The flag fell and Rosie felt Oakwood’s muscles bunch beneath him as he sprang forward. The rest of the horses jumped with him, their hooves ripping up the turf in a galloping frenzy. And there was Rosie, dust in her face, the roar of the crowd in her ears, and half a tonne of horseflesh thundering along beneath her. Jim belted up beside her and gave her a cheeky grin, before hissing his horse on faster.
Rosie laughed as adrenaline coursed through her. She clutched the reins, damp with sweat, and leant over Oakwood’s neck so that his long mane flew in her face.
‘Come on, Oaky,’ she whispered in his ears and she felt him surge forward. The rush and bustle of the galloping horses around her fell away. Soon Oakwood was on his own out in front, his ears flattened back, his muscles straining, trying his hardest to catch Jim’s mare. Sweat trickled into Rosie’s eyes. Wind rushed past her. She savoured the thrill of being as one with the magnificent creature beneath her. Oakwood increased his stride and soon they were level with Jim. Then they were past him. As Rosie galloped into the straight, the crowd rushed to the rail, cheering her on. Derek dived onto the track, his little tail held high, yapping at Oakwood. She could hear Duncan’s excited commentary echoing around the track. He was shouting her name.
‘It’s Rosie Jones! Rosie Jones! Rosie Jones on Oakwood! She’s just won the Stockmen’s Challenge!’
Oakwood crossed the line in front by a good three lengths and Rosie felt joy flooding through her.
‘Good boy! Amazing, wonderful boy!’ She stroked Oakwood’s sweating neck and shifted her weight back in the saddle so he began to slow his stride. The sound of the crowd and Duncan’s commentary faded away as Oakwood, breathing hard, cantered on to the far side of the track. Exhilarated, Rosie knew she was, at last, exactly where she belonged. Happiness spread through her whole being.
She rode on at a steady pace, talking to Oakwood gently and cooling him down. As she turned to ride back in search of Jim, she caught sight of the Glenelg River, sliding lazily beneath the shade of the majestic river red gums. And then, through the trees, she saw a young man and his horse standing in the long green grass of the river bank. A black and tan dog sat leaning against the man’s leg. The man followed the dog’s gaze, looked at Rosie, and tipped his hat. Then he stepped up lightly into the saddle and turned his horse towards the shining river, his dog following close behind.
Rosie watched them go, and kept on watching, until Jack Gleeson and Kelpie had disappeared from sight.
Notes for The Stockmen
While The Stockmen is based on the actual life of Jack Gleeson, I’m a fiction writer, not an historian. I have hung my imaginings on the factual hooks provided by wonderful historians such as Barbara Cooper, Robert Webster and A.D. (Tony) Parsons – my gratitude to these clever people runs deep – but my imagination also took me to places beyond those that can be found in the historical record.
I’ve tried to remain true to the events that led to the birth of the kelpie breed, and to do justice to the memory of John Denis Gleeson, better known as Jack. I hope his family will see this book as a celebration of Jack’s contribution to Australian culture and legend, and as a recognition of Jack’s part in giving us that magic creature, the Australian working kelpie dog.
Age (Melbourne), 17 October 1854
Australian Wool Corporation, National Merino Review, Ross Dunkley & Barry Millett Publishers, 1989
Barbara M. Cooper, Founders of the Working Kelpie Sheepdog, Working Kelpie Council website, 1998
Raimond Gaita, The Philosopher’s Dog, The Text Publishing Company, 2002
Jack Gorman, Tales of Casterton – The Waines Murder and other Stories, Osborn Mannett Printers
Katrina Hedditch, Land and Power –A Settlement History of the Glenelg Shire to 1890, National Library of Australia Cataloguing in Publication Data, 1996
Frank Jackson, The Mammoth Book of Dogs – A Collection of Stories, Verse and Prose, Carroll & Graf Publishers Inc, 1997
Frank H. Johnston, Cattle Country, FH Johnston Publishing Co. Pty. Ltd, 1960
Graeme Lawrence, Souvenir History of the Casterton Racing Club, Casterton Racing Club, 1982
H.A. McCorkell & Peter Yule, A Green and Pleasant Land – A History of Koroit, Collett, Bain & Gaspars, 1999
Allan M. Nixon, More Beaut Utes, Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 2000
Allan M. Nixon, Beaut Utes 3, Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 2001
Allan M. Nixon, Beaut Utes 4, Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 2002 Noonbarra Kelpie Stud web site
A.D. (Tony) Parsons, Training the Working Kelpie, Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1990
Tony Parsons, The Australian Kelpie – The Essential Guide to the Australian Working Kelpie, Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1986,1992
Shire of Glenelg Bi-Centennial Committee, Echoes of the Past, 1968
Shire of Glenelg Centenary, 1863–1963
Jean Uhl, Still Stands the Schoolhouse by the Road, FRP Printing, 1987
Rob Webster, Bygoo and Beyond, Canberra Times Print, 1985
Rob Webster, The Dog That Nearly Never Was – Ardlethan, Home of the Kelpie, JA Bradley & Sons, Temora, NSW
Acknowledgements
This book wouldn’t be here without Ian O’Connell’s enthusiasm and love for Casterton and the kelpie. It was Ian who convinced John and me to sell a kelpie at the Casterton auction in 2002. It was Ian who plied us with red wine and put Peter Dowsley’s hauntingly beautiful poem, Kelpie, in front of me and said, ‘Wouldn’t this yarn about Jack Gleeson make a great movie or book?’ So thank you to Ian … persistent, larger-than-life, infectious, wonderful Ian! Heartfelt thanks also to Ian’s family, especially Kay who now experiences annual Tasmanian invasions during the Kelpie Muster weekend.
Accolades to the incredible Deb Howcroft, who originally dug out the history of Gleeson and inspired a whole township to build a monument and celebrate the story. My thanks to the people of Casterton, including the Glenelg Shire Council, the Casterton Library and the Tourist Information Centre, and especially to Jim Kent of the Casterton Historical Society. Thanks to Joey Smith for riding past on that green-broke thoroughbred when you did, triggering a creative rush for me. To David Levy and the organisers of the Kelpie Muster and Auction, you are an amazing bunch of volunteers who move mountains every year to put on a dazzling festival, and I hope this book entices visitors to your magical town on the Queen’s Birthday long weekend in June. (The Meals on Wheels ladies are lovely, not like the ones portrayed in this book!) Thank you to the station owners who welcomed me as I retraced Gleeson’s path, including the Larkins family on Warrock, the Murphy family on Dunrobin, the Walker family on Bolero and Peter Darmody near Beckom. Thanks to my friends Marg and Barry Price of Moora Kelpies for taking me to Jack Gleeson’s grave. Thanks to the descendants of Jack Gleeson, Geoff, Pat and Peter Gleeson and Anne English, for giving this fictional account of his life your blessing. I hope it’s done him proud.
My lifelong gratitude goes to the modern-day stockman who inspired me, Paul Macphail of Working Dog Education. You gave me such a precious gift when you taught me to train and work dogs nearly a decade ago. Thank you, Paul, for your continued generosity and friendship. And to my classic kelpie friend and superb stockman, Mathew Johnson, you and Margie are a big part of why John and I love being involved in the kelpie breed so much.
To Barbara Cooper of the Working Kelpie Council, thanks for your years of dedication in recording details of the breed. And to the fount of knowledge on kelpies, Tony Parsons. Your books began my journey both in writing fiction and in training dogs.
Gratitude to the very busy Tania Kernaghan who read an early draft and allowed me to use her song lyrics, and got my toes tapping as I typed when playing her brilliant CD, Big Sky Country.
At Penguin, as ever, your support, sincerity and integrity have been unfailing. Love and thanks to Clare Forster who helped me on this very difficult journey of juggling a new baby with a new book. Accolades to the gifted John Canty and his design skills, and a m
assive thanks to the whole big Penguin team. Special, special thanks to my gorgeous editor Belinda Byrne who nurtured this book from its very shaky beginnings and nurtured me along with it. For my agent Margaret Connolly, you have been my safety net and my friend. I thank you for always being there for me.
Thanks to the people who froze in Tassie in the sleet on the ‘blustery cover shoot’. Thanks to Bill Bachman, Amy McKenzie, Alasdair Crooke, Joe Holmes and my John and our gorgeous animals, including Greg Cowen’s pups. Thanks also to Rachel Parsons, our cover rider.
On the home front, without my Levendale legend Maureen Williams, who cared for my baby while I wrote, The Stockmen would never have been finished. Maureen, you were sent by an angel! Thank you! To my dear dotty dog woman, Kathy Mace, thanks for the river swimming hole and six pack therapy when it all got too much, and thanks for being as kelpie-crazy as me. Thanks to my darling Heidi and James for their love, kindness and fish. Thanks to Mum for feeding us when I was too tired to cook and to Dad for getting wood for me. To my brother Miles and Kristy, thanks for always being there for me and for Dr Kristy’s insight into Jack Gleeson’s illness. Thanks to my almost-lost girlfriend Pip for nearly drowning in a river after trying to rescue sheep. Your scary adventures inspired me to throw my characters in the river too. Thanks to Steph Brouder, my real-life, inspiring chicky-babe stockman; my Levendale Lighthorse comrades, Luella and Prue; and my dear two buddies, Mev and Sarah. To the Malahide crew, John and Sandy Hawkins and Cat and Ian, thanks for minding our little miss and for all your love and support. To Doug and Mary, Rob and Sharon and the whole Victorian gang – thanks for flying down to cheer me up when it all got too much.
Many many thanks to Andrew, Amanda and Christine Dean for being my pub characters … now Andrew has to read his first book ever – that was the deal!
Most importantly, all my thanks to John, the love of my life, my stockman and my soul mate, who supported me through the roughest of it all … and to my baby, Rosie Erin, who had to share her birth with a book and her name with my heroine. Thanks for being a funny, lovely baby who sleeps lots, laughs lots and hardly cries! And finally, to my dogs, Gippy, Blunnie, Sam, Manfred, Gemma, Diamond and Ralph, and horses, Tristan, Jess, Maxine, Marigold, Edith and Morison, for being outside my window, ready to inspire me as I write.
The poem that inspired The Stockmen, by Casterton poet Peter Dowsley, is reprinted here with Peter’s kind permission.
Kelpie
A tear rolled down Jack Gleeson’s cheek
For the son he’d never see,
For the dogs he’d never work again,
And what he knew they could be.
He’d ridden all the eastern states,
And bred a strain of dogs, in time;
Now he was about to die,
A stockman cut down in his prime.
He left his wife an unborn child
And his dogs already famed,
His black and tan sheep dog bitch
After which a breed was named.
* * *
It all started on the Warrock run
Where Jack saw dogs that could work sheep,
Collies brought from Scotland
And a pup he wished to keep.
George Robertson wouldn’t sell her,
Not to Jack or anyone.
‘When you’ve got dogs like this,’ he said,
‘They pass them father on to son.’
But he gave one to a nephew
Who didn’t follow in that course,
He knew Jack Gleeson pretty well
And had a liking for his horse.
He said he’d swap the dog
For Gleeson’s stockhorse tall and stout,
By the old Glenelg at midnight
To save his uncle finding out.
And so down by the river
On an eerie moonlit night,
Where the Red Gums touch the water
And the yellow-belly bite,
Jack Gleeson sat there waiting
With the stockhorse on a lead,
Listening to the rippling waters
And the roos and emus feed.
Then a rustling from the bushes
Sent a shiver down his spine,
He looked up to see a horseman pause,
Then wave a knowing sign.
So Jack rode on towards the ford,
Where Warrock met Dunrobin run,
They exchanged the pup and stockhorse
And the midnight deal was done.
Both horsemen rode off quietly
Through the fast descending fog,
Until Jack stopped above the river
To take a good look at his dog.
The sky was clear as crystal
And cold air made him shiver
As the full moon cast his shadow
Down across the fogbound river.
His thoughts turned back to Ireland,
Of haunted fords and streams,
By the spectre they called Kelpie
And how it filled his early dreams.
He could hear a horse at canter
As he fixed a thoughtful gaze
On the tops of lifeless Red Gums
Jutting out above the haze.
He glanced down at the pup
Who pricked her ears up at his sight,
Then smiled, called her ‘Kelpie’,
And rode off into the night.
Perhaps he knew Jack Gleeson’s Kelpie
Would be known throughout the land,
Her descendants strong-willed working dogs
Just as the stockman planned.
Jack headed north with Kelpie
And broke her in along the way,
A station north of Cootamundra
Was where he’d find the work to stay.
As he crossed the Murrumbidgee
He met Coonambil Station’s boss.
It was here Jack mated Kelpie
With a Collie dog called Moss.
From Forbes to Yarrawonga,
Kelpie’s pups would show their guile,
In the woolshed, on the paddocks
With mobs of thousands, or at trial.
They became, simply, Kelpies,
Sought for their desire to work,
For their pride, for their intelligence,
With so little that they shirk.
Now if you’re heading into Casterton
And the sky is crystal clear,
Make a stop down by the river
And if you’re quiet you will hear
A whistle through the Red Gums,
A mob of sheep take flight,
Then horses’ hooves and barking
Will echo through the night.
But there is no horseman out there,
No real dogs or running sheep,
Just Jack Gleeson working Kelpie,
A spectre Casterton will keep.
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‘Naked’ written by Sophie Clabburn, lyrics reproduced with the kind permission of Jimmy Forte Music
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