Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  When they were at a safe distance, they examined their wounds. Pat had quite a deep gash to his right arm, while John had suffered severe bruising to his abdomen. Almost dropping with hunger and fatigue, they knew they had to keep going until they found a settled area, where they could steal some clothes, horses, weapons and ammunition. After surviving two days on berries and shrubs, along with the odd rodent, they eventually arrived in the settled area towards the southeast. After resting until nightfall, John took off by himself and returned with two fine looking horses, courtesy of a local farmer.

  The next few days were spent teaching Pat how to ride, during which time he was thrown off on a number of occasions. Having got the hang of sitting on the horse he fell off again as soon as he tried to canter. He found the whole business unnatural and the insides of his thighs ached with constantly gripping the horse with his legs and he was saddle sore. John found it hysterical. He had been riding since he was a child and later owned horses and had a real passion for them, inherited from his father. Despite his difficulties, Pat could soon ride without John chasing alongside him ready to take control.

  Their next mission was to steal some clothes from a washing line then finally they raided a farm and stole muskets, pistols and ammunition, along with a supply of food. They even stole the farmer’s cut throat razor. On leaving the farmer, at gunpoint, they promised to return all his goods and apologised for the inconvenience they had caused him. The terrified farmer was somewhat surprised by their gentlemanly manner, as there were some bushrangers who would threaten some of the smaller populated areas with violence if they didn’t cooperate.

  Now all stocked up, Pat and John had to find a suitable place where they could hide out relatively safely from those who were hunting them down. So they headed into the heart of Van Dieman’s Land, to a place now called the Walls of Jerusalem, and there they stayed, lying low until they were in need of more supplies.

  CHAPTER 13

  AMBUSHED

  The midday sun flickered just above the rugged mountainous ridges, as Pat and John headed south towards Hobart town. It was time to go in search of Sarah after two long months roaming the wilderness, hiding from the law and the bounty hunters. They were beginning to make a name for themselves amongst the local farmers as the ‘gentlemen bushrangers’. Pat wore a cocked hat and John a Georgian top hat, in keeping with his upper class background. Their reputation was one of polite thuggery, stealing from their victims only to apologise afterwards for the inconvenience. To a small number of folk, Roche and Williams were notorious criminals who should be hanged.

  They made their way through the ranges of the central district, riding almost non-stop, but their horses were tiring after carrying them for a full day. So eventually they came to a standstill by a creek close to the town of New Norfolk. The bright blue sky began to fade, leaving the rugged black landscape silhouetted against the sky. Complete darkness would be upon them in little over an hour. While the horses quenched their thirst and cropped the long dry grass, the two outlaws took stock and decided they needed more provisions, so they went to check out the local area for a house with potential. They eventually came across a place that was ideally situated on the outskirts of the town, with a look of apparent wealth and no neighbouring houses. By the time they got back to the horses, the moon and stars were shimmering in the dark skies. They quietly took them to a spot near their intended target and hid them away in a little wooded area. Then they waited, preparing themselves for a possible conflict, weapons loaded and stashed inside their coats, along with their knives and other blades. It had been a while since they had stolen from a household, especially one so large; they normally picked on isolated farms. But they were coming closer to the more populated areas as they neared Hobart town, so it was getting riskier. They waited silently, listening to the sound of the running stream and the birds in the rustling trees as they settled into their nests for the night. This could be a dangerous robbery and they were in hostile territory if things went wrong.

  Some free settlers were known to help escaped convicts, as they themselves were ex-convicts, and most escapees just wanted food and would then be on their way. But this time it was different, they were in a more populated area and heading straight for the lion’s den, though it would still take someone to get on a horse and ride a quarter of a mile in order to get help. But there were also more people available to hunt down the villains who had brought disruption to their little community, which was a common practice. If Pat and John were to have any chance of passing as free men in Hobart, they would have to steal from the wealthier homes, which meant greater risk, since wealthier men paid bigger rewards.

  It was now or never. Using only gestures, they led their horses as quietly as possible to a spot even closer to the target house. Disguising their faces with scarves, and readying their weapons, they crept forward, emerging through a thicket to the rear of the property. John stopped Pat at the boundary fence, which was about one hundred yards away from the terrace. There seemed to be only one illuminated room, on the ground floor to the left. They waited for a moment for signs of life.

  ‘I’ll go on ahead and take a look round then wave you on,’ whispered John.

  ‘’ow will I see ye? It’s pitch black.’

  ‘I’ll try and stand with some light behind me, so as you can see me … wait for the sign.’

  John jumped over the fence and his dark silhouette could be seen running across the large paddock, then disappearing into the shadows up the steps of the terrace. Pat crouched behind the fence, waiting anxiously for the sign, nervously noting the shadows moving across the curtains in the lit room. After waiting for what felt like at least five minutes, the signal came. He jumped over the fence and raced towards the house, where he found John crouching between a bay window and the door. They could both hear raised muffled voices coming from the lit room, the door to which was in the centre of the timber house at the back. Like most at the time, the house was double fronted and clad in horizontal wooden slats. John and Pat crouched in the darkness to the right of the spacious terrace, which had railings right round.

  ‘Sounds like they’re arguing,’ whispered John.

  ‘Yeah, let’s go. You take the upstairs, an’ I’ll take a look down ‘ere.’ John nodded in agreement, but Pat suddenly froze, ‘Someone’s upset the ‘orses … listen!’

  John stopped and listened for a moment, then shook his head and gestured to Pat to get on with the job. They made for the door and luckily enough it was unlocked. Like mice they entered the forbidden abode, stifling their breath to keep the noise level as low as possible. Immediately they were hit by the aroma of roasted meat, which set their empty bellies churning and made it hard to concentrate on their dangerous mission. Crossing the polished wooden floor of the dark hallway, which had a number of doors leading off it, the voices were now louder and clearer, but the two thieves had not come to listen to family tensions, they had come to create them.

  As they arrived at the foot of the stairway, the door of the occupied room opened quite abruptly, immediately illuminating part of the hallway and forcing them to take cover. But there was nowhere to hide at such short notice, so they put their backs against the wall and prayed that they would not be discovered. They drew their pistols ready to scare the poor individual emerging from the room half to death, but the darkened figure was too preoccupied to look behind, and they went unnoticed.

  The dark male figure went straight out of the door that they had entered seconds before, and strutted up and down the terrace whilst trying to light his pipe. He was obviously very agitated and distressed about something, but he finally came to rest leaning on the rail, peering out into the dark night. John quickly disappeared up the stairs and Pat went into a room on the right-hand side of the hall, just past the stairs, to find it was the kitchen. There was plenty of leftover food on the table; someone had had a feast by the look of it. He pulled down his scarf and rammed a huge roast potato into his mouth like
a starving pig, then started champing on a chicken leg, momentarily forgetting the purpose of the break-in and stuffing his pockets with anything he could lay his hands on. He even grabbed an unfinished bottle of wine, guzzled some of it down and then rammed it into his pocket for John.

  Then the door opened and Pat slid back behind the door as a woman’s silhouette entered carrying a lantern. Pat quickly pulled out his pistol and took the woman by surprise from behind. His greasy hand grabbed her mouth to stop her screaming and rousing the rest of the household. He pressed his pistol behind her ear.

  ‘I mean ye no ‘arm, miss, so if ye just keep quiet, I’ll be gone soon enough.’

  There was a familiar scent about the woman that triggered old memories, and he sank his nose into her neck and inhaled again. It was a woman’s scent and thoughts of Sarah flooded his mind. He had not been so close to a woman for such an age – over seven years – and he felt so overcome by his proximity to the poor defenceless woman that he did not want to release her. He knew he had to get out of that house, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He was quickly brought back to his senses when an elderly man entered the kitchen. He panicked, knowing he had to take action. He took a firm grip of the woman and redirected his pistol into the old man’s face, and gently pushed her towards him.

  ‘I mean ye no ‘arm, I just want some food and supplies,’ he said, fumbling about for his musket with his free hand, ‘then I’ll be on me way.’ He eventually grasped the weapon without taking his eyes off the dark shadowy figures.

  ‘How dare you enter my house uninvi … ’

  ‘Shut up!’ interrupted Pat. ‘Now ‘ow many more of ye are in the ‘ouse?’

  ‘Just two,’ answered the young woman.

  ‘Well there’s two of us an’ all … ‘e’s upstairs. So make ye way into the room where ye’ve just come from.’

  They backed into the fully lit parlour, with Pat still pointing his pistol towards them at head height. There were two points of entry, one at either end of the room, the other being where the young man had gone out for a smoke.

  Pat was taken aback by the size and lavishness of the room. Having no sense of time, days, months or years, he realised it was Christmas, and he had never seen such festive decorations, other than through the windows of the wealthy when he was a child. He remembered how he had wished to be part of the families he had watched so enviously. He was so overcome by the cheerful room that he had hardly noticed another young woman sitting next to the huge mantelpiece staring into a blazing fire, until she almost jumped out of her skin. She stood up from her chair and froze on the spot with one hand over her mouth; she could not have screamed if she had tried. The sight of her made Pat pull himself together and try to focus on the situation at hand, but he still felt quite overcome, even guilty. Not that he had ever enjoyed any of the luxuries that surrounded him now, but it was the sense of family and happy times that overwhelmed him after so many years of hardship and isolation. Then the old man with the walking stick addressed him again,

  ‘What do you want in my house, you scoundrel?’

  The stern tone broke Pat’s reverie and he took a long look at the angry figure, who, though unarmed, had dared to challenge him in such a courageous way. He was obviously a man used to giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed and indeed, Pat felt under some pressure to explain himself, but instead he tightened his grip on his weapons. But the old gentleman was not to be discouraged.

  ‘I asked you what you were doing in my house, sir,’ again he barked, unabashed. ‘I demand an answer!’

  There was something about the man’s upright bearing which triggered the first flicker of recognition. That indefinable something in an officer’s, or ex-officer’s, bearing, which spoke its authority more strongly than any words. His civilian clothes and the fact that Pat had last seen him on the other side of the world had initially thrown him off the scent, but there could be no mistaking that rugged, battle-hardened face.

  ‘Major Summerfield!’ He gasped, lowering his pistol and releasing his hostages.

  ‘Yes,’ the old fellow answered in surprise, ‘and who the devil might you be, may I ask?’

  How could the major have ended up in this god forsaken place? Pat asked himself. Who would willingly move so far away from home, and what could possibly have brought him here? He was still trying to fathom the answer to these questions when another, softer, voice said, ‘Pat?’

  The voice echoed through his ears and penetrated deep into his soul sending chill down his spine. He looked into the eyes of the woman whom he had frightened half to death in the kitchen minutes earlier. She had said his name and there before him stood the wife he had been parted from for so long that he did not even recognise her. Those long locks were now short and flecked with grey, and her once striking beauty had now faded, though she was still a very attractive woman. But she looked old, with so much pain and hardship engraved on her face, lines that had not existed the last time he had set eyes on her. It had been six long years since he last had a glimpse of her in Hobart. ‘Sarah!’ his voice trembled.

  Sarah too had hardly recognised Pat, not only because the years had lined his face even more severely than her own, but because of his wild beard and scruffy appearance from months of living rough. Her eyes welled up as she hesitated to go to him. It had been so long – it felt like a lifetime – and Pat felt the same way. Both were unsure of the other’s reaction, their suffering had forced them to blunt their emotions and lose their trust in people, and they just stood there, too numb to take it all in.

  ‘By the lord!’ roared the major, suddenly realising who the robber had turned out to be. ‘Is that you, Roche, you bloody rogue?’

  Just then John burst in with a sack full of loot slung over his shoulder, waving his pistol at their heads. ‘We’ll be on our way now, we are sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘John … ye need to put ye pistol down. I know these people … there’s no need for us to go into Hobart anymore.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked John, looking at Pat in a puzzled sort of way.

  Before Pat could explain, they were disturbed by frenzied shouts from the terrace, which alarmed the pair into thinking they had been tracked. They heard the back door slam shut and locks being bolted. What was going on? Then the young man from outside screamed for help.

  ‘There’s a swarm of savages coming for us! Quickly, lock all the doors!’ He ran into the living room terrified, only for his look of horror to change to one of shock on seeing Pat and John bristling with weapons. He stood for a second pondering on how they had got there, then the window behind him suddenly smashed. The young man jerked a little before looking down to see a spear head covered in his own blood protruding from his stomach. He looked over to his wife, gasping with fear. Death had come for him and he knew it.

  ‘Gerard!’ she screamed, as she watched him crumple to his knees.

  ‘It’s that bloody Flynn again!’ shouted John, recognising the notorious officer at once. There was no more time to think, as the thunder of many feet moving quickly around the terrace spurred him and Pat into action. They quickly barricaded the main parlour entrance with a heavy cabinet and while Laura struggled to pull Gerard out of the way, Sarah shut and locked the other door. The sound of more windows smashing around the house and the fearful chanting of natives on the attack meant they would be inside in no time. The main door suddenly jolted open with a native’s arm trying to push its way in. Pat fought to get it out, jamming the arm in the door as he tried to force it back. The screaming native finally dragged his arm out of the door, leaving a trail of blood running down the frame as they reclosed and secured it. Leaning his full weight against the cabinet that blocked the door, Pat looked over at Sarah.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ he cried, suddenly fearing that she might have put him to sleep in another room.

  ‘He’s not here …’ she hesitated, ‘… but he’s alright,’ this was no time to break the news of Sam’s death.<
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  On securing the first door, the bay window smashed and all eyes turned to see a native’s head appearing through the curtains. He managed to crawl halfway through the window before John rushed over and kicked him in the head, knocking him out. The limp body was pulled back out by the natives, only for another head to appear through the curtains to suffer the same fate. John then pointed his musket through the curtains and took a random shot to try and scare them off and then he threw his musket and ammunition supply to the major.

  ‘Reload that for me!’ he commanded.

  The major deftly reloaded the weapon , while John drew his pistol, as they listened to the natives making their way along the hall and into the other rooms. ‘Sarah, go and block that other door!’ screamed Pat, as it vibrated under the pressure of pounding native hands, desperate for blood. Sarah nodded in panic and ran to the back of the room.

  ‘Laura! Come and help me … quickly,’ she cried. Laura instantly stopped tending Flynn and ran to assist Sarah with a chest of drawers, jamming it up against the door then forcing their weight against it.

  ‘It’s not going to stand, Pat!’ screamed Sarah, watching the doorframe bending under the pressure. Pat threw his loaded pistol across the room to her. She moved slightly away, and picking up the pistol, held it out from her chest towards the door.