by Alison Lloyd
‘From here, it feels like all New South Wales is ours,’ he said. ‘I wish it was.’
Tommy raised his eyebrows as if he saw things differently.
‘Well at least some of it should be mine.’ Thirty pounds worth, Jem thought. Enough country for his dad and Jem and a decent mob of stock. That was Jem’s dream. The wind was going to Jem’s head. He’d never wanted to tell so many of his thoughts before.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’m going to canter across the Maneroo on a shiny thoroughbred. As pretty as that filly the bushranger stole from the Captain. I’ll whistle to my dog, and she’ll round up a hundred head of fat cattle. Milkers, they’ll be, so I can have cheese when I want.’
Tommy laughed. ‘Cheese is whitefella tucker,’ he said. ‘Mumugandi are better.’
‘Those moths?’ said Alfie.
‘Ugh,’ said Jem, although he’d never had them.
‘You know, I don’t want to be a settler,’ Alfie said. ‘I want to build machines. Like the engineers in Nelson’s navy.’
Jem looked at Alfie like he was a new breed of animal. That was a funny thing to want. ‘What would you do with machines out here?’ he asked.
‘Lots!’ Alfie said. ‘This trebuchet is a sort of war machine. They had them in English castles.’ He pointed to the post with slings. ‘You can really fire it, you know. Hey, Tommy,’ Alfie propped himself on one elbow, ‘what about you? What’ll you do when you grow up?’
Tommy looked surprised. ‘My people been here from the beginning,’ he said. ‘This all my people’s country. We hunt, we sing, all that. I don’t want to change nothing.’ Tommy stopped and thought for a bit. ‘But you whitefellas are here now. . .’ He scratched his head and a couple of feathers floated from the curls of his hair. ‘That Captain – he’s no good.’
Jem agreed completely.
Tommy pointed below. ‘And that man, he’s trouble too.’
Jem saw Mr Blain trudging across the paddocks.
Tommy gave a fake grin, showing his teeth and gums like Mr Blain did. Jem laughed. He decided he liked Tommy after all.
Alfie didn’t laugh. ‘It’s a shame about that puppy in the stable,’ he said sadly.
‘Real pretty little mirigan,’ Tommy agreed.
‘It stinks,’ said Alfie.
Jem was offended for the puppy. ‘So does this place!’
‘I mean, getting rid of it,’ said Alfie, watching Mr Blain. ‘That’s what stinks.’
‘What?’ said Jem.
‘See the sack he’s got? The Captain sold most of the puppies in the litter, but nobody wanted the last one. Mr Blain’s probably taking it to the creek to drown it.’
Was that what the Captain meant when he was talking about ‘in the river tomorrow’? Fear and fury surged through Jem.
‘We can’t let him!’ Jem jumped down from the battlement, swung the ladder back into position, and hurried down.
‘It’s his puppy, Jem,’ Alfie called after him.
‘He doesn’t want it,’ Jem yelled back.
He guessed they were almost as close to the creek as the overseer. If he ran like wildfire he might get to the water before Mr Blain did.
Then what? Maybe Jem could buy the pup, with his wages that hadn’t been paid yet, or even earned yet. Or he could bail up the overseer like a bushranger. Or they would. . . he didn’t know what they’d do. But he would not let the Captain’s man kill the puppy. Not this dog too.
He could hear Alfie and Tommy racing after him. The three of them leaped over rocks and slithered on loose stones, in a scramble to the bottom of the hill.
‘He won’t let us keep it,’ Alfie puffed.
‘Don’t be a yelper,’ Jem said. ‘Save your breath for running. We’ll think of something.’
5
By the time they got to the bottom, the boys had lost sight of the overseer. They left Daisy tied up and ran for the creek. Jem’s chest was burning. He couldn’t make his legs go any faster.
At last he stumbled through the feathery wattles, and looked up and down the creek banks. Jem couldn’t see the overseer anywhere.
Tommy climbed a tree to get a better look.
‘Jem!’ he called. He pointed away from the creek. Mr Blain was walking back to the Station. His hands were empty. The sack was gone.
‘Fork it,’ puffed Alfie.
Jem slumped against the tree. He didn’t want the other boys to see the tears in his eyes. He blinked hard at the brown water of the creek. That little puppy had loved him like she was his. Jem had got her out of trouble before, but not this time. She was gone. The Captain had taken another dog from him.
‘Hey!’ Tommy called out. ‘That sack, she’s wiggling like a fat grub!’
Jem blinked again and looked where Tommy was looking.
Suddenly he saw the sack too. It had not sunk to the bottom of the creek, as Mr Blain meant it to. A tree had fallen over the water, and the sack had somehow hooked over a branch. It was dangling above the middle of the creek. The overseer must have decided it was too hard to reach.
Too hard for the overseer, maybe. But not impossible to get to, Jem thought. He was already pulling his jacket off.
Tommy watched him with worried eyes. ‘This place is no good for swimming,’ he said. ‘Got a spirit in there, she swallows people up.’
‘I don’t care. I won’t let the puppy drown,’ Jem said.
‘It’s winter,’ warned Alfie. ‘There’s too much water in the creek. I think we should make something to reach it, like a net or a hook.’
There was no time for that, Jem thought. The sack could fall. They had to act now. Alfie and Tommy weren’t wrong about the murky water twisting between the banks. But Jem refused to think about it. ‘I’m going in.’
‘But we haven’t got any rope to hold you,’ Alfie protested.
Jem pulled off his boots.
Alfie chewed his lip. He looked around, then dragged over a long branch. ‘Hold one end of this,’ he said, ‘and we’ll be anchor men on the other end.’
Jem waded into the creek. Slimy mud squelched between his toes. He felt the current tug his legs. He held fast to the branch with his right hand and fixed his eyes on the sack. He imagined the sugar-brown pup inside. How scared she must be.
Jem took a step forward. The water came up to his waist. He gasped at its iciness.
‘I’m coming, pup,’ he called. ‘You’re going to be just fine.’
He waded deeper. The creek swirled up to his armpits. He was nearly in the middle now.
He was also at the end of Alfie’s branch. He couldn’t quite touch the sack. The sack was not wriggling anymore, only twitching. Jem was worried about the pup.
‘Come closer,’ he told the other boys.
Alfie came down the creek bank, until he was knee-deep in water too. Tommy refused to get any nearer.
Jem reached out with his right arm. ‘Pup, pup.’
The puppy whimpered. Jem touched her round shape through the sack. She wriggled. The sack swayed. It’s about to fall, Jem thought. She’ll be washed away and drowned.
He let go of Alfie’s branch and jumped through the water, grabbing at the sack. It ripped. The puppy tipped out, squirming. She fell in the creek with a splash. Jem lunged for her. But she paddled away madly, with her nose just above water, pointing to the shore like an arrow.
The current pulled Jem downstream, away from Alfie’s branch. He couldn’t find the bottom with his feet and the freezing water squeezed his chest. He had cramp.
‘Help!’ he called.
He heard Alfie yell. ‘Jem!’
Water was getting up his nose. Jem struggled to breathe. The bank was too far away.
Then suddenly a branch was right there in front of him and he grabbed it. Jem felt himself pulled shorewards. He got his head up. He saw there was a young man in the water, hauling him in.
Jem’s knees sank into the mud. He let go of the branch and knelt there for a moment to get his breath.
S
everal feet downstream, the puppy wobbled out of the shallows. She shook herself, and sneezed. When she saw Jem, her tail wagged madly. She galloped along the edge and jumped into the shallow water again, landing with a splash in front of him.
‘You stupid mutt.’ Jem wrapped his arms around her. Her warmth felt good against his cold skin. She licked his face over and over. Now she really did stink, like only a wet dog could.
Alfie and Tommy appeared on the creek bank next to the young man who had rescued Jem. The man was dressed like a city gentleman: he wore a white shirt like the Captain’s, a smart necktie, white trousers and long leather boots.
‘Thanks,’ Jem said.
‘Glad to help,’ the man said, then he patted Alfie on the shoulder. ‘Well done, boys. What’s the pup’s name?’
‘How about Horatio?’ suggested Alfie, ‘after Admiral Nelson, cos he was a sea-dog too.’
The young man laughed.
‘It’s a she,’ said Jem. But it didn’t matter. Alfie’s suggestion fitted her. Horatio was a bold, battling name, good for a pup who was always getting into scrapes. Rescuing her felt like a victory.
Jem grinned at the other boys, although his lips were stiff with cold. ‘That makes us the troops then,’ said Jem. ‘Here’s to us.’
‘Huzzah!’ said Alfie.
‘Better you come out real quick, Jem,’ Tommy said.
‘I second that,’ said the young man. He reached out to give Jem a hand.
Jem saw the stranger’s forearm was tanned and muscled like a stockman’s. And he noticed the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband.
‘Sorry your boots got wet,’ Alfie said to him.
‘As long as my powder’s dry,’ said the young man. He patted his pistol.
Alfie held out his hand. ‘Alfred Goods, from Ross Vale,’ he said. ‘These are my mates Jem and Tommy.’
‘Pleasure,’ said the man. He shook all their hands, but didn’t offer his own name.
‘Are you going to visit Captain Ross?’ Alfie said politely.
‘Maybe not,’ said the man, smiling again. His grey eyes sparkled. ‘I’m not on very good terms with him.’
‘Neither are we,’ said Jem. ‘He kills dogs. He told his overseer to drown Horatio.’
‘Bad sport,’ the stranger agreed. He was less than twenty, Jem thought, young enough to be an older brother. He was quick to smile, and the way his straw hat tilted was stylish and adventurous.
‘So what are you going to do with Horatio?’ he asked. He ruffled her ears. She leaned into his hand, then fell over sideways.
Jem knew they couldn’t take her to the Station. She’d be straight back in trouble and so would they.
‘She can live with my mob,’ Tommy offered.
Alfie shook his head. ‘Mr Blain or the Captain might see her.’
Jem didn’t want to rescue her for nothing. ‘If we could get her to my dad. . .’
‘Better get you warm first, cobber,’ said the young man.
Jem put his jacket back on, and the man wrapped Jem in his red velvet coat as well. The lining was silky and it smelt like tobacco.
Alfie stared at the coat and then at Jem.
Jem’s teeth were chattering. He didn’t care what Alfie thought of him wearing the man’s coat. But for some reason Alfie was starting to look jumpy again.
Tommy was looking the stranger up and down. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘You gave my mob flour one time.’
The stranger frowned at him. ‘I don’t think so. I’m not from these parts.’
Tommy nodded. ‘Not these parts,’ he agreed. ‘Up near the lake. You work for that Governor fella.’
The young man didn’t answer. He bent down to pick up something Horatio was sniffing. It was a musket. A lot like the Captain’s. Alfie backed away.
Jem was looking at the back of the man’s hand. It had a small, blue sun tattooed on it. Jem’s heart missed a beat. He knew who the stranger was. He’d met him before – the day of the stickup.
Jem, Alfie and Tommy looked from the Captain’s red jacket, to the young man’s tattoo, to the Captain’s musket.
‘I’m not going to shoot you,’ William Westwood said. ‘If it can be helped.’
6
None of the boys knew if the musket was loaded. Alfie didn’t wait to find out. He whirled around and began sprinting back towards the Station buildings.
William Westwood sighed. ‘Boys,’ he said, ‘chase him down and bring him back, before I have to stop him. There’s good chums.’
Jem and Tommy ran after Alfie. Tommy got to him first. He tackled Alfie to the ground.
Jem caught up. ‘Alfie,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to come back. He won’t do you any harm, unless you try to squeal on him.’
‘He’s an outlaw,’ cried Alfie, trying to break free. ‘A robber! He’s dangerous!’
Jem sat on Alfie to keep him still. ‘He didn’t hurt me last time, did he?’ Jem argued. ‘He didn’t even shoot the Captain, worse luck.’
‘Jem!’ Alfie looked horrified.
‘You listen to Mr Jem,’ Tommy said soothingly. ‘That bushranger man’s not so bad. Better than Mr Blain. Not one of them “no tucker for you blacks” sort. He helped Jem from that water.’
Jem suspected that the tucker Westwood had given away was not his own. But he didn’t say it. He could see the bushranger with the musket half-cocked, standing by the creek.
‘Get up now, Alfie,’ he ordered.
Jem and Tommy walked Alfie back, each with an arm around his shoulders. Alfie stumbled along, shaking, barely able to drag his feet towards the bushranger.
The young man lowered the musket. ‘Seems to me,’ he said pleasantly, ‘that you owe me a good turn. I’ve saved a dog and a boy. Now it’s your chance to help me. All I want you lads to do,’ he continued, ‘is to keep your mouths shut and not blab.’ He bent down and scooped up Horatio. ‘Since the pup is so valuable you’d risk your lives for her, I’ll keep her in my custody for a while. No offence, but I can’t trust anybody. Is that a deal?’
‘Will you look after her?’ Jem asked.
‘Upon my life,’ promised the bushranger. Horatio licked at his face.
‘That your yarraman with the sore leg?’ Tommy asked.
‘How do you know about that?’ the bushranger asked sharply. ‘Did you find her?’
Jem wondered too. They hadn’t seen a horse.
‘Saw her tracks,’ said Tommy. ‘Up there in the bush.’ Tommy pointed to the hill where the fort was.
‘She only needs to rest another day or so,’ Westwood said. ‘She’ll soon be leaping like a bag of fleas again.’
So that’s how it was, Jem thought. A lame horse meant the bushranger couldn’t just ride off. He needed their help.
‘You better not hang about here,’ Jem said. ‘It’s too close to the homestead.’ The Ross Vale buildings were barely a mile away. He thought of Alfie’s fort. The idea of hiding a real bushranger there, almost under the Captain’s nose, was too good to pass up. ‘We know a perfect hideout,’ he told Westwood.
‘Jem!’ squeaked Alfie.
But Westwood had the guns and the puppy, so it was settled.
Alfie walked to the fort with his head hanging down, like he was on his way to an execution. But the bushranger became chatty. He told them that he hadn’t actually taken the Sydney Road after the hold up. That had been to throw pursuers off his trail.
Alfie whispered to Jem. ‘Do you think a murderer could be so cheerful?’
William Westwood had good hearing. ‘I never shot anybody,’ he said. ‘That’s God’s truth. But don’t tell ’em that, or it will be a lot harder for me to do business.’ He laughed. ‘Shall I tell you my story?’
‘Yes!’ Jem wanted to know how Westwood had become a bushranger and what he had done. He was beginning to think that bushranging could be wild and daring. It sounded much better than washing someone else’s fine dishes.
Westwood settled Horatio in the crook of his arm
. ‘I was born and bred in England,’ he began. ‘My father and mother were kind. . .’ he stopped, and looked away north, like he was thinking of them. Jem thought suddenly of his own dad. It hurt to think of him, working himself into the ground for the Captain’s profit.
‘They tried to give me a good education,’ the bushranger went on, ‘but I paid no attention to it.’
Jem was not one for education either. But Alfie looked grave.
‘When I was a couple of years older than you, barely fifteen, I was taken up for robbery. The judge gave me fourteen years transportation.’
‘You must have stolen a lot,’ Alfie said.
‘They caught me for a coat,’ said Westwood.
Alfie looked taken aback.
‘But it was the second time I’d faced the judge,’ the bushranger continued. ‘So I was sent to New South Wales, to old Governor King’s property near Bungendore.’
Tommy nodded. ‘Up by the lake.’
‘I know it too,’ Jem said. It wasn’t far from his dad’s hut.
‘Then you’ll know he’s a hard man, and his overseer is even worse.’
Jem hadn’t seen them, but he had no trouble imagining them as men like Captain Ross and Mr Blain.
Westwood continued. ‘He wouldn’t allow us enough food or new clothes. I was whipped, for little or nothing. I took to the bush, hoping to make my life better – I couldn’t make it worse. I was caught pretty soon by the mounted police. That was three years ago. I got fifty lashes that time.’
The three boys winced.
‘But,’ said Westwood, with a grin, ‘I escaped twice more. When I’d made enough on the roads, I went down to Sydney last summer and lived it up in a hotel.’ Westwood laughed. Then he made a face. ‘But one night, in the theatre, a cove from my convict ship recognised me. I left Sydney as fast as I could. And back to the countryside I came.’
‘Have you been ranging in the bush ever since?’ Jem asked.
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Westwood. ‘In April, I was taken again. I was found guilty too – for “being in the bush under arms”.’
Tommy shook his head, as if it was all a bit mad. But Alfie looked sad and serious every time the young bushranger mentioned capture and punishment.