The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger (7 page)

It was miserable work. There were times, cutting the throat of some dumb animal who had done nothing but eat grass and let itself be shorn, when Billy knew he would dream forever of endless dead sheep, blank eyes gazing up at him, as he turned their bodies into tallow for England’s candles and soap.

Every few weeks Roman John arrived with another mob, bought cheap at the sale of some poor farmer’s life. They were boiling up men’s dreams here, dreams like his, of owning a farm, dreams that vanished as the price of wool dropped to nothing, the colonies’ banks failed, and the drought brought dust and flies and a hard blue sky that seemed to ache for moisture.

They’d pen the sheep together, trying not to hear the desperate
baa
s, the animals terrified and often starving. Each dead sheep was hoisted up by a pulley hung from the highest clear branch nearby, and its front slit open so the guts rolled out. Then Billy would strip off the skin, chop up the beast with his axe, and throw it in the giant vats for boiling, while Roman John scouted for more wood.

Billy was twenty-three now, and strong. He could lift the smaller sheep on his own, and he barely remembered the starving, trembling boy he’d been on the deck of the convict ship, begging Roman John for a second chance.

They boiled the sheep down on Billy’s place, in the old horse paddock, far enough from Roman John’s farm that the stink from the rotting guts didn’t carry on the wind. Once the meat cooled in the vats they scooped off the fat, boiled it again in fresh water to purify it, let it cool then stored it in big casks in the stone barracks where the convicts had once lived.

Some of the cooked meat went to Mrs John’s hens. Billy liked Mrs John. She was older than her husband, with a thin body and large capable hands. She said little, but her plum duff was the best he had ever tasted. The hens thrived on the sheep scraps, growing fat and laying eggs even through the winter. The rest of the meat and bones were left out for the crows, and the goannas and the flies. The flies feasted, in such clouds that sometimes the air seemed shadowed over the piles of meat. The crows grew so fat they rarely flew, just sat and waited for their next meal, their vicious beaks shiny from their feasts. The goannas gorged all the summertime. When winter came they vanished—sleeping, Billy supposed—so the mountain of rotten meat grew.

They tanned the hides over at Roman John’s, stripping bark from the wattles to boil for tannin, scraping the hides clean of fat and sinew, soaking them and stretching them time after time to keep them supple. Lambskins got a better price than sheepskin. The skins of the unborn lambs fetched the best price of all.

The blood haunted Billy’s dreams. Hundreds of sheep, then thousands; the blood caked under his fingernails; the tannin stained his hands. When this is over, he thought, I will never kill another animal again. I’ll employ a stockman to do the dirty work. I want life, not death.

It was Conservative who kept him sane. The big horse, waiting in the paddocks, restless with the smell of death, was as glad as Billy to gallop till the stench was far behind them, till the wind was sweet and clean. There was a pool where Billy could wash—a good long bathe if the day was hot, a quick soap and then a plunge in winter. Conservative would drink, and crop the grass, and Billy would look at him, this fine great horse—his horse—and know that despite the hard work, the blood, the stink, life could be good.

And it would get better, too. Roman John was right. They were making more money each now than Roman John had ever got even as foreman at the farm. Three years of this, Billy reckoned—five at the most—and Roman John would have enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life, with a hired man to do the hard work of the farm.

And Billy would have a farm. A stone house, a stable for Conservative to shelter when it was cold. A river of clear water, with ducks for Sunday dinner. No sheep, not even for the mutton. He’d breed horses. Paddocks of white horses, grand big animals like their sire…

It was good to dream, lying there clean by the creek. He’d stay there till the moon rose, lighting their way home, so Conservative could pick the path out through the trees.

They went to Bathurst every month or so, Roman John driving the wagon with the casks of tallow, the piles of hides, Billy riding Conservative. Roman John did the bargaining with the stock agent, but by now everyone knew that John and Marks supplied the best quality tallow. No barrel of theirs had burnt bits floating in it to send the product rancid on the trip to England.

There wasn’t much choice of places to stay in town. It was cheaper and better to camp out. There was a horse paddock too. It was safe to leave even a horse like Conservative there to let him rest after the ride, for the other stockmen kept an eye out for troublemakers. A horse thief was worse than sheep dung in the colony. Anyone who tried to steal a horse from the stockmen’s paddock would have to learn to ride without his fingers.

There was a shanty down the road from the camp-ground where they served baked mutton and roast
pumpkin and potatoes, welcome after the days of travelling and damper.

There was singing in the evening too; songs from back in England or from Ireland, the clear pure voice sometimes of a Welshman, sent to the colonies for burning down an English landlord’s house. There were songs from New South Wales, as well—the old tunes, mostly, with new words: songs of shearing or pining for the sweethearts left far away. Sometimes an old man with a fiddle played the song Jem had sung, way back on the ship, of the bold bushranger who’d scorned to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.

It was dark when Billy left the shanty. Roman John had left after a single drink to wet the dust, but he’d stayed for the laughter and company. The moon was high, and lamplight glowed from the rear of the houses on one side as he trudged back down the lane to the camp-ground. Proper big houses they were in this part of town, with land that was planted with flowers and shrubs, as well as a few fruit trees and vegetables. The way to the stockyard ran along the backyards of one of the lovely avenues of houses.

And then he saw her. Through a back window: the yellow lamplight, the big pan of water heating on the stove, the young woman sitting on the kitchen chair, her skirt up to her knees, her feet in another pan of water.

He stopped, and stared over the garden into the window. The girl dipped a rag into the water and washed one bare foot, and then the other, then dried them on a towel. Then she unpinned her hair and let it fall.

It looked like silk; it was the longest, blackest, straightest hair he’d ever seen. As he watched she dipped a brush into the hot water, then began to brush it through her hair, stroking it till it hung in wet tendrils round her face.

He had never seen anything as beautiful in his entire life. Not even Conservative, he thought vaguely, is as lovely as this.

He stood there in the road till he heard other men behind him, singing as they came back from the shanty. If they found him there staring, they’d look too. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing what he had seen.

He made himself walk on. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow I’ll call on her. Call on her properly, the way a man should do.

I’d better ask Roman John, he thought, exactly how this courting ought to go.

Something was happening. Something new.

Billy washed himself all over in the horse trough in our paddock. (I didn’t mind the taste in the water too much.)

He tied back his hair with a bit of leather. He rubbed his boots. He put on clothes I’d never seen before: a bright red shirt, a purple sash, and new trousers with no holes at the knee.

I heard him calling in at half the tents at the camp-ground till he found what he wanted: a long sharp thing to scrape the whiskers from his face.

He brushed me, over and over, and then plaited my mane, but I endured. He even washed the mud from my hoofs.

By then I had realised what he was doing.

He was making us look good. I knew it, and he knew it, as we stepped out through the camp and down the road. I was the finest horse in all the land, my head and tail held high, and he was the finest man.

Clip clop
we went down the road—not the road that led out of town, but another, with gardens that smelt interesting. I hoped we’d stop so I could have a taste and a better smell. And then we did.

Billy slid off my back and looked around, then ducked under the wooden fence. He was back before I could even chew the grass I’d nosed out by the fence, a bunch of flowers in his hand.

I reached out my neck to eat them. He held them away. ‘No, you don’t. Well, only one then.’ He handed me a flower. It was sweet, but prickly. I spat the prickles out. I didn’t mind now that he didn’t give me the other flowers.

We cantered down the road some more. He pulled on my reins again.

He tied me to a gate-post. It was a short tether, but I could reach my neck into the garden. The plants had prickles like the flower he’d given me. The grass at my feet was better.

For a while Billy just stood there while I cropped the grass, the flowers in his hand. He seemed scared.

I whinnied, and bumped him with my nose. If there was something to be frightened of then he should get on my back, and let me gallop far away, faster than any danger that might try to get us.

He patted my neck soothingly. So it wasn’t dingo-type danger then, or something fierce.

What was it?

Billy spat on his hand and ran it across his hair, to make it tidy after the ride. Then he opened the gate and walked up the path around the house and out of sight.

The kitchen door was open, perhaps to let out the heat from the stove. Billy peered at the stove curiously as he knocked. It was the first stove he’d ever seen up close: a big metal box. A giant pot bubbled on top.

‘Tip the water in the barrel, there’s a love.’ Her voice came from what must have been the pantry. It was low and husky, and sounded posh, like the way he was trying to speak.

‘I’m not the water boy.’

Her head poked round the larder door. Her hair was plaited this morning, and bound up on top of her head. It still looked beautiful. ‘What are you selling then?’

‘Nothing.’

She walked out into the kitchen, holding up her apron full of purple plums. She poured them into a bowl on the table, next to a row of empty jars, and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, the master and mistress are away in Sydney. If you’d like to leave a message…’

He was glad he looked—and sounded—like someone who might want to speak to the master, not the servant.

‘I came to speak to you,’ he said simply, and held out the bunch of flowers.

To his surprise she didn’t seem to find that strange. Though why should she? Looking the way she did, with so few women in the colony, she must have had plenty of offers of marriage. He glanced down at her left hand. No wedding ring.

She took the flowers, and smiled. ‘Roses. My favourite. Just like the ones growing in the Harrises’ garden.’

He blushed.

She laughed. ‘Where else would you get flowers? And the Harrises have enough to spare. Sit down then, Mr…?’

‘Bil—’ He stopped. ‘William,’ he said instead. ‘Mr William Marks, of Deep Gully.’

‘And what did you want to say to me?’

‘I wondered if you would care to ride out this afternoon?’

‘Where to?’

He hadn’t thought of that. He cast around for the only interesting thing in town. ‘There’s the cattle sale.’

She laughed. Her teeth were good. Her eyes were laughing too. Black eyes, with dark lashes. ‘There’s an offer no girl could resist.’

‘I’m sorry. We could go somewhere else.’

‘Here is good enough. I’ve got the jam to see to. I can’t go off and leave the place, not with the master and mistress away. The plums will go off if I don’t get
them done soon, and then where would we be, with no jam for the winter?’

She turned to stir the pot with a wooden spoon—he could hear the jam glopping inside—then reached over to one of the meat safes hanging by the window, and pulled out an apple pie. One slice had already been cut. She cut another, and put it in front of him, then poured him a cup of tea from the big pot stewing on the side of the stove. She added sugar without asking him, then placed it in front of him. ‘So tell me about yourself, Mr Marks. You’re interested in cattle?’

‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘Nor sheep either. I’d like to breed horses, but there’s no money in that now.’

‘And Deep Gully is your farm? How big is it?’

‘Twenty-five acres. Leased,’ he told her honestly.

‘Is there a house on it?’

He shook his head. He hadn’t even bothered with a hut, not till he had land he owned. A tent was good enough for him, with Mrs John to cook for them both when they were boiling down.

‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘No land of your own. No house.’ She looked him up and down, assessing his clothes. ‘You’re not a convict, Mr Marks?’

‘I was. Now I’m a farmer. One day I will have land. I’ll breed the best horses in the colony.’

‘Of course you will,’ she said gently.

She doesn’t believe me, thought Billy. Why should she? Any man can say that one day he’ll have a farm.

‘I’m sorry, miss. I don’t even know your name.’

She dimpled. ‘I’m Annie Lamb. From Sussex. Farming country, Mr Marks, though I was a cook, not
a dairymaid. I like farms better than towns, I think. But a farm needs to have a house on it—a good one, with a dairy, storerooms and all.’ She shook her head. ‘You hear terrible sad stories of women on the backblocks, Mr Marks. Dirt floors and snakes under the bed, straining the water through your stockings to try to clean it for your children. I didn’t come to the colony for that.’

He hesitated. Had she been a convict too? It was bad manners to ask too many questions about how anyone arrived in New South Wales.

‘They paid me nine pounds to come and settle here, Mr Marks,’ she said, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

To marry, he thought. Charities in England paid single women to travel to Australia, to marry, to breed sturdy children and make the land respectable. She was a free settler, not even an ex-convict like him. A girl like this could marry anyone. How many women in the colony could make a pie like the one he’d just tasted?

And not one, he thought, as beautiful as her.

She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Marks. If I let the jam boil any longer it’ll be toffee. I’d better get it into the jars.’

‘Can I help you?’

She smiled again. ‘Have you ever made jam, Mr Marks?’

He shook his head.

‘Then better not. Jam can bite you when you’re not looking. It’s hot,’ she added, when she saw he didn’t understand. ‘And it stays hot if it splashes on your skin. It was good to meet you, Mr Marks.’

She’s dismissed me, he thought. In a year’s time…two years maybe…I might have had a chance.

He stood up too. ‘May I call again?’ he asked, almost desperately. ‘My partner and I are heading back tomorrow—’

‘You want to leave your cattle in the road while you stop for a cup of tea? Or maybe they can trample round the garden?’

She was laughing at him. She slipped her hands into thick mittens and lifted the pot off the stove onto a rag on the wooden table. The jam still bubbled, thick and dark, like the tar pot during shearing. It smelt better than the tar though, better than anything he had ever eaten, except maybe her apple pie.

‘We didn’t buy cattle at the sale. Just sold our tallow, bought some stores. Miss Lamb, one day I will have a farm, I promise you.’

‘I don’t doubt you, Mr Marks.’ Again she said it kindly, but Billy could tell she was just saying it so that he’d go, so she could get the jam into the jars. ‘Of course you can call tomorrow, on your way back home.’

He shaved again next morning too. I need to buy a razor of my own, he thought. He didn’t bring flowers this time—she’d worked out where he’d got them. He’d asked Roman John if he should buy her some ribbons, maybe.

Roman John shook his head. ‘You don’t buy a girl presents till you have a right to. After you’ve walked out together maybe, not when you’ve only had a cup of tea.’

It was strange to be sitting in the kitchen again, this time with Roman John. Annie gave them each a
cup of tea. It was plum pie today—she must have made it fresh, for the pastry was still warm. He tried to take heart at that, that she’d cooked a fresh pie for him. She gave him a jar of jam too.

But deep down he knew she was being kind to a man who had been polite to her.

She came out to the gate to say goodbye. Making sure we leave, thought Billy, so she can get on with her cooking. Roman John climbed into the cart, with the casket of sugar, the bolt of cloth, the barrels of salt they were taking back. Billy hoisted himself up on Conservative. The big horse stamped a little, then to his surprise leant down and butted at Annie’s apron.

‘What?’ He pulled back on the reins. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

She laughed. ‘No need. How did you know I had this, hey?’ She spoke to the horse. She pulled an apple out of the pocket of her apron, and held it out to him.

She knows how to offer an apple to a horse, thought Billy. Conservative bent down and took it neatly, as though he was watching his manners too, then spoilt it all by crunching it so hard his dribble fell onto the grass.

She patted the horse’s neck. ‘He’s a grand one.’

‘He is—’ began Billy, but Roman John got in first.

‘Most savage horse in the colony,’ he said.

‘Savage? This big darling? He’s a sweetkins, that’s what he is.’

‘No,’ said Roman John. ‘Look at his scars. Many men tried to break this one. But only Billy here succeeded. Spent two days just teaching him to trust a
man enough to let him lead him. Spent another three months letting him see that a man could be his friend. I don’t know any other man who could have done it, Miss Lamb. Nor any that would have bothered.’

‘Not even for a horse like this?’

‘Even so.’

She looked at Billy then. For the first time he had a feeling she was really seeing him. Was she just admiring his horsemanship? Or was it something else?

He wanted desperately for it to be more.

‘Horses know a good man,’ she said slowly. ‘And a bad one.’

‘They do,’ said Roman John.

‘I hope you’ll call in again, Mr Marks,’ she said suddenly, then blinked, as though she had surprised herself with the words. ‘Just for a cup of tea,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Of course.’ He lifted his hat to her. It was a good hat, bought new the day before, especially to visit her. He’d always wear a proper hat now, he thought. No more stringy-bark sunshades for him.

He urged Conservative forward. The big horse stepped smartly, as though he knew he was on show. Billy looked back when they were halfway down the road, but Annie Lamb had gone.

They rode down the street, then onto the road that led out of town, Billy on the big horse, Roman John in the cart. Neither said anything till the houses were well past.

‘Well,’ said Billy at last. ‘What did you think of her?’

‘She’s a squaw,’ said Roman John.

Billy stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s an Indian. From America. Years ago…I never told you I was a sailor once, did I? Just that one trip to America and back. I saw Indians then. Men with feathers on their heads. Redskins—that’s what they called them. I thought them more brown than red. Women with hair and eyes like hers, her colour skin.’

‘But she’s from England!’

‘That what she told you? Might even be true. But if she did, she came from America first. She’s a squaw.’

He might be right, thought Billy silently. The black hair, the skin he’d taken for tanned, thinking her a woman who’d spent time in the sun.

Billy glanced over at his friend. ‘And I’m an ex-con.’

Roman John looked at him sharply. ‘In five years’ time no one will remember that. You can move to a new place and pretend you’ve come from anywhere. But that girl’s always going to have dark skin and Indian hair. There’ll never be any way of escaping from that.’

So that’s why she isn’t already married, thought Billy, despite her beauty and her cooking, despite the smile as lovely as the moon. That was why she was still in a kitchen, not in a drawing room.

How had a native girl from America ended up here? But he knew one thing. He didn’t care who her people were, or if she’d once worn feathers in her hair. Or maybe he did, because if she was what Roman John thought then perhaps he had a chance.

Not a big chance. Women with worse pasts than hers had married officers and wealthy landowners. Even a convict girl could marry high.

But at least now he could dream. He’d need a farm, and a house to offer her. Annie, he thought. My Annie with the long black hair.