I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales

by Lawrence Patchett

  How people loved a wedding, thought Harry. Even the sourest old miser would love this couple. For a minute they just made you forget everything.

  ‘Morning, Mr Ryrie,’ he said. ‘Ma’am. It all went well, I’d say. A happy time, I’d say.’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine,’ said Mr Ryrie.

  His wife smiled.

  ‘Well, congratulations to both of you,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll take them bags for you.’ He hoisted the luggage onto the coach while Mr Ryrie handed his wife inside. ‘Reckon you’re the happiest man on this coach, Mr Ryrie.’

  ‘Oh, call me Marcus,’ said Mr Ryrie. He was a bald and prosperous man, and he was beaming. He owned a Balclutha store.

  ‘Reckon I’ll stick with Mr Ryrie today,’ said Harry. ‘On account of your new situation—Mrs Ryrie, too. I’ll stick with those handles today.’ He shook Mr Ryrie’s hand a second time, giving the moment its appropriate ceremony. Then he said, ‘Well, all aboard, everyone,’ and he swung the doors shut and climbed up.

  A second man followed him up to the box-seat, then Mr Ryrie stepped up strongly. Reverend Keane clambered up to lie on the roof, having surrendered his seat inside to Mrs Ryrie.

  ‘Are you comfortable up there, Reverend?’ said Harry.

  Keane nodded, adjusting a blanket underneath him. He was a thin and abstemious man from Lawrence. His face and hat showed above the low rails that bordered the roof.

  ‘You hang on there, Reverend,’ said Harry.

  At first Keane didn’t respond, but Harry waited, and at last the Reverend said, ‘It’s an honour to give up my seat for a bride. I don’t mind at all.’

  At that, Harry clapped his hands. He had a full and ready coach now. He had passengers behind, beside, and above him. It was a good feeling. He sounded his cornet, then gave the leather a long and snaking crack over the greys, just for the show of it. The coach jolted forward and, in the shaking and clatter, Harry started up a yarn with Mr Ryrie. He knew him from a store visit of a few years ago, and he’d liked him then, and he admired him and his new wife now. They were brave and patient people—already almost forty, and only just married. That showed character. It showed fortitude, and Harry admired that in a passenger. Having brought them up from Balclutha, he was glad to see them married now. It gave him a straightforward surge of pride. They were underway now: first stop, the Taieri Ferry, then the Tokomairiro horse-change, and from there, the rest—the easiest stretch—of the South Road.

  It was all in order as they left the Taieri—the coach running along freely, the team alert under the reins. Beside Harry his box-seat passengers were drowsing in the jolting sleepiness of coaching, the fatigue and warmth and rhythm of the horses as they pulled and pulled spreading a lethargy through everyone.

  Then it all slammed to the right and down. The coach fell and began to roll, and Harry saw two things—Reverend Keane flying off the roof and to the side, and a fore-wheel spinning away. Then the coach was rolling over, capsizing. At his periphery, Harry saw Mr Ryrie as a dark vaulting shape, swinging down from the box-seat rail like a pinioned black bag. Then Harry was jerked off the coach by the reins, the kingbolt snapping free, the team skittering and falling and speeding on, leaving the coach behind.

  Harry thudded to the road and was dragged. Stones from the hooves flew at his eyes and chin.

  He let them go.

  Then he was prone on the road, his team ahead, the overturned coach behind him. He stood to run back towards his passengers. As he came close he could see a body on the road. It was Mr Ryrie. He was underneath the coach and pinned. The railing of the box seat was right across his chest. His head and neck were free of the box seat; the rest of his body disappeared under the coach at an angle.

  Already two men were lifting. Harry thundered in beside them. They heaved and were unsuccessful.

  ‘Again,’ said Harry. He strained and the coach came up, then someone was drawing Mr Ryrie out. Harry heard him moan.

  ‘Down,’ said Harry, to the other men. ‘Watch your toes.’

  Then he was kneeling beside Mr Ryrie. The businessman’s face twisted in a grimace. His chest was queerly caved.

  ‘Mr Ryrie?’ said Harry.

  The man’s eyes searched up. His breathing sounded terrible.

  Someone reached in a pannikin and Harry dabbed Mr Ryrie’s face with water. The bald head had a smudge of dirt on the crown; otherwise it was undamaged and perfect-seeming. That chest, though—it bowed in.

  ‘Mr Ryrie,’ said Harry. ‘Mr Ryrie. Keep breathing, sir.’ He elbowed away someone who was trying to lean in. ‘Keep breathing, sir. Keep going.’

  In the distance Harry heard someone leading the women away. It was Reverend Keane. Harry saw Mr Ryrie’s eyes roving up, tracing at those sounds. His neck was cradled on Harry’s hand, and Harry could feel the tension in it, the effort that was going into his breathing.

  ‘Hang on, Mr Ryrie,’ said Harry. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Mr Ryrie opened his eyes and searched up again. Through the sound of his own breathing, he must have heard something. But his eyes closed and opened again, and closed.

  Harry tightened his grip against the man’s neck. Inside him there was a skittering knowledge that Mr Ryrie was dying, but still he sent his voice on. ‘Almost there, sir,’ he said. ‘Bravely on. Almost there. Keep going.’

  Mr Ryrie gasped up in anguish another time; his eyes searched and closed.

  ‘Almost there, Mr Ryrie. Almost there. Bravely on,’ said Harry. It was something he’d call forward to a fading team. ‘Nearly there, sir. Bravely on. Nearly there. Ah Christ, he’s died.’

  Mr Ryrie’s face went smooth. His neck sagged against Harry’s hand.

  ‘Ah Jesus,’ said Harry. ‘Where’s that Reverend?’

  He turned to look. Above and behind him, a hoop of men was surrounding and looking down.

  ‘Where’s the Reverend?’ said Harry.

  ‘He’s with the womenfolk, Harry,’ said someone.

  ‘Go and get him.’

  Harry returned his attention to Mr Ryrie. The businessman was deeply gone. His eyes were open but his dead face was calm. Harry laid the bald head gently on the road. There was a jagged stone underneath—Harry lifted Mr Ryrie’s head again, smoothed the road, then removed his own hat and flattened it and laid it under. He looked for Reverend Keane. He saw that lean religious man coming down. He was bringing the bride with him. The other women were along the slope, standing beyond and watching. Mrs Ryrie came closer. She had Keane by the hand. Her face was pale.

  ‘Can I see him, please, Harry,’ she said.

  Harry was still on his knees. He moved back a short way. As she leaned down, Harry felt her hand rest on his shoulder. Then she collapsed in. Her hands went to her husband’s face.

  Harry stood up and moved back. He left her with Keane.

  ‘I’ll get my team,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to the horses.’

  He stepped along the slope. He heard Mrs Ryrie start to cry. He heard her voice climb into a terrible sound. He picked up speed towards his horses to get away from it. It was a rending noise—and as Harry came towards his team he saw his rearmost gelding had fallen. The horse was lying in a sickening shape on the road, the harness twisted half-away and tangled.

  Harry ran towards it.

  Already he could see from the unnatural lie of the beast that its back was broken. He knelt beside it, and loosened, then eased away the bridle and bit. A great shuddering was in the horse, his whole hide quivering. The dust beside his nostrils snorted and sprayed.

  ‘Ah Jesus,’ said Harry. ‘Ah Christ.’

  He knelt beside the dying horse helplessly. He had no rifle to destroy it. He had nothing.

  He looked back up the slope towards the coach. Mrs Ryrie was still beside her husband. She was sorrowing over him. She was a brave woman—Harry had seen that from the first—but now that awful sound came from her. She howled. She still had Keane by the hand. The Reverend was stooping beside her. Harry could not tear hi
s eyes from the three of them—the Reverend standing in a crescent shape, Mrs Ryrie sorrowing over her husband. She was in so much pain. Harry could see it all coming out of her—her marriage and honeymoon, her courtship, her hope and courage, her voyaging from Scotland. Her single sunny day of honeymoon—all of it was being torn out and crushed on the road.

  Harry worked methodically then. He checked no other passengers were hurt. He covered Mr Ryrie entirely with blankets. He told the men that soon they would have to walk back to Taieri. He would remain with the coach until a dray could be brought to retrieve Mr Ryrie. He asked them to see to their women, and he checked that Mrs Ryrie had a female companion to comfort her. He asked Reverend Keane to walk on to Tokomairiro to send telegrams.

  He went to his team and unharnessed them, hitching them to the far side of the coach. Kneeling over the broken gelding, he made him as comfortable as he could, spoke to him, longed for a rifle to dispatch him. He cleared the dust from around his eyes and nose, then left him.

  As he came back to the coach the passengers were murmuring quietly, discussing what luggage they could carry. Harry walked through and around them. Coming to the coach, he examined the axle which had shucked its nut and wheel. The axle showed only a little damage where it had crashed to the road and dragged. Otherwise there was no flaw to point to. Deep grooves spiralled down the axle, the same as every axle on every Cobb & Co.

  He walked up behind the coach in search of the wheel. It was lying brazenly in the centre of the road, its spokes showing up ruddily. He lifted and wheeled it hand-over-hand towards the coach, the rim of the wheel making normal sounds on the stones.

  As Harry neared the standing passengers, one of the single men leapt up to help him. Together they leaned the wheel against the coach.

  ‘Can I help with anything else?’ said the man.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Harry. ‘Are the passengers all comfortable? Are they ready?’

  ‘Yes, Harry.’

  ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ said Harry.

  He walked again up the slope behind the coach. He was searching for the axle-nut that should have held the wheel on the coach. He found it in the scrappy area by the side of the road. It was not damaged. It was squat and shiny in the sun. He took this thing in his hand and gauged the distance to the coach. It was about one hundred yards. He had everything now—the wheel, the axle-nut, the harnessing—yet no clue as to what had caused the accident. There was no reason why the nut and wheel should have come off, why the coach should have crashed.

  He ripped a length of his shirt-sleeve and wrapped the axle-nut inside it, then placed it in his waistcoat pocket.

  He went to the men.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he said.

  They were.

  He turned then and found Mrs Ryrie and her companion. She was a long way from the body of her husband now, and as Harry came towards her she stood from the luggage she’d been sitting on. She was no longer crying.

  Facing her, Harry felt very grave. He tried to meet her eye. ‘Mrs Ryrie, do you think you could walk down with the other passengers? They will walk to the settlement. I will remain with your husband. I will make sure he is all right until we can bring him on.’ It was difficult to speak—he tried to clear his throat. ‘Do you want to walk on with the passengers or would you rather stay here? One of the ladies,’ he gestured at her companion, ‘could stay here with you, if that is what you choose.’

  Something involuntary feathered over Mrs Ryrie’s face, then she was calm again. ‘I’ll walk on now, Harry,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mrs Ryrie, I cannot explain this accident,’ said Harry. ‘There is no reason for it. I am dreadfully sorry. You know I thought your husband a very good man. It is a very bad accident.’

  Mrs Ryrie reached a hand to his arm. For Harry the contact was horrible.

  ‘Thank you, Harry,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve done all that you can.’

  Harry coughed and tried to speak again, but his voice was broken. He stood sickly before her a moment more, then turned away. He walked back to her dead husband and the coach and the team. He told his passengers they could walk on now. He watched them as they lifted their luggage and went down the road, the Ryries’ boxes shared amongst the men.

  He waited until they were out of earshot, then he went up the slope behind the coach and lifted a great stone from the side of the road. This he cradled back down beyond the coach to the broken gelding. Holding the stone in both hands he crouched above the horse. It was still shivering, foam coming from its mouth and nostrils. Its distressed eye flickered up at Harry as he hovered above.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Harry.

  Then at a precise point near the gelding’s ear he brought the rock down once then twice, three times, four times. On the fourth blow he felt the rock crush through the skull, and the horse ceased its shuddering. He rolled the rock away and knelt again beside the horse. He smoothed its head first, then pushed both eyes closed. Then he removed all harnessing and dust from the gelding, smoothing its whole body with his hand. As he passed over the great rounded areas of skin he felt the warmth dissipating. When the whole horse was as clean as he could make it, Harry removed his own waistcoat and laid it over the horse’s shoulder and mane. The laid-out garment made a pitiful shape, so he went to the coach and returned with two blankets and laid those over the gelding, retrieving his own waistcoat and buttoning it slowly.

  Then he left the horse and returned to Mr Ryrie, who was covered right over. He sat beside the still body and waited for the dray to come. It was mid-afternoon and he was still five miles and more from Tokomairiro. He’d not brought the Ryries much more than a mile beyond the place of their wedding.

  As he sat, he glanced occasionally at the coach that had betrayed him. He watched over his surviving team as well, once getting up to water them with liquid he poured into his own flattened hat and held under each horse’s nose. At one point he remembered his tobacco and fished it out and tried to roll and smoke a cigarette but, at the first taste, spat it out and threw it away. For the rest of the time he sat beside Mr Ryrie and stared at the road.

  II

  Harry was back at Taieri. It was the next day. He’d been returned there for the inquest; it was in the Taieri Hotel, in a backroom that smelled of pub. Harry sat in the middle area, the other witnesses equidistant from him. Reverend Keane was there too, and at the front were the coroner and a policeman; along the side was a jury.

  The policeman stood and called the room to order. He explained how it would go. He hoped they would not be detained too long. He called Mr Ryrie’s brother.

  This gentleman stood at the desk and confirmed the identity of the deceased, his locality, his profession, his age. He was younger than Mr Ryrie had been—he had more hair—yet the steady certainty of his voice had something of his brother in it, and Harry felt a return of the sick constricting of his throat that he’d felt since the accident. He squeezed his palms tight together and focused on the floor, avoiding what he could see of the brother—his back and shoulders, the collar starching into his neck-hair.

  Even though they weren’t watching or listening to Harry, instead craning towards Mr Ryrie’s brother and the sergeant, Harry felt the presence of the jury at the side of the room as the evidence was given. He felt their attention. Of all the people Harry did not want to face in that room, those members of the jury were the worst. They were all ordinary men, all local, all watching and listening obediently.

  In a short while he was called and he walked to the front and stood before everyone. He listened as the policeman gave him instructions. His fingers fumbled as he reached into his chest pocket, brought his statement forward and unfolded it loudly.

  ‘I am Harry Nettleford,’ he said, then paused.

  Silently the court waited for him as he cleared his throat and began again. ‘I am a coach driver. I drive the Cobb & Co between Balclutha and Dunedin. I drove that coach yesterday. Before I set out from Otokia I looked ove
r the coach and found everything was in order. There was no problem with the wheels or the axles. I checked them—no one had looked over the coach but the groom and me. The stableman—it was just the stableman and me. We did not oil the axles. There was nothing strange—nothing—’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’

  Harry glanced at the policeman.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing strange.’ He returned his attention to his statement, his eyes swimming over it. He found the right place. ‘Mr Ryrie was on the far box-seat corner. Another man was in between. I can’t remember his name. We had got along about a mile and three-quarters when the crash came.’

  As Harry read through his handwritten sentences, he felt the attention of every single person in the room. He was the only person making any sort of noise. He could feel especially the presence of the jurors in their double row at his right-hand side. He felt them pressing towards him. He inched his finger along the page.

  ‘I went looking for the axle-nut and found it down the side of the road. It was behind where the accident happened. It was about one hundred yards back. Here is the nut. You can check it. You can see it was not faulty at all. There is no way it could have caused the accident.’ Harry drew the axle-nut from his waistcoat pocket and the fresh tissue he’d wrapped it in. He went to hand it to the policeman, but a sharp look passed from the coroner to the sergeant. It seemed Harry had broken some protocol.

  ‘The court will examine it after the evidence,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Please take it from me,’ said Harry. ‘Please.’

  The policeman glanced at the coroner, who studied Harry’s face, then nodded. The policeman came and scooped it from Harry’s hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harry. ‘Will you show it to the jury?’

  ‘We will, Harry.’

  Harry shot a look at the jurors. They looked attentive but inexpert. A couple looked like farmhands but some were indoor men—one had a clerkly look, another was very young. They would not know what they were inspecting. ‘The nut is a left-hand screw,’ he said. ‘That means it tightens as the wheel turns round. The thread of the screw is very deep. On Cobb & Co coaches it is deeper than on all other machinery that I know of. You will see that it’s not damaged at all. The axle was perfect too—except it was damaged from where it fell on the road.’