Hang him in the washhouse till he’s dried out,
Hang him in the washhouse till he’s dried out,
Hang him in the washhouse till he’s dried out,
Earl-i in the morning.
Emily arrived with her friend, Tom Scully, who she had introduced to us the night before. Then Jack came over and we all joined in. The rowdy miners swore a lot, but they knew how to sing and harmonise. Time flew and I couldn’t believe it when the barman called for last orders. The musicians began to pack up their instruments and everyone talked louder, just to make themselves heard.
‘Jack has suggested a riding party to Hope’s Hill on Sunday,’ Emily said, leaning close to my ear. ‘He can bring a horse for you, and Tom will bring one for me. What do you say?’
I hadn’t done much riding at all, but I didn’t want to miss out on anything. ‘That will be lovely,’ I said, trying to look confident.
‘Good.’ I could see that Emily was pleased. I had seen her dancing with Tom Scully the night before and guessed that she wanted to spend time with him – without Mary, or Mother, having to chaperone them. ‘Until Sunday, then,’ she said to Tom, and let go of his hand. He and Jack turned to go but Jack stopped in the doorway.
‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ he said, and I noticed again how blue his eyes were and how deeply they looked into mine.
May 1892
Sunday turned out to be a glorious day. The sky was a clear, pale blue above the stark whiteness of the dry salt lake that spread itself out like a field of snow. There was never any snow in Southern Cross, but sometimes, on a winter’s morning in Bendigo, the slopes would be white and sparkling and we would make toboggans out of anything we could find and race each other down the mountain.
Jack and Tom arrived at the Club Hotel shortly after breakfast, each mounted on his own horse and leading a spare. Emily and I loaded the food and drinks we were carrying into the saddlebags. Tom got down and held the horse for Emily while she mounted. Jack swung down and stood on the ground holding the head of a large bay gelding. This horse had seemed content to be led with the others until Jack dismounted. Then it started fidgeting, circling around, tangling the lead rope with the reins of Jack’s horse.
‘Stand up, Buster.’ Jack spoke to the gelding and called me over. ‘Buster is one of the best,’ he told me. ‘He just needs a firm hand at times.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.
I stepped up to Buster’s head and reached out to stroke his nose. The horse pulled away and began circling again. Jack calmed him by stroking his neck and feeding him pieces of carrot from his pocket. Buster munched noisily and kept a wary eye on me. His nostrils flared and his ears twitched. He flopped his top lip over another piece of carrot on Jack’s hand and scuffled it into his mouth, still watching me.
While Buster was busy chewing, Jack wiped his hands down his trousers, laced his fingers together and held his cupped hands in front of him. I grasped the saddle and put one foot into the cradle of Jack’s hands. Energy seemed to flow between us, making me feel strangely light-headed. We stood for a moment, close together, while Jack steadied me, supporting my weight. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.
‘Are you ready?’ Jack asked. I nodded, hopping on one foot as Buster tried to move away. Jack lifted me up and I threw one leg over the saddle. When I had settled myself on the horse, Jack adjusted the stirrups, all the while talking quietly to Buster, who was still making small, restless movements.
‘Keep him on a short rein at first,’ Jack suggested. ‘Just until he gets used to you.’ Buster nodded his head up and down, but kept his feet still.
We set out across the dry lake at a walk. Buster was inclined to shy at the slightest excuse, but I spoke calmly to him and tried to convince him that I was in control.
‘Easy, boy,’ I said, and leaned forward to stroke his neck as Jack had done. Buster took this as a signal to trot, which was most uncomfortable, so I decided not to hold him in so tight. I slackened the reins and before I knew it, we were cantering across the firm surface of the lake.
It was exhilarating. The wind cooled my face and arms. I felt my spirits lifting and a great sense of power and freedom filling my body. The horse moved easily into a gallop and we seemed to fly through the wide, uncomplicated landscape. I threw back my head and laughed out loud. Then I glanced behind and saw that the others were a long way back. Reluctantly I decided to slow Buster down. I eased off the pressure of my heels and thighs and pulled back on the reins.
Buster did not slow down. He lowered his head and tossed me forward onto his neck. I clamped my legs more tightly around him but my heels dug into his flank. Now at full gallop, he swerved and turned as if he was trying to throw me off. I grabbed a clump of his mane with one hand. It felt more solid than the flimsy reins. I held on tight.
The sound of another set of hooves came faintly from behind me. Buster twitched his ears. Then, with another great leap, he took off and raced even faster across the plain. The reins hung loose on his neck. I knew I should get them back into my hands but my fingers were clamped in his mane and I was afraid to release them, even for a second. I clung like a leech to the horse’s neck with the smell of sweat and leather filling my nose. My hat was long gone and my hair had come loose. Long strands were blowing across my face and into my eyes. Where were the others? A cloud of dust was rising up behind Buster’s hooves, blocking out everything behind me. The empty land that stretched ahead was no longer a place of freedom and joy. It had become a potential deathtrap. If I fell, I would be a tiny speck on the vast, undulating plain, lost and alone amongst the spinifex and clumps of scrub that all looked the same. How far back were the others? How long would it take them to find me lying, injured or dead, on the ground?
I clung to Buster for dear life.
May 1892
Suddenly they were with me: Jack lying low on Hunter’s neck and Tom behind him, galloping out of the dust cloud.
‘Whoa!’ Jack shouted. Buster heard his voice. The horse’s ears flicked up. His eyes bulged wildly. He laid his ears flat again and dodged away from Hunter’s outstretched nose. Jack urged Hunter on and they pulled ahead of us. They wheeled across our path, but Buster was trained to muster cattle and dodged away with ease.
Tom appeared on our other flank. He was shouting for more speed from his horse, Reg, who finally pulled alongside. Tom had looped one of the lead ropes into a lasso. He flung it at Buster’s head. The first throw fell uselessly on Buster’s neck. It hit my hands and stung my knuckles, but my fingers were still twined tightly in Buster’s mane.
Jack brought the galloping Hunter in close. Buster, who was now hemmed in by Hunter on one side and Reg on the other, jerked his head. Tom tried again. The flying noose fell short. Tom gathered it back into his hand and flung it hard and fast. On the next throw the circle of rope fell over Buster’s ears.
With the rope tightening on his neck the runaway horse slowed and propped. I was almost thrown from the saddle, but managed to sit up with a jolt. Buster snorted and tossed his head up and down. I gathered the reins into one hand and grabbed hold of the pommel with the other while Jack and Tom brought their horses close so he couldn’t get away again.
‘That was some ride,’ Jack said as he fastened the lead rope to his own saddle. I grinned at him. My face was flushed and wind-burned and my legs were shaking, but I could still feel the excitement of flying across the countryside.
We walked all three horses back towards Hope’s Hill. As we got closer, Tom rode on ahead, angling away towards the rise. He had left Emily heading for the well-known picnic spot and was anxious to get back to her.
As Jack and I rode side by side, I noticed a prospector’s camp, well away from the others that were clustered together on the edge of the flat plane.
‘That’s Arthur Bayley’s camp,’ Jack said when I asked him about it.
‘Why does he camp so far out?’ I asked, with the memory of
the sinister chief engineer, Baron Swanston, still fresh in my mind. ‘Is he up to no good?’
Jack laughed. ‘Not everyone around here is a murderer, you know. His mate, Will Ford, camps with him. Arthur Bayley has a reputation for being able to smell gold.’
I nodded. ‘He finds gold in places where others have walked right by and never noticed it,’ I said. Jack looked surprised. ‘My Pa was a prospector. I grew up on goldfields,’ I explained.
‘Ah, so you will know about the claim jumpers who steal other people’s finds then,’ Jack said.
‘Yes, my father and his mates talked about them. But I know nothing about Arthur Bayley.’
As the horses moved rhythmically beneath us, Jack told me how, a few years ago, a prospector named Andy McPherson and an Aboriginal boy called Toobey had staggered out of the desert. They were more dead than alive. Their cheeks were hollow, their tongues black and swollen. Bayley and Ford took them in, gave them food and water, and a place to sleep. When he had recovered enough to talk, McPherson told Arthur they had found plenty of gold out there in the desert, but no water.
‘Now the rumours are flying,’ Jack said.
‘What rumours?’ I asked.
‘Arthur Bayley is buying horses. We sold three of ours to him yesterday. I reckon he’ll be off soon – out bush to look for that gold.’
The low, rocky bulge of Hope’s Hill came into view and we saw Emily waving to us. She had spread the picnic rug in the shade of the trees, and set out the food, but had not unwrapped it because of the flies. She and Tom stood waiting for us.
‘Everything okay?’ Jack asked.
‘No sweat,’ Tom said, smiling at Emily. ‘Very calm, considering her sister had disappeared into the desert on a stranger’s horse.’
Emily shrugged. ‘I was worried, of course, but what else could I do?’ She did look a little pale, nevertheless.
I was shaken by my wild ride, but determined not to show it. When Jack asked if I wanted to go back to town straight away I said, ‘What, and miss lunch? I’m starving!’
Jack grinned. He leaned over and took the reins, making sure that Buster stood still while I slid down off his back. He walked both horses over to where Tom had tied the other two in the patchy shade of a gum tree.
Our sandwiches were made from Mother’s fresh bread. They were filled with ham cut from the bone, and pickles Mary had made from the small, tough-skinned desert tomatoes. Mother has a saying about hunger making a sauce that will enhance any meal and I believe her. These sandwiches tasted better than any I had eaten before.
Jack teased me about spilling some pickle on my blouse and passed me his handkerchief to wipe it away.
‘You were always such a messy baby, Clara,’ Emily laughed. ‘You never wanted to sit still and eat properly.’
‘Mother despaired of me, I know,’ I said, and reached for another sandwich.
After lunch, Emily and Tom decided to go for a walk. Jack winked at me and we stayed, sipping our billy tea and watching the patterns of light and shade that moved and changed as the breeze swayed the gum leaves high above us.
The afternoon passed too quickly. Jack was interesting to talk to, and I felt so relaxed in his company we could have been old friends. He said he was nineteen, the same age as my older brother Billy, but he was funnier. He made me laugh a lot. We strolled over to the nearby gnamma holes where the Aborigines come for water. He carefully lifted some of the bark and leaves that covered one of the holes. The water underneath looked brown and undrinkable.
‘It’s only good for washing in, unless you boil it,’ Jack said. ‘But when the rains come it will be clear and sweet.’ He and his father knew a lot about water and had great respect for the Aborigines who had shown them where to find it in their harsh, dry country.
In the cool of the evening, Emily and Tom came back and we all rode slowly into town. The horses walked in pairs while we chatted to each other. The dramas of the day were already receding into the pattern of outback life. As we rode, Jack and I sometimes lapsed into long, comfortable silences and I realised how much at home I felt with him. Even though we had only known each other for such a short time, I already had a feeling that he would be an important part of my life.
May 1892
Though they had tried to be careful to conceal their movements, word got around that Arthur Bayley and William Ford had left town the next day. Rumour had it that they had taken five horses and provisions for three months, plus equipment for digging, pegging and carrying gold. No-one was particularly surprised, since prospectors were always coming and going – mostly going. Speculation about new finds flared and died as often as their camp fires, but Bayley and Ford would have to keep their wits about them if they did strike colour.
A few days after the picnic, a strange old man came into Southern Cross. He was tall and gaunt with weathered skin and a shaggy beard. His dungaree trousers were tied up at the waist with a faded red scarf. Corks hung from the brim of his hat to keep the flies away. He had a dog with him, which was long-legged and scruffy but seemed healthy enough. We passed in the street and his dog stretched out its nose to sniff me.
‘Here, boy,’ the man muttered, without looking up.
‘It’s all right,’ I told him, putting out my hand to pat the dog. ‘I’m not afraid.’ The man lifted his head and stared at me with piercing grey eyes. Then he staggered on down the street, using the long stick he carried to steady himself.
I finished my errand and went back to the hotel. The same man was now sitting at the bar with two empty beer glasses on the counter and his dog at his feet.
Tom Farren came out to the kitchen to help me put away the new supplies.
‘Who is that man in the bar?’ I asked him.
‘That’s Moondyne Joe, the famous bushranger,’ he told me.
I’d never met a real bushranger, even though I’d heard lots of stories about men like Ned Kelly and Captain Moonlite. Pa told me not to believe everything I heard. Those tales would become more incredible each time they were told, he said, as if each storyteller had to outdo all the others.
True or not, I still liked to imagine myself on a fine black horse leaping over fallen trees, escaping from the police with my haul of gold, travelling all over the world and never wanting for anything ever again.
I leaned across to get a glimpse of the man through the open door. ‘He looks exhausted,’ I said.
‘He’s probably walked into town. His camp is about six miles out,’ Tom said. ‘And he’s not getting any younger.’
A week later I saw Moondyne Joe again. He was sitting in the shade of a tree, resting his back against the trunk. His dog lay stretched out beside him and a group of children clustered around.
‘Hello again,’ I said. The dog opened one eye, but didn’t get up. ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
A boy with a grubby face moved closer to Joe and I sat down in his place. There were two other children: a girl with a mass of tight curls, and a younger boy who sat in front of Joe. They stared at me curiously.
‘I’m Clara Saunders,’ I said, and held out my hand. ‘I’m Mrs Farren’s sister.’
‘Oh,’ Joe said, ignoring my hand. ‘I suppose they’ve told you all about me then.’
‘Well, no. Not really. In any case I like to make up my own mind about things – no matter what other people tell me.’
Joe said nothing, just stared silently into the distance, until the girl said, ‘Come on, Joe, finish the story.’
‘You know, I’ve never really done any really bad crimes,’ Joe said, looking directly at me.
‘How come you were in gaol, then?’ the girl asked.
‘I’ve never killed or wounded anyone, or ever molested a woman. In my young days I was a lock picker – the best in England. I could pick the tightest lock,’ Joe said proudly, lifting his chin.
‘One day I was in a tavern with three friends. We were drinking together and they made a bet with me. They bet that I couldn’t get into
a certain mansion in London. It was a fair amount of money they were offering. I told them they would lose their money.
‘That night I got into the mansion. Right into the lady’s apartment. But I heard someone coming and hid under the bed. Sadly I was discovered and arrested for trespassing.’
‘Did they slap you in irons?’ asked the bigger boy, his eyes lighting up.
‘A lot of people wanted to see me flogged,’ Joe continued. ‘Some said I should be hanged. That made me look bad, but the men who had made the bet, they stood very loyal by me and told the magistrate that it was their idea and that I hadn’t meant to harm anyone or steal anything from the lady.’
The children sat staring at Joe, waiting for more.
‘While the long arm of the law was making up my sentence,’ Joe went on, ‘two men came to me and asked me to open a safe for them. They were well-dressed gentlemen and when I said, “Why don’t you use the key?” they said, “We’ve tried that. We’ve tried duplicate keys as well, but the lock is jammed tight and there are important documents inside. If you open this safe for us we’re sure your other crime will be overlooked.”
‘Well, I was happy to open their safe and recover their documents,’ Joe paused to push his hat back and wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I did escape being put in prison, but I was lagged out to Western Australia instead.’
‘What’s “lagged out”?’ the smaller boy asked. Joe hesitated and looked slightly embarrassed.
‘I believe it means sent out here as a convict,’ I prompted.
‘But not now, I’m not,’ Joe declared fiercely. ‘I got me ticket of leave, I have. I’m a free man.’
‘Tell us about stealing the policeman’s horse,’ demanded the bigger boy.
‘And the way you just kept on escaping from Fremantle Prison,’ the girl laughed.
‘Yeah, tell us!’ the others chorused.
Joe was silent again. He seemed to be thinking deeply about something. His hand went automatically to his dog’s head, as if for reassurance, before he spoke.
Goldfields Girl Page 3