by Peter Corris
The life attracted Lincoln. He applied himself to learning to ride the way the gauchos did, relaxed in their high-pommelled saddles on better trained horses than their American counterparts, and he learned to play the guitar and sing the plaintive songs of the pampas. He picked up new knife-handling tricks. From speaking Spanish for so long he had begun to think in the language. He seldom spoke English or heard it spoken. He swore in Spanish, read Spanish newspapers. After the hard season with the herds he looked forward to the lay-off which he intended to use to make plans for his own ranch. He had better than $600 still intact—a small leasehold to start with, perhaps with a partner, concentrating on the breeding of quality beef.
Hell, I'm one part Spanish myself, he thought. Why shouldn't I settle down here? He was almost convinced. He spent three days drinking and whoring with his trail companions in Puelches and then broke away from them to take a room in a hotel in a better part of the town. He intended to consult with and cultivate the officials and influential men of commerce who controlled the land in the province. To do this he would have to buy some presentable clothes, open an account at one of the banks and construct a respectable character for himself. He set about this methodically, describing himself at the bank as a ganadero Americano, a rancher. He began to frequent the coffee shops of the commercial sector, hoping to encounter someone by the name of Burgos with whom he could claim kinship. He made an appointment to see the Controller of Public Lands, the official responsible for the granting of grazing licences and leases.
'Mr Lincoln, is it?'
Lincoln lifted his head from the newspaper he was reading in the hotel lobby. He was digesting his breakfast and studying the market for livestock, calculating what he'd need to expend on a basic herd. The voice had a strange accent, rather thin, with the words clipped off. Not American.
'I'm Lincoln. That's right.' He had trouble getting his tongue around the unfamiliar expressions.
'Benjamin Turley. How do you do?'
A large, freckled hand was shoved at him and Lincoln shook it. He folded his paper, realising suddenly how glad he was to have someone to speak to in English. 'I'm fine, Mr Turley.'
'Good. May I sit down?'
Lincoln lifted his hat from the chair opposite and Turley sat. He was fortyish with greying hair and a pugnacious expression. Medium-sized, he was wearing a suit a little too tight for him and looking uncomfortable in it. He ran a finger inside his starched collar to ease it away from his muscular neck. He had the wrists and thighs of a man used to controlling horses. His shoes were new and squeaky. Lincoln thought he'd never seen a man so awkward in his clothes and surroundings.
'Can I help you in some way, sir? Direct you maybe? This town ain't easy for a foreigner.'
'No, nothing like that. I understand you're in the cattle business here.'
'Well, not exactly.'
Turley's brow wrinkled. 'That's what I was told.'
'Who by?'
'Damn it, I'm no good at this. It's bloody awful being in a country where they don't talk English. You're lucky if you get half an idea of what's going on.'
Lincoln nodded. He hadn't had the experience, but that sounded about right to him. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen Argentina over Brazil. 'Well, I talk it like a Texian, which might sound strange to an Englishman, but it's the same lingo. I'm a mite rusty after a few years down here, but I guess I can follow what you're saying. What's on your mind?'
'I want to buy some cattle.'
'Plenty for sale.'
'Good cattle.'
'That's harder, I admit, but they've got some fine beasts here once you get to know them. Not longhorns but …'
'That's it. I expected to find the same kind of cattle as in America but I'm flummoxed.'
'Now you've got me—flummoxed, what's that? Where are you from, Mr Turley?'
'I've come from Australia. The colony of Victoria to be exact. It's mostly given over to sheep just now, but I think the future's with beef cattle. Cattle used to similar conditions.'
'Australia. Say, that's interesting. I've heard about it. But have you got enough people down there to make a beef market? I hear the place's mostly empty.'
Turley glanced around the hotel lobby which was unoccupied apart from the desk clerk, a porter and a man choosing a cigar at the tobacco stand. All were out of earshot. Turley's big, freckled hand grasped Lincoln's sleeve. 'I'm a desperate man, Mr Lincoln. I never realised how hard it would be to do business in this country. I've been pushed from one bloody office to another and I can't seem to make any headway at all.'
Lincoln was anticipating just such difficulties and was immediately interested in the problem. 'It's tough all right. I'll level with you, Mr Turley. I'm just starting out—thinking of getting together a herd and taking up a tract. I'm a greenhorn, near enough, but I do speak the language.'
'I see.' Turley took out a pipe, stuffed it with shag and lit it. When the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he examined Lincoln closely through a cloud of smoke. 'Have you made up your mind to settle in this country?'
'Not … exactly, no. Thinking mighty seriously about it.'
'What if I was to try to change your mind? Throw you a new idea?'
Lincoln shrugged. 'I'd listen.'
Turley leaned closer. 'Freezing,' he said.
'Excuse me.'
'It's coming, Mr Lincoln. Won't be long before we can put killed beef in freezing chambers and ship it to Europe. What do you think of that?'
The idea was big. Lincoln felt himself to be in the market for ideas, but he was inherently cautious. 'I'm thinking of buying a herd myself and getting hold of some land here. You fixing to use me as a dummy or something like that?'
'Good heavens, no,' Turley said. 'That never occured to me, but now that you put it that way, I wonder if you could act as my agent, help me to purchase the cattle, on a commission basis.'
'I don't know, sir. I've never done any business like that.'
'It might be good experience for you—spending someone else's money. What we colonials call a dry run.'
Lincoln smiled. 'A dry run, I like that. Yes, sir, I do like that.'
Turley took out his watch. 'Going on for eleven o'clock. Not too early for a drink back in Horsham. What d'you say?'
Lincoln picked up his hat and newspaper. 'I spent nine months on the pampas without a drink and then a couple of weeks doin' nothing much else, but a drink right now'd be fine.'
The two men left the lobby and Lincoln pointed down the street. 'Good bar down this way. Hor-sham, where's that?'
'Horsham. You say it quickly. It's a little town north-west of Melbourne. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. I doubt anyone outside of Victoria has. On the Wimmera River. Fine cattle country, let me tell you. Small now, but it has a big future. There's a flour mill planned and the railway's come through. I could rail those cattle to the freezing works in Melbourne and … ' Turley broke off, as if realising he was saying too much. 'Where're you from, Mr Lincoln?'
'Texas,' Lincoln said.
'Texas,' Turley murmured. 'Big place?'
'I reckon. 'Bout a quarter of a million square miles they do say.'
'Hmm, about three times the size of Victoria. Of course we're a small state. Western Australia now, that'd be a million square miles give or take a few.'
Lincoln stopped and gaped. 'A million square miles. That big?'
'Australia's a big place, Mr Lincoln. There's a whole lot of it where no white man's ever been.' Turley laughed. 'Course, no white man would want to. There's a lot of desert. Just thinking about it makes me dry. Where's this bar?'
Lincoln threw himself into buying Turley's herd. His experience at the operating end of the cattle business proved invaluable, and he discovered he had learnt more about Argentinian cattle, their strengths, deficiencies and management than he had realised. He enjoyed travelling with Turley to the pampas ranches and bargaining with the shrewd, hard-dealing ganaderos. In Turley's name, he short-term rented
a holding pen and some grazing land in the central pampas town of Rio Domingo. As handlers, he hired some youths who aspired to be gauchos but had not yet picked up all the bad habits of the trade.
Turley described the country around Horsham in detail and Lincoln attempted to select the cattle best suited to it. He was aiming at thirty beasts, five bulls and twenty-five cows. Turley paid top prices and approved of Lincoln's suggestions. Increasingly, he remained behind in Rio Domingo when Lincoln made his expeditions, claiming he was too old for the travelling. He began to get testy towards the end of the second month and urged Lincoln to hurry.
'I've been away too long,' he complained. 'I've got a family to think of.'
'No sense rushing it. I'm looking for another bull and six more cows. Two of the last lot ain't so good it turns out. Breed stock has to be right or you're just going to get problems all down the line.'
Turley grunted and continued complaining as he wrote more cheques.
To his surprise, Lincoln found that the more he saw of the life of a cattle rancher in Argentina the less he liked it. The variable weather, diseases, the incursions of cattle thieves, the unreliability of the market and the imposts of government, auctioneers and agents all conspired to make the business difficult. 'It's one hell of a big headache,' he confided to Turley one night over a meal. 'Some of these grandees are out at the britches, but they're just too proud to show it.'
Turley nodded without interest and picked at his food. His stomach was giving him trouble and he despaired of ever getting a decent meal of lamb chops and boiled potatoes and carrots. 'How much longer?'
'Soon,' Lincoln said. 'More beer?'
'That's one thing they've got—good beer.'
That night Lincoln dreamed that he was travelling through Argentina with Jubal Bass. The black man wore a white suit which didn't seem to get dusty no matter how hard the country they rode through. They talked but Bass spoke in a singsong Spanish Lincoln found difficult to understand. It irritated him and he expressed his anger by firing the shortened shotgun at every living thing he saw. Then Bass was replaced by Zac Clayton, except that the miner wore a sailor's costume of the kind Lincoln had seen in daguerreotypes—rolled canvas trousers and striped shirts with tight sleeves. They were sitting side by side on a rail of the cattle pen Lincoln had leased, except that it was full of longhorns, bellowing and screeching and pressing against the posts. 'Australia,' Clayton said, 'I've sailed all around it and never once put in to land, but I sure would like to before I die.'
Lincoln awoke from the dream as the longhorns smashed the pen to matchwood and thundered away, pursued on foot by the would-be gauchos. The pictures faded quickly from his memory, but he was left with a feeling of having received a message of some kind. He went down to breakfast in the dining room of the boarding house and found Benjamin Turley pushing pieces of fried egg around on a plate and sipping disconsolately at a cup of coffee.
'Ben, I reckon I've got an answer to your problem.'
Turley couldn't recollect anyone calling him Ben before. He looked up, irritated at the sprightliness of Lincoln's manner. 'And what would that be?'
'I recommend you get yourself to Buenos Aires and hop on a boat quick as you can.'
'And what about the cattle?'
'I'll bring 'em over.'
'Don't talk daft, man.'
Lincoln had grown used to Turley's peculiar dialect. 'Nothing daft about it. I'm disinclined to Argentina now, and I've got a hankering to see this Australia of yours.'
Turley's eyes grew shrewd as he watched Lincoln pour a cup of coffee. Although he had spent a good deal of time with him, Turley realised that he knew almost nothing about the young Texan. A reticent man himself, he had never asked about the gloved hand although it intrigued him. He had paid his commissions as the purchasing proceeded although Lincoln had never pressed him for it. He appeared to have sufficient money for his needs, but Turley was inherently suspicious of landless men, especially those who changed their minds. 'I don't see how I could do that, Mr Lincoln.'
The cook put a plate of eggs and corn fritters in front of Lincoln, who attacked the food vigorously. He washed a large mouthful down with a gulp of coffee. 'You mean you don't see how you could trust me.'
'I didn't say that.'
'How many chances have I had to cheat you blind so far?'
Turley considered. 'A good many I dare say, but … '
'Ben, I could have fixed it so's you'd have half the number of cows you got at twice the price. Would have been easy.'
'I wouldn't have paid anything like that.'
'Yes, sir, you would. You didn't know spit about the price of pampas cattle. Don't you want to go home. Ben?'
'You know I do.'
'How's this? I give you five hundred dollars today as a bond. You pay the shipping costs and all and I get the money back when I arrive with the cattle at Horsham.'
'But … '
'Hold on. Maybe I won't want all the money back. Maybe I'd like to keep a few for myself and take up some land. We could negotiate that.'
'You're offering me a bond worth only about half the value of the herd.'
'I know. Look, I want to show you something.' Lincoln reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it carefully, smoothed out the creases and put it face-up on the table. Turley gazed at the bold print and sketches.
'You think I'd show you this if I was planning to rob you? That mistake I made drove me out of my country. I killed a man in Mexico who came after me. I don't know if I can ever go back. I can't settle here, maybe I can't settle anyplace. But, Ben, I'd sure like to give Australia a try.'
'What happened to this Joe Bass?'
'His real name was Jubal Bass. He got killed by Indians while we were running. I sent his half of the money to his sister and I sure hope she got it.'
Turley looked at Lincoln's face, noting the lines around his pale eyes and the set, determined expression. He had never seen him looking so serious. 'You sent it to the sister?'
'That's right—Miss Matilda Bass, care of Reverend Sewell, Brentwood, Alabama.'
Turley's big, freckled hand reached across the table. 'You've got an agreement, Lincoln.'
21
Aboard the steamer Winston, the first animal died three days out from Buenos Aires and the sickness raged through the small herd for a week. After rounding Cape Horn, Lincoln was left with two bulls and eighteen cows. He worked around the clock for three days trying to maintain the survivors' condition—hand-feeding and washing them, cleaning their stalls and conducting them to the small open section accessible from the stock-holding pen for exercise and fresh air. A few of the cattle gained weight and lost the dullness of eye and lassitude that had afflicted them. Exhausted, Lincoln fell into his bunk and slept.
He was awoken by a crew member shaking him roughly.
'Better get down below, mate,' he said. 'Some more of your bloody dago cows have snuffed it.'
Lincoln dragged himself to the hold to discover three more dead animals and another three or four exhibiting the worst symptoms. Numbly, he supervised the disposal of the carcasses over board and resumed his ministrations. The affected cattle, including one bull, all died over the next few days, leaving only a single bull and eight cows. The bull appeared to be healthy, enjoying the extra space and the abundance of feed. The cows were active and eating well. Wesley's hopes rose.
The steamer was equipped with four separate livestock compartments of which only one other was occupied with a shipment of horses. At the outbreak of the disease among the cattle, the shipper of the horses arranged to move his charges to the pens furthest away. He remained anxious and, although knowledgeable about animals, refused to inspect the cattle for fear of communicating the disease to the horses.
'I never heard of horses getting cattle sickness, Mr Sanderson,' Lincoln said, 'and I've worked with both for a good long time.'
Sanderson, an under-sized Englishman, who was taking his team of Argen
tine horses to Australia for use as polo ponies, ignored Lincoln's remark. 'These are extremely valuable animals.'
'So're mine. What in hell is polo, anyway?'
'Just keep away from my horses.'
'I'll keep away from you.'
'Good. Do that.'
Two days later, Lincoln was approached by the ship's doctor, a florid-faced retiree from the Indian civil service. 'I say, Lincoln, a word, if I might.'
Lincoln stood at the rail, looking at the grey, heaving sea. 'Yes, doctor.'
'I'm concerned about those animals of yours.'
That's the first I've heard of it, Lincoln thought. 'So am I, sir. But I think I've gotten through the worst of it.'
'I'm glad to hear it, but I have to tell I'm worried about the health of the passengers and crew.'
'What?'
'My responsibility is to safeguard … '
Lincoln stepped back from the rail and braced himself on the pitching deck, towering over the doctor. 'I've been with those poor critters since the first one took bad. Do I look like a sick man to you?'
'No, but … '
'You've been talking to that runt, Sanderson. He's not worried about the folks on this tub, he only cares about his horses.'
The horses are healthy, your cattle are not.'
'They were healthy when I got them here. Maybe there's something wrong with the feed or the water. Maybe you got some kind of cattle disease right here.'
'That's absurd. I'm warning you, Lincoln—any sign of sickness among those cattle you've got left and I'll order the whole lot destroyed. Do you hear me?'
Lincoln turned and walked away. He went to his cabin, called the steward and struck a deal to get food delivered to him in the stock pen. He took some bedding, a batch of newspapers and three other items—Jubal Bass' shotgun, his own Colt .45 and his Bowie knife. He swept out a corner of the hold, laid down straw and his blankets and cleaned and loaded his weapons. The steward glanced at the guns as he delivered a pannikin of stew and some bread. Lincoln was sharpening the big knife on an oiled whetstone.