? I know the sheep; she’s from Barrett’s farm. A wild dog must have savaged her.

  I stumble past, trying not to look. Birds call in the canopy. Down by the river, Carver’s cough is faint enough to give me a little courage. He’s slowing.

  So am I.

  Not far now. Gyp’s grave is somewhere up ahead. When I reach the paddock, I’ll reach the grave. Please, Gyp, watch over me. All I need is time: a few minutes. I’m muddled and light-headed and…lost? Have I wandered off course?

  No. Here’s a lopped tree. And another. And another. The forest is thinning. The unfiltered sun beats down. Here’s a dry apple core, a white thread, a boot-mark stamped into a patch of dried mud.

  Here’s…

  A black.

  A young one. Half-hidden by dappled shade.

  I freeze. We stare at each other. He’s still as a rock, wiry and beardless and wrapp
ed in a hide cloak. The spear in his hand isn’t pointed at me.

  His eyes gleam like water in a well. They flick towards my crippled hand. I don’t know what to do. Run? Shoot? Roar?

  I can’t run; I haven’t the strength. I can’t shoot; my gun’s not loaded. And if I shout, Carver will hear me.

  I’ve never been this close to a black. The top of his chest is scarred, but the scars are so regular they must be deliberate. His hair curls like mine. He’s wearing a bone necklace.

  A strange expression flickers over his smooth, dark face. I don’t know what it means. He doesn’t look angry, or wary, or scared. Is it confusion?

  Pity?

  Then he retreats, fading slowly back into the shadowy bush. He barely makes a sound, no more than a snake or a bird. If he wanted to kill me I’d be dead by now. I must be safe. Safe from him, at least. Not from Carver.

  I stagger forward, wondering if I have the strength to go on. But here’s the tree by Gyp’s grave; there’s no mistaking it. I chose it for its sturdy branches and the dense bush that almost rings its base. The only clear patch beneath it lies directly in front of the footholds that I cut into its speckled trunk yesterday.

  I wipe my hand across the hatchet scars and leave a wavering smear of blood. That should do. Now—where to hide?

  Over there. Quick.

  When Mr Barrett first cleared the southern paddock, he left great piles of felled logs that he burned down to ash and charcoal. One of the piles stands near Gyp’s grave, sunken and compressed and tufted with green but still a big, grey lump pierced by jagged black shapes. Dropping to my knees, I crawl towards this ash-heap through the long grass, one-handed. The other hand is pressed hard against my belly; if I leave a blood trail, I’m dead. But the pain of the pressure… God help us. Thepainthepainthepainthepain…

  As I pass Gyp’s grave I try to distract myself, thinking about how she always protected me and how I’ve been trying to protect her. I didn’t want Carver digging her up. I took measures to stop him from taking his revenge. I thought I’d be long gone when Carver finally arrived at this place.