A breakfast at one of the inns was a rare treat. But Paw had Mr Smith’s fifteen guineas in his pocket.
Jem grinned. He’d have a beefsteak — no more mutton, either stewed or chops — with two eggs on top of it, and toast with marmalade and lots of butter, then maybe more toast and strawberry jam. He closed his eyes and dreamed of scrambled eggs draped with bacon, or fried ham with milky gravy, and more toast to soak it up . . .
The dream changed. Suddenly he flew through the night air, but Paw’s hands held him tight, so even though the chill wind stung his face the stars grew no closer . . .
He woke with a jolt, and found he really was suspended in mid-air — but the lap belt held him, not Paw’s hands. The coach hung tilted, neither straight nor falling. Screams pierced the mist, screams from inside the coach, and the shriek of a horse. He was alone on the box. Paw and Mr Smith had vanished. The horses reared and plunged in the lamplight.
‘Paw!’ he yelled.
‘Stay where you are!’ Paw reached for Lady Anne in the flickering lamplight as she lurched, throwing her head and squealing.
‘Paw, what happened?’
Lady Anne gave an agonised cry.
‘Icy patch then a tree root,’ gasped Paw, grasping Lady Anne’s bridle. ‘Steady, girl, steady. Let me see that leg of yours.’
Paw reached down to feel it just as Mr Smith appeared on the team’s other side, calming King Rex with hand and voice. ‘That’s it, boy. All’s well now.’
King Rex tossed his head once, then bent to Mr Smith, quietening. Paw reached forwards to lift Lady Anne’s hoof . . .
It happened too suddenly to see. All at once Lady Anne’s head came up, striking Paw’s face. He shouted and fell underneath her hooves. Lady Anne panicked again, her legs flailing as she tried desperately not to stand on the fallen man.
‘Paw!’ Jem screamed. He undid his lap belt and scrambled down just as a shot rang out. He stopped for an instant, staring. Lady Anne lay slumped on the ground, the traces slack now and a red hole gaping in her head. Then suddenly he was running to Paw, Paw with blood streaming from his face, one leg at a strange angle.
Miraculously Mr Smith had instantly quietened the rest of the team, though their ears were pinned back and they showed the whites of their eyes. ‘Pull your father clear,’ he ordered.
Jem obeyed. Moving Paw might make his injuries worse, but he needed to be away from stamping hooves. Vaguely he was aware of a pistol in Mr Smith’s hand, of a froth of petticoats descending from the uppermost door of the tilted coach. He pulled Paw’s arms, and felt him slide over the rough ground.
But Paw was still. So very still.
‘Let me see him,’ said Señorita Rodriques, kneeling next to Paw. Juanita held a carpetbag. She opened it, and handed her sister a flask and a cloth.
‘Is Paw dead?’ whispered Jem. The world was cold, and somehow very far away.
‘No.’ Señorita Rodriques wet the cloth with water from the flask, and began to wipe Paw’s face. ‘The blood is just from his nose,’ she said at last.
Jem made his lips move. ‘But why is he so still?’
‘He’s stunned, I think.’ Señorita Rodriques ran her hands down Paw’s arms, across his body, watching his face for a reaction, then down one leg, and then the bent leg. Paw muttered and tried to move as she touched it.
‘Broken,’ said Señorita Rodriques briefly.
Behind them the coach rocked slightly as Mr Pickle helped his wife out, followed by Mr Lee.
The team still stamped and snorted, but was obeying Mr Smith for now. He looked across at Señorita Rodriques. ‘How’s our driver?’
‘Hurt. Alive. That’s all I know,’ she said curtly.
Jem found he was shaking and couldn’t stop. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t!
‘This shouldn’t have happened!’ stammered Mr Pickle, his arm around his sobbing wife. ‘We paid good money to get to Goulburn safely.’
‘I feel strange, Horace,’ whimpered Mrs Pickle. ‘I . . . I’m scared.’
Mr Smith strode back to the leaning coach. ‘Stop blithering, Pickle,’ he ordered. ‘We have to straighten the coach and move it over the root that’s jammed up the front wheel. This tilt’s upsetting the horses. Come on, quickly now: put your shoulder to it. You, Chinaman, get in there too. Now when I say lift . . .’
Jem peered into the mist as Mr Smith yelled, ‘Lift!’
The figures moved together as they heaved the light structure upright. For a moment it seemed as if it would topple again, but it tipped slowly onto all four wheels instead. It seemed undamaged, apart from the top lamp, which must have been broken off by a low-hanging branch, and a few scratches.
Mrs Pickle began to sob more loudly. Mr Pickle put his arms around her. Mr Lee stood silent, watching them. Jem looked back at Paw. The bleeding had stopped, though blood still caked his nostrils. Señorita Rodriques reached inside the carpetbag and pulled out a knife.
Jem stared at it. ‘What are you going to do?’
He felt Juanita’s arm around him, holding him back, comforting him. ‘Sshh. Sis needs to cut his trousers to look at his leg.’
‘Seems like you know what you’re doing, Señorita,’ said Mr Smith, standing back with the remaining horses now. They were shifting their hooves and tossing their heads in bewilderment but no longer panicking as they had been only minutes earlier.
‘I do,’ she said briefly, expertly slicing down Paw’s trousers. ‘Juanita, you and Jem remove the boot, gently as you can, while I hold his ankle steady. Yes, that’s it.’ She peered at his leg in the dim light, then began to cut strips from the fur trimming on her coat.
‘What are you doing?’ Jem managed.
‘Setting your dad’s leg,’ said Juanita. She gripped Jem’s hand, hard. ‘Her coat is made of leather. The wet leather will shrink and tighten as it dries, and keep his leg straight till we can get him to a surgeon.’
‘How does she know what to do?’
Juanita shrugged. ‘Someone taught her. I’ve seen her set a man’s arm up in North Queensland, and a leg broke much worse-looking than that on the way to Bendigo. Coach rolled both times.’
Jem reached out and touched Paw’s blood-stained cheek. Paw didn’t move.
‘Good thing he’s unconscious,’ said Señorita Rodriques. ‘This is going to hurt.’ She straightened the leg. Paw groaned slightly, but didn’t wake, and she began to wind tight strips about the bruised flesh. ‘Lucky he’s got stout boots. They protected his feet. Juanita, give the boy a dose from the brown bottle.’
‘Not the blue?’
‘No, the brown.’
Jem found a spoon thrust in his face. He opened his mouth automatically. The taste was both bitter and sweet, and suddenly his head was clear again.
‘Nearly done, Mr Donovan,’ Señorita Rodriques said quietly, even though Paw couldn’t hear.
‘Is that a bottle of brandy? I could do with a peg of it.’ Mr Smith loomed in the shadows of the lamps.
‘Not brandy,’ said Señorita Rodriques briefly. ‘Herbs.’
‘Pity,’ said Mr Smith. Jem noticed he now had two pistols in his belt, as well as Lady Anne’s collar and traces in his hand and her bridle and reins looped over his shoulder. The pistols must have been in his carpetbag.
Señorita Rodriques sat back. ‘There. That should hold his leg in place till we can get him to a doctor.’ She touched Paw’s shoulders and arms gently, looking for other injuries again.
Mr Smith gazed over at Lady Anne.
‘Poor old girl,’ he said. ‘I hate to kill a willing horse. A broken leg, so there was no hope for her. The others seem all right. Good thing they make the coaches light and strong.’
‘It was your dashed trunk!’ yelled Mr Pickle suddenly, as Mrs Pickle gave a low moan, still leaning against her husband’s shoulder. ‘I could feel the weight of it. It overbalanced us.’
‘Nonsense. The Braidwood grooms know their business too well to send out an unbalanced coach. It
was ice and bad luck. The mud on the slope back there is frozen. Mr Donovan had the brake on and the horses well reined in, but the right-hand lead horse slid anyway and we fetched up against that tree root.’
And you shot her, thought Jem, dazed. Poor, hardworking Lady Anne, who’d been their companion for so many nights. He knew there had been no choice. ‘Sir, can you ride bareback?’
Mr Smith gazed down at him. ‘I can, but I won’t. It’s been ten years since I rode at all.’
‘Mr Pickle?’ pleaded Jem.
Mr Pickle blinked at him. ‘You want me to ride back to Sherwin Flats for help?’
‘Please, sir. I don’t want to leave Paw. They’ll bring a cart and take us all back, and send someone to fetch a doctor from Braidwood.’
‘I’m no rider!’ said Mr Pickle in alarm. ‘I can’t leave Mrs Pickle either.’
Jem turned back to Mr Smith. ‘Please, sir?’
‘No,’ said Mr Smith.
Juanita stepped forward. ‘I can ride a bit.’
Mr Smith snorted. ‘Ride bareback on a horse not broke to the saddle, and in the darkness? You’d break your neck. No one is riding anywhere tonight.’
‘But we can’t stay here in the cold all night, waiting for the day coach!’ objected Mr Pickle.
‘We’re not going to,’ said Mr Smith shortly.
And Jem saw the alternative. ‘I can drive the coach back to the inn at Sherwin Flats. Paw can lie on the straw in the coach. We’ll be warm and comfortable — they might even have a doctor.’
Mr Smith gazed at him, suddenly thoughtful. ‘You can get the coach back to Sherwin Flats?’
‘I . . . I think so, sir.’
Mr Smith’s teeth gleamed again as he grinned in the lamplight. ‘Then you can drive the coach and me to Goulburn, and no stopping till we get there.’ He gazed at the other passengers. ‘The rest of you will stay here with the Whip. You can light a fire for warmth. You’ll be safe enough till tomorrow’s coach comes.’
Mrs Pickle gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. Jem stared at Mr Smith. Leave everyone there in the misty cold and dark, with Paw unconscious, badly hurt?
‘I can’t do that, sir,’ said Jem.
‘Indeed you can,’ said Mr Smith, and suddenly the two pistols were in his hands. ‘Come on. Get back on the box.’
‘No,’ said Jem. ‘I’m not leaving Paw here. I’m not leaving anyone here.’
Mr Smith lifted the pistols. ‘I warn you, boy . . .’
Jem glanced again at Paw, lying so still. If only he could get him to a surgeon in Goulburn. But it wasn’t possible. ‘Sir, even if I wanted to, I can’t drive four-inhand in the dark all the way to Goulburn.’
‘I’ve seen you drive five-in-hand tonight,’ said Mr Smith shortly. ‘If you can handle five, you can manage four.’
‘It’s not the same! That was daylight, and a straight stretch, and not for long, either. And Paw was with me and he was keeping an eye on me. And the reins are heavy, sir. Really heavy.’
‘I know full well they’re heavy. I’ll spell you when I can. But I don’t know this road, nor how to handle a coach and four.’
‘I’ve never driven a team of four either!’ said Jem desperately. ‘It’s always been five, in daylight, with Paw to guide me!’
‘But you know the track,’ said Mr Smith softly. ‘Every bend and bump of it, every creek and cottage. Aren’t I right? How many nights have you ridden it with your dad?’
‘Five years, sir. But I’ve never driven this stretch.’
‘You’ve watched your father drive it. You know the curves, the low branches and the swampy bits. I’m getting the Goulburn train tomorrow, and nothing and no one is going to stop me.’
‘Without a change of horses? It’s thirty miles to Goulburn!’
‘Horses can go thirty miles.’
‘But not fast, sir.’
‘You think I don’t know that? But we’ve a good two hours up our sleeve.’ Mr Smith held up Paw’s pocket watch.
‘How did you get that?’ demanded Jem.
‘How do you think? I took it from his pocket just now,’ said Mr Smith coolly. ‘Take off the half an hour we’ve spent here and we’re still ahead. And that’s as good a team as I’ve ever seen. They’re strong, they’re fresh, they’re stayers and I reckon they’ve worked as a team for a while. I do know horses, lad, even if I can’t drive a four-in-hand along an unfamiliar road.’
‘I don’t think they can get you to the train on time,’ said Jem steadily. ‘Even if I were able to drive them.’
Mr Smith regarded him for a moment. ‘You, Pickle,’ he said, gesturing with a pistol. ‘Get up back and throw off everything except my trunk. Let’s lighten the load for the horses.’
‘But I —’ began Mr Pickle. Mr Smith brandished his pistol again. Mr Pickle began to clamber up onto the back of the coach.
‘Not the mailbags,’ called Jem. He looked at Mr Smith. ‘They don’t weigh much.’
Mr Smith nodded. ‘It’s a deal then. We take the mailbags. Leave everything else here for the next coach to collect. You drive me and my trunk to Goulburn, and you get me there in time for the morning train.’
‘No,’ said Jem again. ‘I’ll try to drive the coach. I’ll give it every last bit of strength I have. I need to get my father to a doctor and I’ll try to get you to the train in time, too. But we’re taking Paw, and every passenger who wants to come with us.’
Mr Smith lifted his arm, and aimed the pistol at Jem. ‘You will do exactly what I tell you, lad.’
‘You’re not going to shoot him,’ said Juanita suddenly.
Mr Smith turned to her, lowering his arm. ‘And why not?’
‘Because you’re not stupid. If you shoot him there’s no one to drive the coach. You obviously can’t drive it, or you’d be up on the box already.’
Mr Smith smiled grimly. ‘You’re right. I won’t shoot the boy. But I can shoot you if he doesn’t do what he’s told.’
Jem felt Juanita squeeze his hand again. It cleared his head even more than the potion from the bottle.
‘You can’t do that either,’ declared Jem. ‘If you shoot her I’ll drive you all right. But you won’t know where I’m taking you. It might be to Goulburn. It might be into the middle of Lake George or to the police station at Bungendore. I’ve offered you the only bargain I can make tonight.’
‘You have, have you?’ replied Mr Smith, his expression impossible to read.
‘Yes, sir.’ Jem looked around. ‘Does anyone want to come with us? I . . . I warn you, I might not be up to this. I might overturn the coach. We might crash into a cart, or even worse. I’m no Whip, and I know it, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Your best will be good enough,’ said Juanita quietly. ‘Sis?’
‘I’m coming,’ said Señorita Rodriques. ‘Mr Donovan needs care.’
‘Right, let’s move,’ said Mr Smith. ‘I’ll give you this advice for free, boy — know your limitations.’ He gave a crooked grin. ‘But know what you’re capable of, too, lad — and don’t be afraid to push yourself to find it. I’ve seen you hold the reins, and it’s amazing what the body can take if your will to go on is strong enough.’
Mr Smith looked around at the other passengers. ‘Well, do you want to wait here for tomorrow’s coach, or risk travelling with the youngster here?’
‘I have to get to Goulburn as soon as I can,’ whispered Mrs Pickle. ‘I can’t stay here.’ She whispered something urgently to her husband.
He nodded. ‘We need to get to Goulburn,’ he said flatly to Mr Smith.
Mr Lee looked at them all, then stepped back into the coach.
Mr Smith lifted an eyebrow at Jem. ‘Seems like you’re driving us all to Goulburn, lad.’
CHAPTER 5
HOLDING THE REINS
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t drive a coach all the way to Goulburn, not in the mist, the darkness, the icy mud. But Mr Smith had the team ready for him. Mr Smith might have soft white hands, but h
e seemed to know horses, and harnesses too.
Mr Smith even seemed to know how to help an injured man. He took off his oilskin cloak. He and Señorita Rodriques slowly and carefully edged Paw’s body onto it.
Mr Pickle stowed the trunks they were abandoning carefully under a tree, then he and Mrs Pickle waited at a distance, Mrs Pickle hiding her face in her husband’s shoulder again, as if by not watching she could pretend she wasn’t there. The horses stamped and snorted, their ears flattened, showing the whites of their eyes, disturbed by the smell of blood.
The straw from the coach floor had fallen out, so Jem pushed it back in again. It was damp and muddy now, but that wouldn’t matter under the oil-cloth and it would still be softer than the floor. Juanita helped him arrange it like a mattress then the five of them carefully lifted the oil-cloth and placed Paw on the coach floor.
‘Juanita and I will sit either side of him to stop him sliding about,’ said Señorita Rodriques gently. ‘It’s all we can do.’
‘He . . . he’s so quiet,’ said Jem desperately. ‘You’ll call me if . . .’
‘If there’s any change. Of course. But I think he’s just stunned.’ Señorita Rodriques sounded as if she was trying to convince herself of that, too. ‘He should come round soon.’
‘Come on, lad. Hurry! We’re wasting time.’ The pistols were in Mr Smith’s belt now, very obviously where he could grab them. Mr Pickle ushered a whitefaced Mrs Pickle into the coach, then pulled the leather curtain to keep out the wind.
Jem took a final look at poor dead Lady Anne, her legs still, her expression reflecting the anguish in which she’d died, then climbed up onto the box. He fastened the lap belt then took the reins in one hand, the whip in the other.
He hesitated, let the brake off, trying to gather his courage, his strength, and to think. The ground around them would still be icy. The reins shifted slightly in his hands as the horses moved, still frightened and uneasy. He tightened them just slightly so the team would know he was in control, then gave a soft click of his tongue.
Night Ride into Danger Page 4