At least the horses could graze a few mouthfuls now. I might be able to find some water for them too, Jem thought as he rubbed them down with a scrap of hay, once they’d cooled a bit.
Jem glanced over at the coach. Mrs Pickle now lay on a bed hastily made up of assorted shawls, her discarded bustle beside her. She held Mr Pickle’s hand in one of hers. The other limply held a pistol. Suddenly her hand tightened, as she began to scream again.
‘I’ll take that,’ said Señorita Rodriques quietly. She tucked the pistol in her belt under what was left of her travelling coat.
Mr Pickle stood up uncertainly. ‘I should leave you ladies to it.’
‘Don’t go, Horace!’ pleaded Mrs Pickle, panting.
‘But I don’t know anything about birthing babies,’ said Mr Pickle nervously. ‘It’s women’s business.’
‘No one here knows anything about having babies,’ gasped Mrs Pickle desperately.
Juanita kneeled next to the panting woman. She glanced up at her sister. Señorita Rodriques hesitated, then nodded. She kneeled down too.
‘I know a bit about childbirth,’ said Señorita Rodriques quietly. ‘I saw my younger brother born, and a neighbour’s child, though I didn’t help deliver them, just held the torch for the midwife.’ Señorita Rodriques paused then added, ‘And I’ve had a baby, too.’
‘But . . . but you’re not married,’ spluttered Mr Pickle.
‘Seems like there’s more to having babies that Mr Pickle doesn’t understand,’ said Mr Smith, appearing next to Jem with his arms full of firewood.
‘I was married once. Juanita here is my daughter.’ Señorita Rodriques put her arms around the girl. ‘Breaks my heart sometimes to have to say she’s my sister.’
Juanita gave a sudden sob and hugged her back. ‘It’s all right, Sis. It’s always been all right. I understand.’
‘Well, I don’t. You’re not old enough to have a daughter her age, Señorita,’ said Mr Pickle, trying to regain his dignity. ‘You’re only twenty-two. It said so in the newspaper.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read in newspapers,’ said Señorita Rodriques tiredly. ‘I’m thirty-three, but I hope I can keep on being twenty-two for a few more years. Then Juanita and I will retire to our few acres and a cottage. Now if you men will just light the fire and put the billy on to boil, you can take yourselves to the other side of the coach to give Mrs Pickle some privacy and look after Mr Donovan. You too, Mr Pickle. I’ll call you if I need you. And you, Juanita.’
‘I’m staying,’ said Juanita stubbornly. ‘You might need help.’
Mr Lee suddenly stepped out of the shadows, with his strange hobbling gait. ‘I help,’ he said gruffly.
‘I’m not having a Chinaman touch me!’ screamed Mrs Pickle. The scream changed, going on and on, so she gasped for air.
Mr Lee waited till the pain was over, then quietly slipped off his oilskin cloak, and then his coat and waistcoat. Underneath was the slim form of a woman.
Señorita Rodriques stared. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she whispered.
‘I Miss Lee. New husband in Sydney. Chinese woman not allowed to land in Sydney. Chinese must land in Robe, far south, and then must walk.’ Miss Lee bent, and slipped off her boots. Jem stared. Her feet were stumps in tiny black slippers. ‘I not walk far. Cobb & Co take Chinese man. Not safe to be woman. I birth many babies in China,’ she added. ‘My grandmother was woman who brings babies.’
‘A midwife?’ asked Señorita Rodriques in wonder.
Miss Lee did not seem to understand the word. ‘You let Chinese woman touch you?’ she asked Mrs Pickle sharply.
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Señorita Rodriques softly, ‘what you must have been through!’
Mrs Pickle burst into tears. ‘A midwife! Horace, our baby has a midwife. Now light the fire and go away!’
In the end Juanita sat in the coach with Paw, as Señorita Rodriques said it was important to keep Paw’s head cool with wet cloths and to make sure he didn’t move too much, while Mr Pickle tended the fire and boiled the billy.
‘Horses have cooled down now,’ Mr Smith said to Jem. ‘Grab the washtub. Used to be a stream down that gully there. I’ll give you a hand filling up the tub.’
‘You’re not going to stay here and hurry Mrs Pickle along?’
Mr Smith laughed. ‘I reckon Mrs Pickle will be in as great a hurry to have that baby born as I am. One thing I’ve learned, lad. Babies come when they decide to and there ain’t nothing you or I can do to hurry them.’
‘You’re not . . . upset . . . any more?’
‘I forgot something else I learned too,’ said Mr Smith gravely. ‘A baby is worth more than a chest of . . . books. I should have remembered that.’
He glanced up at the stars again. The Southern Cross had turned over, leading the star path to morning. ‘I’ll wait till the first grey of dawn. If the baby hasn’t come by then I’ll take the best of the horses and ride for Goulburn.’
He laughed softly. ‘I’ve been a betting man all my life. Lost most of the bets, won a few of them. Now I’m betting Mrs Pickle’s baby will be born in time to get the coach and all my . . . books . . . to the train in time. But if not, it’ll be me and my carpetbag.’
‘These horses might not be broke to riding,’ warned Jem. ‘Cobb & Co breed them and train them, mostly, just for their own teams.’
‘There’s not a horse in this country I can’t ride,’ said Mr Smith lightly as they made their way carefully down the slope of tussocks and wattle trees. Water gleamed with the silver of moonlight at the bottom, just as Mr Smith had said.
‘You know this place?’ asked Jem.
‘I know from Araluen up to Picton, and a good way north and south. Yes, I know I said I didn’t. I lied.’
‘But why don’t you drive the coach then, if you know the road and horses so well?’
Mr Smith laughed again, suddenly relaxed about the inevitability of waiting an hour. ‘I know how to ride a horse, and how to lead them, not how to drive a coach and four. I don’t know this road, either. I didn’t follow the road much when I was younger. I went cross-country. Houses are built and paddocks cleared for wheat, but the shape of the land doesn’t change much. That’s what I learned, the land’s shape.’
‘What’s your real name?’ asked Jem softly.
Mr Smith grinned. ‘John Smith, and it will be that till the train pulls into Sydney. And if I get there on time, and on that boat, I reckon you might see another name for me in The Sydney Morning Herald. But till then you’ll know me as John Smith.’
Another scream came faintly down the slope. ‘When we hear a baby cry I’ll race you back,’ said Mr Smith philosophically. ‘But till then I don’t think I want to sit in any coach. I’ve had enough of being shut up to last a lifetime. Mind if we sit by the creek a while, lad?’
Jem shook his head. The horses should cool a little more before drinking, though not too long if they were going to work again soon. A team couldn’t be asked to work straight after drinking, especially winter-cold water. He trusted Juanita to call him if Paw grew worse, too. He sat, glad to feel the softness of tussocks instead of the hard box seat, his hand free of the weight and tug of the reins. He could hear the creek trickle between its stones, the far-off hoot of an owl.
Mr Smith leaned back on his elbows and gazed up at the stars. ‘Ever think that those stars are so high up now, but one day they might come falling down?’
‘No,’ said Jem honestly.
‘Ah, you’re young. Don’t suppose many stars have crashed for you, yet. I’ll tell you a story, lad. It’s about a boy not much older than you, who went stealing horses, partly for the adventure, and partly because this land is ruled by crooked magistrates and crooked traps and he thought he’d get his own back a bit.’
‘Did he?’ asked Jem.
‘He got caught instead, and then paroled. Finally he decided to go after something more valuable than horses, and turned to highway robbery instead.’
J
em stared at him. ‘A bushranger?’
‘He ranged around the bush, indeed. He even managed to steal a treasure. But that lad never killed anyone, never even hurt anyone, but someone died because of him.’
‘One of the police?’
‘A girl I loved,’ said Mr Smith quietly. ‘Bess, her name was, worked at the hotel at Sherwin Flats. She was my banker — I gave her the money; she put it away for me. She was well placed in the hotel to know what was happening in the district too, when the gold transports were coming through — there was a lot of gold back then — or a party of police.
‘But one night when I came back there was another party of outlaws already at the bar: Ben Hall and the gang he was with then. Two of ’em argued. One shot the other. Dead as a doornail he was. Well, we all took off after that. The police caught some of the others, then some fool told Bess they’d found me too, and shot me dead. And so Bess shot herself.’
‘Sir!’
‘Nearly drove me out of my mind, that did. And so I took a risk, the biggest I’ve ever taken maybe till now. I joined the rest of the gang and we held up the gold transport. It was the biggest theft the country had ever seen. Still is. And then I took my share of the gold and hid part of it, and took the rest with me to start a new life. Took another woman with me — Kate. Ben Hall’s sister-in-law, she was, married to another man, but she wanted another life as much as I did. We ended up real close, Kate and me. Had a son together, ran a store up in Queensland . . . and then the law caught up with me.’
‘They put you in prison?’
‘They did. A sentence of thirty-two years, a sentence that meant I’d die in prison, most like, and never feel the sun on my face except in the prison yard, never see the endless stars again. At least they didn’t hang me — I’d never killed anyone and they knew it.’
So that explains his pallor, thought Jem, and his thinness too. ‘You escaped, sir?’
‘Escaped from Darlinghurst Gaol? I’d need wings for that. But I have sisters, two of the best women in the world, who deserve better than a brother like me. They argued and campaigned. And two weeks ago the governor pardoned me, on condition I left the country. I’ve the ticket for a ship to Hong Kong in my pocket now — but if I miss the train from Goulburn I’ll miss that ship, and if I’m not on it they’ll put me back in Darlinghurst. And I think the heart of me would die, lad, if they did that, even before they killed my body. Men mostly don’t live long in Darlinghurst.’
‘But you risked it to get your . . . books,’ said Jem.
Another soft laugh in the darkness. ‘Aye, I did. I told you I was a betting man. You need money for a decent start in another country. So I went to fetch my . . . books.’
‘And if they arrest you they’ll find the gold from that theft,’ said Jem. ‘That’s what’s in the trunk, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Some I took to Queensland. I left the rest of that with Kate, enough for her and the boy to live in comfort. But, ah, there were such a lot of . . . books . . . still hidden, lad. Hong Kong is no place for me. I’m off to San Francisco. Once I get there with that trunk I’ll send for Kate and the boy and we can live in comfort to the end of our days. But only if I get that train today, and if the trunk comes with me.’
‘What . . . what about the people who you stole the gold from?’
‘Long gone, boy, and anyway they’d deposited it in the bank so the bank had to make it good. No one to give that gold back to except the government.’
‘Where did you hide it?’
Mr Smith laughed again. ‘You want to know every secret, don’t you?’
How many secrets had he learned already tonight? And he needed to get back to Paw. ‘Yes, please,’ Jem said, standing up.
‘Just in case you ever have any . . . books . . . you need to hide? Just so happened a mate of mine was building a new room on his house. So one night I decided to surprise him by finishing one wall of it. And inside that wall . . .’ Mr Smith grinned in the moonlight.
‘You took the wall down again last night?’ Surely someone would have noticed.
‘Just a hole at the bottom, to take the . . . books . . . out one by one, the sort of hole that a hungry rat could chew in a night. There’s half a dozen gold pocket watches in one of the other walls but I didn’t have time to get those.’
Mr Smith stood as well. ‘You want to get back to your dad, don’t you? Off you go, lad. I can water the horses. I’ve always loved the smell of horses in the night.’
Jem hesitated. Mr Smith had just admitted he was a thief — and one who’d threatened him with his pistols, even if he claimed he’d never used them. But what could he do tonight, except steal one of the horses? And, even if he did, Jem knew he’d find the horse waiting at the railway station once he finally made it to Goulburn.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘A pleasure, lad. It’s been just like old times, sitting yarning on the grass in the moonlight, but this time I don’t have to worry about the traps sneaking up on us. Just promise you won’t go telling anyone else that story till I’m well away.’
‘I promise.’
‘And maybe . . . if you do tell someone . . . don’t mention Bess. She deserved better than me too, and far, far better than what she got. I visited her grave on the way down. They wouldn’t bury her in the graveyard, not after she’d shot herself, but maybe, if you ever stop at Sherwin Flats for longer than a change of horses . . .’
‘I’ll leave flowers on her grave like I do on Maw’s, sir.’
‘You’re a good lad. A very good lad. You go and see to your dad.’
Mr Smith picked up the tub again then paused. ‘I doubt Donovan will be able to work for a while after this. You got a home of your own to go to, some savings?’
‘No home, sir, just a room in a lodging house in Goulburn, and another one in Braidwood. We’ve been saving for a farm.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Smith reached under his jacket. Jem caught sight of a dark shape that might have been a shoulder pouch. Mr Smith drew out pieces of paper and passed them to him.
Bank notes! Jem tried to read their marks in the moonlight. Surely that couldn’t be . . .
‘Fifty pounds,’ said Mr Smith softly. He grinned. ‘Nibbled a bit by rats in one corner, but they’ll see you good. There was more than . . . books . . . on that coach. My trunk may be heavy, but the carpetbag is light, because it’s filled with paper.’ He turned and trod carefully down towards the pool.
CHAPTER 8
THE GREATEST SECRET OF THEM ALL
Fifty pounds! Jem folded the notes up tight, then wriggled them down beside his pocket knife in the pouch on his belt.
Paw reckoned they needed about six hundred pounds for their farm, and another two hundred at least to stock it, for, though they could catch brumbies, the wild horses would need to be bred to good stallions and mares to be good enough to sell to Cobb & Co. They had almost half of the necessary sum already, but it would cut into their savings badly if Paw couldn’t work for a time. This contribution would see them through his lay-off and boost their savings.
Jem bit his lip at the memory of Paw’s face so white and motionless. Paw would recover! One day he’d be driving the coach again, grinning at him after negotiating a sharp corner. And one day they’d have their farm, too. Sooner than they’d planned, after this terrible night — as long as he managed to get them safe to Goulburn.
He made his way up the hill.
Señorita Rodriques must have heard his footsteps. She came out from behind a hastily erected screen — two fallen branches leaned together, draped with a fringed Spanish shawl — to meet him.
‘Paw?’ demanded Jem, suddenly frightened.
‘He’s feeling better. I’ve just looked in on him. Are you all right, Jem?’ she asked quietly. ‘I was worried when you vanished with Mr Smith.’
‘He’s getting water for the horses. I don’t think he’ll hurt any of us, Señorita.’
‘I was afraid he’d try to get you to drive off wit
h the coach again, and leave us here.’
‘I wouldn’t do it. But he’s not going to try to make me, not now.’
The señorita looked like she wanted to ask more questions, but not with two patients to look after. ‘I’d better get back to Mrs Pickle. Lee Chou says the contractions have subsided. It may be hours yet.’
‘Lee Chou? Is that her real name?’
Señorita Rodriques nodded. ‘She’s been telling us about the journey here, learning English to come to Australia. She’s never even met her husband. He’ll be waiting for her at Goulburn.’
‘How did her feet get like that? Did someone chop them off, or was she born that way?’
‘Neither. In China, well-off families bind little girls’ feet tightly to keep them small. Women with feet that are too small to let them work are a sign a family is wealthy.’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘Well, some of the things done to children in this country are terrible as well.’ Jem waited for Señorita Rodriques to say more, but she just added, ‘Now you go and sit with your dad. He’s feeling better, but don’t let him sit up.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘And on no account let him try to stand.’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Jem . . .’ But whatever she had been going to say was lost, as Mrs Pickle groaned again. ‘Thank you, Jem,’ said Señorita Rodriques quietly, and slipped behind the screen.
The inside of the coach was still faintly lit by the torches outside, with hints of firelight and the newly risen moon. Paw lay propped up by their swag, with a pannikin of tea in one hand and a gingernut biscuit in the other. Juanita sat cross-legged under her skirts on the seat above him. Paw’s face was pale and he was clearly in pain, but he managed a smile.
‘Sounds like you’ve done right well, Jem boy. Four-in-hand, all the way to here.’
Night Ride into Danger Page 6