Do You Dare? The Last Horse Race

by James Moloney

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  An Early Image of Brisbane

  James Moloney’s Adventures in History

  What Life was Like in Toby’s Time . . .

  Amazing Feats and Big Events from 1844

  ‘I’m watching you, Toby Thompson,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I know you’re a thief.’

  ‘Maybe I am, but you’ll never catch me,’ said Toby, laughing. He hadn’t stolen anything for weeks – not from the general store, anyway. When he did, he made sure there were lots of customers. Today, though, there was no one but Toby and his friend Robert.

  ‘Does that other lad have a penny in his pocket?’ asked the shopkeeper.

  Robert was better dressed than Toby. He was wearing shoes for a start, and shoes meant money. Toby’s feet were bare.

  ‘Come on, there’s nothing for us here,’ he said, leading Robert into the street outside. It wasn’t really a proper street, not like the hard-packed roads Toby had seen in Sydney town. This was a dirt track that turned into sticky mud whenever it rained.

  At least the sun’s out, thought Toby. It usually was in Moreton Bay, making the place hellish-hot in the summer, according to his mother who complained a lot about the heat. Toby didn’t mind so much. This was his home now, where he felt safe at last, even if drunks sometimes fought outside the hotel in broad daylight.

  He turned to find Robert staring up the street and ducking his head so deep between his shoulders it almost disappeared.

  ‘Stop worrying. The teacher won’t come looking for you.’

  ‘What if he tells my father I didn’t come back after lunch?’ said Robert.

  The skin of Robert’s forehead rolled into deep furrows when he was worried, Toby had noticed, as though his friend were halfway to being an old man.

  ‘Mr Wallace doesn’t know morning from midnight.’

  Toby was guessing. He had never set foot inside the house where Mr Wallace and his wife taught all the children whose parents could pay the fee.

  Instead of learning to read and write, he got to climb trees like a monkey and muck about on the riverbank. Around his face flopped a mess of hair that might have been brown and might have been black. It was difficult to tell because Toby didn’t wash very often. If it weren’t for his mother, he wouldn’t wash at all.

  Beside him, Robert Poole was about the same height, even though he was a year younger. Robert’s father had brought his family to Moreton Bay a year after the convicts were taken away. He had expected the settlement to grow quickly into a prosperous town. Things hadn’t exactly turned out that way, but the Poole family always had plenty to eat. For that matter, so did the Thompsons, now that Toby’s mother was a servant for Dr Ballow.

  Toby hadn’t told Robert about the hungry years before they’d arrived in Moreton Bay. He’d always kept quiet about where he’d come from and in the few weeks since they’d become friends Robert hadn’t asked.

  The two boys crossed the street and slipped, unnoticed, into the narrow gap between the butcher’s shop and Bow’s Hotel. While Robert waited cautiously in the shadows, Toby inspected the door of the ale room.

  ‘We have to get closer,’ said Toby, already on the move, with Robert reluctantly at his heels.

  ‘We’re not allowed in there,’ hissed Robert. ‘My father would skin me alive!’

  ‘Shush!’ said Toby. ‘Listen.’

  At a table close to the door, some men were chatting in friendly disagreement. Toby strained his ears to listen.

  ‘Good, they’re talking about horses,’ he said.

  ‘What’s so good about horses?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Everything’s good about horses,’ said Toby, turning back to face him. ‘Their speed when they gallop, all those muscles under their skin, the clever look in their eyes – everything. I wish I had one of my own like the men in there, but for now, I’m just glad they’re arguing about horses.’

  Robert was still bamboozled. ‘Why’s it good they’re arguing?’

  ‘Because there’s only one way to settle an argument about horses,’ Toby answered.

  He poked his head through the open doorway and smiled when he saw a familiar face listening calmly while the other two men spoke. Most of the talking came from a man with ginger hair.

  ‘My horse takes a fence like she has wings,’ he boasted loudly. ‘Half-thoroughbred, I bet you she’d beat any horse in the district.’

  ‘That’s a brave call. There’s many a fine racer up there on the Downs,’ said the second cove. ‘When the squatters bring their stock in you’ll be hard pressed to stand by that claim.’

  ‘I stand by it now, though,’ said the owner of the half-thoroughbred. ‘Who’ll take me on?’

  He had called his challenge to the whole bar, but silence greeted him. The man who spoke of the squatters didn’t seem keen to accept. Toby’s eyes were on the man he knew – a lean fellow in moleskin trousers and long boots. Stan was Toby’s business partner, although their business worked best if no one else knew they were partners.

  Stan hadn’t said a word yet. He waited a while, as though he wasn’t certain. Finally he said, ‘I’ll take you on, for a pound.’

  ‘Let’s make it two pounds,’ said the cocky redhead.

  Stan stood. ‘No time like the present, then,’ he said, heading for the door.

  Toby quickly backed out of the doorway to stand with Robert as the competitors stepped into the sunshine, squinting at the brightness.

  ‘I’m still not used to the sunlight in this country,’ said Stan.

  ‘Better than Scotland,’ said the redhead, emerging through the doorway behind him. ‘Nothing but freezing rain where I come from.’

  ‘England’s just as bad,’ said the third man from their table who’d followed them outside to watch the race. ‘And Ireland’s worse.’

  The three men began to laugh, making Toby wonder why the weather was worth talking about. His mother was English, but she barely mentioned the place. If she spoke of her early life in England then she also had to remember she’d come to New South Wales on a convict ship.

  ‘Where are you keeping your horse?’ Stan asked the Scotsman. There were no stables in Moreton Bay. If there had been, Toby would have spent his days there, amid the smell of leather and straw.

  ‘In the butcher’s paddock,’ answered the Scotsman. ‘My saddle’s with Mr Petrie who’s letting me sleep on his porch.’

  ‘Don’t be too long. Mine is right here,’ said Stan, pointing at a gelding tied to a post.

  Toby knew the horse well. His name was Trojan and if Toby were allowed to choose a horse for himself, Trojan would be the one. His coat felt like silk when Toby ran his hand over it, yet when Trojan turned to see who was stroking him, the horse seemed to say, Are you man enough to ride me? Toby half expected the animal to speak. He longed to sit on Trojan’s broad back and gallop through the streets and across the fields.

  For now, Toby had a job to do and this was the moment he’d been waiting for. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said respectfully to the Scotsman. ‘Can I be any help? I’m good with horses.’

  ‘Well, then, maybe you can. My horse is behind that building,’ he said, waving an arm towards the barracks which had housed a hundred convicts not so long ago. ‘She’s a black mare with a dash of white on her nose. Where’s this race to start?’ he asked Stan.

  ‘At the female factory.’

&
nbsp; Only old hands called it that. These days it was the gaol where drunks were taken to sleep off too much rum.

  ‘I have to get my saddle. Bring my horse and meet me at the starting line,’ the man said to Toby. ‘And here’s a penny for your trouble.’

  As Toby took the coin he glanced towards his partner. Stan winked at him to show they were in business. Toby had to suck in his cheeks to keep a grin from his face as he walked away.

  Robert hurried after him until the two fell into stride.

  ‘Why did that man wink at you?’ he asked.

  Toby slapped a hand over Robert’s mouth. ‘Keep your voice down!’

  When they’d turned down a lane beside the general store, he halted. ‘Listen, you might be smart from all your school learning, but you don’t know a cuss about shaking money loose from a fool like that Scotsman.’

  Robert looked crestfallen and straight away Toby regretted being so hard on him. He wasn’t normally so dim. There weren’t many boys Toby’s age in the township. Of only eight hundred residents, many were men without wives or family. The few boys who did live close by had all been banned from making friends with Toby because their parents knew his mother had stolen a gentleman’s purse back in England and come to New South Wales in chains. Robert wasn’t supposed to be seen with him, either, but, unlike the others, he’d found enough gumption to defy his snooty mother.

  ‘Come on,’ said Toby. ‘You can help.’

  He led Robert across a rickety bridge over the stream and into the butcher’s paddock where a black horse was tethered.

  ‘Untie the knot, Bob,’ Toby said.

  Toby already had hold of the rope and was making his way cautiously towards the mare, speaking softly. ‘You’re in for some fun,’ he told her. ‘A race down to the commissioner’s gardens and back.’

  She was a fine mare with the strong hind quarters needed for racing. Toby was learning to judge a good horse from a poor one and this mare was certainly a match for Trojan. He hoped the Scotsman wouldn’t beat her for losing. He patted her foreleg just below the shoulder, while, at the same time, making sure she didn’t stand on his bare toes. He’d made that mistake once and the pain was enough to make him wary ever since.

  The mare was content to let the boys lead her. When they reached the stream, though, Toby didn’t guide her across the bridge straight away. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked. The horse was already lowering its head.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Earning some more pennies,’ Toby replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Toby looked around. Mostly he saw the backs of the buildings that opened onto the main street. Up the slope there was a boarding house for visitors but no one was watching from the doorway. There wasn’t a soul in sight, so Toby didn’t bother to hide his grin.

  ‘No horse runs very fast with a belly full of water,’ he said.

  Immediately the lines formed across Robert’s forehead. ‘You’re nobbling the Scotsman’s horse! That’s cheating.’

  ‘So drag me off to the constable. You don’t have to think like a lawyer just because your father’s one,’ said Toby as he led the horse away from the stream. Robert followed, one minute gasping at how wrong it was and then laughing that he was now part of the trick.

  ‘Stan’s horse is a beauty,’ Toby told him. ‘Trojan would probably win anyway, but Stan doesn’t leave anything to chance if he can help it and that’s where I come in. And you too, if you’re up for it.’

  Robert thought about this for a moment. ‘If I help, how much will I get?’

  ‘Now you’re talking like a colonial! Whatever I get, I’ll give you one third.’

  ‘It’ll be the first money I’ve ever earned,’ said Robert, looking pleased.

  ‘Well, we haven’t earned it yet. Let’s get this horse to the starting line.’

  A few spectators had followed from the hotel, collecting others as they passed the general store and the bakery. They stood talking and joking with one another beside the gaol wall as Toby and Robert arrived with the horse.

  ‘Here she is, sir,’ called Toby when he delivered the black mare. ‘And by gosh what a beauty she is, too. I might bet the penny you gave me on the both of you to win.’

  ‘A penny,’ the redhead scoffed, but he swelled a little with pride at what Toby had said about his horse as he strapped the saddle into place.

  Someone called a warning to the riders. ‘You’d better be quick, before the constable spoils the fun.’

  Stan was already in the saddle, his impressive boots tight against Trojan’s flanks. The horse threw his head back as though he knew what was coming – there had been many impromptu races like this. Except when drunks fought in the street there wasn’t much action to be had in Moreton Bay, not like faraway Sydney Town where they had a circus and a theatre and a snake charmer from India, according to Toby’s mother. He had spent a day in Sydney himself, once, and seen none of those things. All he remembered was how frightened they’d been of getting caught.

  Now Toby had discovered the excitement of horses – watching them, looking after them, even riding them in his dreams. Perhaps, one day, he would own a horse like Trojan and carry his mother to some place faraway where her past as a thief and a prisoner could not follow.

  ‘Lad,’ Stan called, ‘run ahead and make sure no one’s on the course.’

  The course? It was just a rough track they used for racing, thought Toby, but he went off cheerfully, calling Robert to join him. The route ran from the wall of the gaol towards the soldier’s quarters at the top of the hill – a distance of about half a mile. This meant skirting behind the blacksmith’s workshop and the hotel where the lazier drinkers had come out through the back door to see the horses pass. Along the way, the horses would jump a fence and splash through a channel that drained water into the river.

  The boys crossed these obstacles themselves, shouting that a race was about to start. There was no one to hear them except a handful of chickens and a pig that sniffed about for anything it could find.

  Before long Toby could feel the thunder of hooves through the soles of his feet. ‘They’re coming,’ he cried.

  The boys turned to watch the horses and saw that Stan was already fifty yards ahead. When the second horse reached them, its red-headed rider was swearing curses fit to shame the devil. He kicked at the horse’s flanks, and shook the reins.

  ‘Poor man. I feel sorry for him,’ said Robert.

  ‘He’s a braggart,’ Toby replied. ‘It’s his horse you should feel sorry for.’

  That was how Toby saw it, anyway, and Stan needed the money because his farm wasn’t making enough to feed his wife and little daughter.

  ‘Come on, back to the start,’ he called.

  As they ran, they caught glimpses of the riders through the trees and between the few houses and the Catholic church. The Scotsman and his mare hadn’t made up any ground. By the time the boys reached the gaol, the winner was being helped down from his horse to the applause of the crowd.

  No one helped the loser. ‘I don’t understand it,’ Toby heard him moan under his breath. ‘She’s faster than that on every other day of the week.’

  He paid over the stake money and took his horse back to the butcher’s paddock. Only when he was gone did Toby dare speak to the victor. ‘A good win,’ he said. ‘Must have been worth your while.’

  ‘With some help from you, Toby,’ Stan whispered. As Robert stood open-mouthed, he took six pennies from his pocket and dropped them into Toby’s palm.

  ‘I’d give these back to you if you’d let me ride your horse, just to the bridge and back,’ said Toby.

  ‘I know you would, lad, and my answer is the same as always. Trojan is not for beginners.’ He hoisted himself into the saddle again and rode back towards the hotel.

  Toby watched them go, horse and rider together like a single animal. Then he turned to Robert and said, ‘I’m going to ride in a race like that one day. And I’m g
oing to win, too.’

  Toby was chopping wood. He chopped wood almost every day and he didn’t mind the sweat on his brow or the ache in his muscles. At least it was proper work for a man, not like the other chores he had to do.

  ‘Add some of that wood to the fire,’ called his mother.

  They were working in the open beside Dr Ballow’s cook-house where Mrs Thompson spent most of each day. Earlier, she had set up the large vat she called a ‘copper’ over the flames. Now Toby slipped three more thick pieces of wood on top of the coals to heat the water he’d hauled from the stream. This was another job he didn’t mind. It was what went into the hot water he didn’t like.

  ‘Help me soap these sheets,’ said his mother. ‘Come on, Toby,’ she called again, stopping her work until he’d joined her at the bench.

  ‘Scrubbing clothes is women’s work,’ he said.

  ‘It’s the work that keeps a roof over our heads,’ his mother replied. ‘Now pick up that piece of soap.’

  With reluctance, he obeyed. Toby would be taller than his mother before long, but for now she stood a few inches above him. She was slim, although not skinny like she had been when they’d first come to Moreton Bay. What Toby liked best about his mother was her long brown hair that fell almost to her waist. It was thick and shiny in the sunlight, especially when she wore it loose. Today, she had plaited it tightly into a single rope so that it didn’t get in the way.

  Toby had heard men around the hotel say his mother was pretty. The same men sometimes wondered where her husband was, as though they would like to marry her themselves. So when they asked Toby, he repeated what she’d told him to say – his father had abandoned them a long time ago and they didn’t know when he was coming back.

  In reality, his father had been an officer on the prison ship that brought his mother to New South Wales. That was all he knew and he’d never asked his mother for any more information. As far as he could see, boys with fathers simply had an extra person to boss them round.

  After a minute’s silent scrubbing, his mother said, ‘Mrs Poole spoke to Dr Ballow at the druggist’s yesterday. She says you are a bad influence on her son Robert.’