by David Vernon
“Ma!” Eric grabbed the bag, slid off his horse, and hurtled into the hut. “Jack Donohoe! I seen him!” He put the bag on the table.
Sarah dropped the stew-pot lid with a clang. “Where?” She spun from the earthen hearth.
“On the ridge, and headin’ this way.”
“Are you sure, lad?”
“Yes, Ma. I seen him makin’ straight for here.”
“Fast?” She wiped sweat from her forehead with the corner of her apron.
“Nah, just steady like. Not fast as me!” He gave a gap-tooth grin.
“Good lad.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Now get on and fetch your father, and the other men.” She gave a grim smile. “It’s time to catch that thieving devil.”
Eric’s eyes widened.
“Like as not he’ll want food, like ʼe did at the Murphy’s. So, hurry now. I’ll keep him here, while you fetch help.”
Sarah peered through the window opening. Smoke from the hearth had drifted high and thin like a barren summer cloud, and heat-rainbows shimmered above the grey-green scrub, but there was no sign of a horse. Still, it was likely Donohoe was close. He could be out there, right now, watching the hut.
Sarah’s breath caught. She stepped back from the window. If he caught her waiting for him, he’d be onto her game in flash. She plucked at her apron as she surveyed the room: at one end the recessed hearth, with the soft-rattling kettle and stew bubbling over the fire; at the other, the bed and chest Henry had made, and between, three stools, a cupboard with supplies, and a rough-hewn table with flour and salt atop. Yes! She’d make dumplings. That would keep her hands busy while she waited, and they’d cook fast in the bubbling stew.
She fetched a bowl, added flour, salt and water. But knowing Donohoe could burst in at any moment made her hands unsteady, and the mix was not as it should have been. Still she pushed on, and made do, and was dropping the last blob of dough into the bubbling stew, when the door crashed open.
There he stood, unshod, with shaggy hair and a fringe of beard that could have been fair or brown, his filth making it impossible to tell. He wore no neckerchief or hat, nothing but a once-white shirt, a torn blue jacket, and a belt from which dangled three pistols. A fourth, double-barrelled, was in his hand.
“Yer ʼusband.” Donohoe cocked the pistol. “Where is he?”
Sarah froze.
He crossed the room, jammed the pistol to her throat, so she coughed from the pressure of it.
“Out with it, moll!”
“Laying dingo traps,” she gasped.
The pressure eased. “Anyone else ʼere?”
She shook her head.
A speculative gleam appeared in his eyes. “Well now,” he came closer, whispered in her ear, “’tis just the two of us.”
His breath was foul and his whiskers coarse against her cheek. She shrank from him, her heart beating a wild tattoo.
Donohoe leered, baring tobacco-brown teeth, then un-cocked the pistol, and began to prowl the room. He crossed to the bed, and the narrow shelf above, and skimmed a dirt-seamed finger over her treasured tortoiseshell comb before pocketing it. He ransacked the cupboard, and took a pouch of tobacco, and when he found Henry’s Sunday boots in the chest, he pounced on them, sat on a stool at the table, and dragged them onto his rag-bound feet.
“Better big than small,” he grumbled, but he eyed the boots with satisfaction, before shifting his gaze to Sarah. His eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, and his lizard-tongue paused to linger wetly on the scar below his nostril.
Sarah’s stomach clenched. She gripped the sides of her skirt to stop her hands trembling. Mary, mother of God! She’d not heard of Donohoe hurting women, but then, would anyone speak of such a thing?
Donohoe set his hands on the table, as if readying to rise, and his eyes fixed on her in a way that made her realize she’d been a fool to think she could manage him.
“Are ye hungry?” she asked in desperation.
He paused.
“It’s mutton stew, with dumplings.”
“Stew an’ sinkers.” His gaze shifted to the pot on the hearth, then returned to Sarah, considering.
Sarah’s chest grew tight as his gaze touched her face, her throat … her breasts.
The rattle of the kettle grew loud.
A spatter of stew hissed on the fire, and to Sarah’s relief, the sound of it pulled Donohoe’s gaze from her.
He sniffed the air, slapped the table and growled, “It ʼad better be good as it smells.”
Sarah rushed to hearth, chose the deepest dish, ladled in two dumplings, then hesitated. The more she gave him, the more time Henry and the others would have to arrive. So she piled in all the dumplings, added stew to the brim, and said a silent prayer for the men to hurry.
Although the stew was hot and the meat still stringy, Donohoe ate fast, snuffling and snarling as he gobbled great gulps.
Sarah watched from a safe distance, her back to the wall by the window. She longed to glance sideways, look out, and search for signs of the men, but she dared not.
As Donohoe drained the last of the stew from the bowl, she said eagerly, “There’s water boiling. An’ there’s tea.”
His eyes narrowed. “Now, ye wouldn’t be trying to keep me ʼere?”
“Nay! O-of course not,” said Sarah. But even to her own ears, it sounded unconvincing.
Donohoe stuffed a wad of Henry’s tobacco in his mouth, scraped back the stool, and went to the window. He looked out for a long moment, and Sarah was fretting over what he might see, when suddenly he turned.
His hands clamped on her arms, and he pinned her to the wall, the hardness of metal and man locked against her. She started to scream, but his mouth cut it off. A plundering tongue and tobacco juice filled her mouth, as she tried to jerk free, her scream fighting for release.
When finally Donohoe’s mouth left hers, it emerged as a pitiful sob, accompanied by a drool of tobacco juice that fell to her apron in a blood-brown splash.
Donohoe laughed, and glanced sideways at the window.
That’s when he saw it, a cloud of dust rising from the scrub. Dust made by horses. Horses ridden by men in a hurry.
He swore foully, and slammed a backhanded blow to her head.
Sarah fell to the floor and he grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the wall. He dropped to his knees, and pushed her flat, the weight of him heavy on her chest as he tugged at her skirts. “There’s time aplenty to have ye yet,” he snarled, and his eyes met hers for a long, terrifying moment, before he scrambled to his feet, and ran for the door.
Henry soon arrived with a dozen farmers, and a party of Mounted Police in tow. Although they lost precious time calming Sarah, they soon took chase. The stars were high and bright when they returned. A trooper was leading Donohoe’s horse, a bootless, blanket-covered body on its back.
As dawn painted the horizon pink, Sarah lay abed in Henry’s arms, sobbing out her fears. “I saw it in his eyes. He was going to come back for me. He was going to —”
“It’s over,” Henry soothed. “We got ʼim, but….” He frowned.
“What?”
“I can’t help thinking it was … too … easy. After the dance he’s led the troopers these past years, I expected more trouble. An’ to be sure, as dusk came on, I feared he’d managed to lose us. But then, we rounded the bend — down by Scrubby Creek — and there he was, just laid out aside his horse. Soon as he saw us, he jumped up screamin’ and shootin’, crazy-like.”
“Defiant to the end,” said Sarah.
“No, no. It were different. It were … almost like he was wantin’ one of us to shoot him.”
“Well God forgive me, but I’m glad the troopers got him.”
“And tomorrow it’s back to the dingoes.” Henry stroked her hair. “If we don’t get them under control, we’ll be done for. First thing, I’ll mix the new bait.”
“Bait?” Sarah echoed vaguely.
“Aye, that powder Eric brung home in the f
lour sack.”
“Powder? Flour sack?” Sarah turned cold. “Mary, Mother of Jesus … Henry, I baited him.”
The facts:
Mounted police shot and killed the bushranger Jack Donohoe (also John Donohue) on 1 September 1830. Reports stated he was in the company of two others, who escaped. However, the ballad, Bold Jack Donohoe —once banned by Sydney authorities— claims he was “riding the mountainside alone/Not thinking that the pains of death would overtake him soon.” Although glamorised in Australian folklore, what kind of man was Jack Donohoe? Bushrangers avoided properties of ‘swells’—wealthy squatters, because they kept bulldogs. Struggling farmers, and their wives, who were often left alone, were vulnerable to these brutal marauders.
Queensland born and bred, Debra Booth currently teaches Creative Writing in a Texas Community College. Her writing journey began with a QDEC correspondence course, when she was a young mother of two, living in suburban Brisbane. She has since published short stories in Australia, the UK, and the US. Her stories are enriched by Australia’s history, and often inspired by the down-to-earth resilience of Australians — and the smell of a gum leaf.
The Sleeper Passer
— Gary Barber
He stood alone in the Kalamunda Hotel bar. An accordionist in the corner played It’s a Long Way to Tipperary. Pony half empty; white froth hung from his moustache, contrasting with his weather-beaten hue.
The pony was his choice. Beer warmed in a schooner during summer heat; the smaller glass was preferable to a man who preferred his tipple cold.
Strains of the accordion faded. As did the vocals of those in the bar who had belted out, in unharmonious tones, the words of one of more popular tunes of the period. In the past he would have been central to the boisterous renditions. But times had changed.
It hadn’t been all that long ago when requests for him to sing, on any Darling Range social occasion, were frequent. His popularity and reputation grew with every performance. His had been a household name amongst the timber folk … if household was the right term, for most lived either under canvas or in humble bush dwellings.
He drained his glass.
“Same again Frank?” enquired the barmaid.
“Same again Gladys,” he responded.
She poured another pony.
“On your Pat Malone, Frank?”
His response was short and sharp enough to wipe the smile from the barmaid’s face.
“Only by choice!” he snapped.
Gladys turned on her heel and returned to the ten sleeper cutters at the other end of the bar. Within seconds all heads turned to take in the sight of the lone individual not six paces from them, and in unison remarked, “Bastard!”
He ignored the insult. These had once been his mates; work mates. They had history … bush camps; batching at the mills; humping blueys; race days!
All forgotten … he had been sent to Coventry. His reputation as songster and sleeper cutter as dead as a maggot. His broad axe now never seeing the light of day.
It had been his prize possession; his skills and dexterity with it unsurpassed. The timber he cut was amongst the most sought after by the buyers demanding the best quality, rejecting anything they considered less than perfect. Railway sleepers were in great demand for the railways, and had returned him a good living in those times of hardship and frugality.
In addition to his attributes with the axe his reputation as a ‘shoe man’ was also exemplary. The ‘shoe’ was of steel, built to accommodate at least six sleepers; with a flat bottom; raised front and sides; and had chains that were affixed to a horse’s collar. His Clydesdale, Horatio, a rising five year roan of fifteen hands, could almost work alone, deftly moving between the newly hewn sleepers. Eager workers loaded the shoe, before it was dragged to the siding where the sleepers were to be stacked in their thousands.
Stacked, then assessed by an inspector … the ‘sleeper passer’… a reviled individual in the Kalamunda timber community. Sleepers had to be first class. Perfection itself; those with gum pockets or splits quickly rejected by the Inspector, much to the chagrin of the cutters.
Frank’s sleepers had had a minimal rejection rate. Consequently his money belt had been constantly full. But, it was hard yakka and there were easier ways to earn a quid!
‘Bluey’ Shaw had been the last sleeper passer. Two years in this role, but the ‘blues’ he’d had during that period, with the cutters, had taken their toll. He had packed it in after buying a place in Donnybrook … aptly befitting a man who had survived twenty-four months of living by his fists, in contests with axemen who disputed his sleeper assessment abilities.
Frank had taken over when Bluey left.
A tap on the shoulder brought back to the present.
“G’day Frankie,” came a gravelly voice “I’m as dry as a lime-burners boot … wotcha drinkin’?”
“Just beer … and what are you doing here? Thought you were out at Blackboy Hill!”
“Got back Sat’dy. Been out at the old place with Mum. Place’s going to the dogs since the old man carked it. Sortin’ a few things; probably sell the place; move Mum into Kalamunda. But what you doin’ drinkin’ alone?”
“Prefer me own company these days, Crowny. Got me old age to think of, so I don’t want to waste a cracker on these bludgers!” replied the sleeper passer.
“Thinkin’ of retiring?” asked Andy; Crowny to his mates.
“No bloody way mate. Just want to get out of here … get a place out Heidelberg way. Run a few milkers, grow a few spuds,” was the response.
Before he could elaborate further, a train whistle sent a piercing shrill through the town. All conversation stopped and every head turned to the hotel door as Nob Hobson crashed through from the street.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted “Come on you blokes! Wally Gates has turned his dray over down at the siding. Bloody sleepers everywhere and he’s trapped underneath it all. We need all the hands we can muster … and a horse! Some brute strength! Waddya got?”
Frank drained his glass, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and stated; “I’ve got Horry being shoed down at Macca’s … he should be finished by now. I’ll grab him, and some gear. Meet you down at the siding.”
“On ya, Frankie!” exclaimed Nob. As one, the barflies forsook their places at the bar and headed in the direction of Wally’s predicament.
McKenzie, the blacksmith, was in the process of cleaning up as Frank fronted up to the forge.
“Ah, Frankie. You’ve a fine horse here, this Horatio. Good as gold he is! And with his new shoes he’ll serve you well,” he stated. Then, noticing the look of anguish in the sleeper passer’s eye he asked.
“What’s wrong Frankie?”
“Wally Gates has struck a bit of trouble with a load of sleepers. We’ll need Horry to help clear up. Got any gear I can use, Macca? Chains, harness?”
“I’ve got some mill gear here … just done some repairs on it. They won’t mind you using it,” responded the blacksmith.
“Give us a hand to harness Horry, Macca?”
Ten minutes later Horatio had been kitted out for action; five minutes after that Frank had him at the siding where confusion reigned. The dray was on its side, the horses tangled in all their gear screaming, not so much in pain but in panic. All attention was being concentrated on a confused pile of sleepers, under which Frank guessed, lay Wally Gates. No-one seemed to have control of the situation, and not a lot had been achieved. Rubber-neckers got in the way of well-intentioned would-be rescuers, and hindered any attempt to extract the hapless drayman.
“Stand aside!” ordered Frank “Let a man through! Stone the crows, cut those horses free … here’s my knife! Leave those sleepers to me and Horry! Crowny, hook Horry’s chains to that top sleeper and give him his head. He’ll know what to do!”
Andy climbed to the top of the pile and skillfully slipped a chain around the sleeper. Frank let out a soft whistle and Horatio pulled the length of timber t
o one side, and to the bottom of the pile. He then released the chain, passed it back to his mate who attached it to the next offending slab of jarrah. Seven times they repeated this manoeuvre and then Crowny shouted, “I see him. Still breathing but he’s got a gash the size of … I dunno … on his forehead, and one leg is pinned under a sleeper. He looks crook; drag another six or so off him I reckon we can get him out.”
Horatio stood stock still, having already identified the next sleeper to be removed. The whistle no longer necessary he dragged it away as soon as Andy had the chain firmly affixed. Then he resumed his position at the next vantage point without instruction and the procedure was repeated. Eight more sleepers were removed, including the one laying across the hapless Wally’s leg.
“Stretcher!” shouted Frank “And get him down to Doc Fergie’s place as quick as you can! And get those bloody horses down to McKenzie, the blackie, so he can give them the once over!”
A light drizzle began to fall as the excitement died and the crowd drifted away. Andy and the mob from the Kalamunda pub gathered round the sleeper passer and Horatio. The murmurs grew into full blown votes of congratulations. Wally’s horses had cantered away to the blacksmith’s shop showing few signs of any trauma; the Mill’s Medical Officer having declared the driver to be suffering mainly from cuts and abrasions. Doc Ferguson would have the final say, but all the signs indicated a full recovery.
One of the barflies called out “Can we buy you a beer Frankie? No hard feelings eh, Frankie?”
“You can stick your beer!” replied the sleeper passer. “And don’t bother bringing that load of rubbish into me tomorrow for inspection. They’re all crap and I’ll reject the lot!”
“Bastard!” they responded in unison as Frank turned his back on them and headed back to Coventry.
The facts: