by Peter Corris
'You can tell the doctor what you've seen down here,' Lincoln said.
'I should tell the first officer, by rights.'
'Tell whoever the hell you like. Thanks for the grub.'
After two days the mysterious sickness took hold again and two cows died. The doctor, alerted by the steward, came to the hold, saw a haggard Lincoln hand-feeding a survivor and retreated. He returned an hour later with two crewmen to find Lincoln sitting on the straw facing the steps down to the hold with the shotgun on his lap. He raised the weapon. 'Come any closer and you'll all be pickin' buckshot outa your hides.'
'Don't be ridiculous. Those animals have to be disposed of.'
'The dead ones, sure.'
The doctor advanced a step. 'I mean the others.'
Lincoln fired and pellets slammed into the beams overhead. 'Get back!'
'You're placing the lives of all the people aboard at risk.'
'The only life at risk here is yours, you ass-faced quack. Get!'
'The captain will deal with this and you.'
Lincoln's response was to point the shotgun at the doctor's chest. He drew back hastily.
'Get some more food and some coffee down here,' Lincoln said. 'Or I'll just mosey along and shoot one of Mr Sanderson's precious horses, maybe two or three.'
'You're insane! Those cattle are all going to die anyway.'
'I know, so why all this fuss? Get me some grub and leave us in peace.'
No food was delivered to him. The animals died one by one and when the last of them expired a thin, exhausted Lincoln surrendered to the captain.
'I'm confiscating your weapons, Mr Lincoln,' the captain said, 'and confining you to your cabin for the rest of the voyage. I'll consider reporting you to the authorities when we land.'
Lincoln slept for forty-eight hours and ignored the captain's directive when he awoke. He clipped his beard into a neat shape, washed, put on fresh clothes and joined the other passengers at breakfast. Sanderson glowered at him and several of the others looked at him with alarm. Lincoln ignored them and wolfed down two helpings of porridge and several large chunks of bread with slices of salt beef. He drank almost a whole pot of coffee. Then he went up to the deck and vomited violently into the sea. The first officer, a tall, jut-jawed Scot, joined him at the rail.
'You've had some very bad luck, laddie.'
'That's the truth.'
'You have to understand the position. A ship at sea is always just a step away from disaster. No master can afford to have people waving guns about.'
'I figured I knew what I was doing. I don't blame the captain. He didn't send them in to rush me or any damn fool thing like that. I'll take what's coming to me.'
'If I was you I'd bide quietly for a while. Eat a wee bit and try to regain your strength. Keep out of trouble. What'll you do when you get to Melbourne?'
'If I'm not in the hoosegow?'
"What would that be then?'
'Gaol, prison, the penitentiary, call it what you like.'
Laing chuckled. 'I doubt it'll come to that if you give no more trouble. Were they your cattle?'
'Not exactly. I had a kinda interest in them you'd say. I was delivering them to a man in Victoria. A rancher named Turley.'
'Squatter.'
'Excuse me.'
'Men holding large tracts of land and running animals are called squatters in the colonies. It sounds odd to me, too, but there it is. My name's Bruce Laing, by the way. I'm the first officer.'
'Wesley Lincoln.' The two men shook hands.
'You say the cattle were on consignment? They belonged to this Turley?'
Lincoln nodded.
'Then you need an affidavit from the captain to the effect that they died on the voyage and that you did everything possible to preserve them. Otherwise you could be in serious legal strife.'
'I guess you're right. How would I go about getting that … ?'
'Affidavit. You'd do it by giving no trouble on the rest of the voyage. By avoiding Mr Sanderson and Doctor Blair-Paget. By conducting yourself like a gentleman, Mr Lincoln.'
Lincoln felt his spirits lift. He grinned at the big Scotsman whose craggy face was slowly splitting into a smile. 'What exactly is your job on this boat?'
'To keep everybody happy, Mr Lincoln.'
'You sure are good at it, Bruce,' Lincoln said.
A day out from Melbourne, Laing presented Lincoln with a document written by the captain and witnessed by himself. It testified to Lincoln's having brought the cattle aboard the Winston in good condition and his diligent provision of their needs. The disease was described as 'of unknown origin' and Wesley was praised for his tireless efforts to save the cattle. Dates were given of the disposal at sea, regrets were expressed, and the statement made it abundantly clear that the shipping line accepted no responsibility.
'That should enable the owner to claim his insurance,' Laing said.
'I sure do thank you, Mr Laing,' Lincoln said after reading through the document. 'I never thought of that. You reckon old Ben would have had those beeves insured?'
'He'd be a fool if he didn't, laddie.'
'He's no fool.'
'Well, then, all is not lost. I'm from a farm myself, and I'd like to tell you how much I admired what you tried to do for the poor beasts. T'were no fault of yours.'
Lincoln went back to his cabin and laboured for an hour to compose a letter to Benjamin Turley.
Steamer Winston
Out from Melbourne
3rd February 1871
Dear Mr Turley,
I'm sure sorry to have to give you this sad news. All the cattle died on the boat. I did everything I could to save them but whatever disease it was was a killer.
The captain has written out what happened and I'm sending it on to you so you will know I am telling the truth. Also I believe you can use these papers to get insurance money. I sure hope you had the cattle insured.
Keep the bond money. That was our deal. I'm sorry you had a wasted trip and that things didn't work out good. Maybe I'll get to see you one of these days but I'll be broke when I land and will have to get work.
My regrets and best wishes to you and your family.
Yours respectfully,
Wesley Lincoln
'Goddamn it, Wesley,' Lincoln said as he folded the letter. 'It sure looks as if your luck has run out.'
22
From First Officer Bruce Laing, Lincoln borrowed the cost of posting his envelope to Benjamin Turley and the price of a room and meals for several days. The captain of the Winston returned his weapons and made no adverse report on him to the authorities. When he tramped down the ramp to the Port Melbourne dock, his hand still feeling the strength and warmth of Laing's handshake, he was able to carry and wear on his back everything he possessed in the world.
The only large town he had any experience of was Buenos Aires and he saw few similarities. This city, with its wide muddy river, regularly aligned streets and solid bluestone buildings, did not impress him. It had none of the chaotic look of the Argentine city, where streets wandered around and over hillsides and the water of the river port sparkled under the sun. The sun here was fierce, unrelieved by shade trees in the city and no breeze sprang up in the afternoon to cool the place down. Lincoln, walking from the railway station and carrying his bags, was quickly drenched with sweat. He took a room in the first cheap hotel he came to and immediately asked directions to the post office.
With his letter despatched he felt an easing of conscience and almost a sense of a burden having lifted. The last of the proceeds of the robbery of the Gila mine had gone up in smoke and it was time to make a fresh start. Zac Clayton, he recalled, had described Australia as a land of opportunity. Certainly, the town was busy enough, with a lot of people bustling about, horse-drawn trams in the streets and an air of business being conducted. Eking out his money, he ate in cheap pie shops and Chinese cafes and explored the city on foot. The Argentine siesta seemed an appropriate arrangement and
he slept through the hot part of the day, making his excursions early and late. No one appeared to do the same. People worked through the heat of the day and dragged themselves home, wilted and tired, in the still-hot early evening.
A few days' exploration convinced him that Melbourne held nothing in store for him. He found the residents strange, with their nasal speech and peculiar manners. Not like Americans or the few Britishers he had met, but a mixture of the two. The city itself stank of industrial production—tanneries, breweries, brickworks and tallow factories. He found the hot, still air stifling and longed to be on a horse with the wind rushing past and open space around him.
'Your bill, Mr Lincoln.' The hotel manager, a small officious individual with a bald skull and a bristling handlebar moustache, blocked Lincoln's path as he moved to climb the stairs.
'Sure. In the morning.'
'Now, if you please.'
'Now? It's night-time. I'm dog tired. In the morning.'
'You'll pay what you owe now or I'll fetch the police.'
Lincoln took off his hat and wiped his forehead. It was still hot and he'd had a long tramp back from Flemington where he'd been told he might get work 'with horses'. He'd discovered a racecourse where his enquiries had been met with blank incomprehension. Lincoln had decided to quit Melbourne. 'What the hell is this? I told you I'd pay up in the morning.'
'You appear to be a vagrant. I don't think you can pay your bill. I'm going to have to sequester your belongings … '
Something inside Lincoln snapped. Not his temper or control; but his sense of fairness and justice was violated and he felt himself shucking off his cloak of respectability. He felt a shiver in his spine and a quickening of his pulse that was familiar but hard to identify. He smiled at the manager. 'I'm sure sorry you feel like that. Maybe you'd just like to come up with me now and I'll put the money in your hand. Pay you a week in advance if that'd be your pleasure.'
'That would be entirely satisfactory.'
The two men went up the stairs together and along the corridor. Lincoln was recording noises, measuring distances. He unlocked the door and ushered the manager through, flicking the door shut behind them. 'I'll just get the money from my bag.'
The manager was taken aback by Lincoln's mild manner. 'I'm obliged to you, Mr Lincoln. I'm sorry if I … '
'No need to be sorry, buddy,' Lincoln said. 'No need at all.'
The manager was staring speechlessly into the muzzle of a Colt .45 revolver. Lincoln pushed the man roughly down on the bed and held the pistol to the nape of his neck. 'Your wallet and your keys on the bed, unless you'd rather it was your brains.'
The manager scrabbled at his pockets and produced the items. 'You can't do this, you … '
'Shut up.' Lincoln took several notes from the wallet before dropping it on the floor. There were three keys on the ring which he put in his jacket pocket.
'Wh … what are you going to do? Please don't shoot me.'
Lincoln laughed. 'Why would I do that? You must be dumber than you look.'
The manager screwed around and shrieked when he saw Lincoln pull out his Bowie knife. 'Please, don't …'
'Don't move. Not at all.' He stepped around the bed and slashed at the curtain cord. He took the length that fell free, tied the manager's wrists behind his back and lashed his ankles together. He put his pistol in his pocket, transferred the knife to his left hand and flipped the man onto the bed, using his right hand. Two terrified eyes gazed at him as he packed his belongings into his bags.
Lincoln sliced out a section of the blanket and crammed the fabric into the manager's mouth. 'You're a stupid man. I was goin' to pay you. Now look what kinda mess you made.'
He closed his bags and left the room. The corridor was empty and Lincoln went quickly down the stairs to the empty lobby. He put the bags down and squatted behind the desk, inspecting the lock on the drawer that held the operating cash. His fingers were dry, steady and nimble. He selected the right key, opened the drawer and shovelled the notes and coins into the pocket of his coat. He felt cool and in command, as he had when he put his gun to Jack Clancy's head. 'Guess you're just a natural born thief, Wes,' he said.
Two hours later, after a cab ride to the station, he was sitting in a railway carriage bound for Geelong. The train was making good time and Lincoln looked out at the open moonlit country. He'd taken the first train available and had tried to imitate the manner of speech of the locals. He had no idea of whether or not he'd succeeded but no one had paid him any special attention and there were very few passengers in this first-class carriage. First-class travellers seemed to keep themselves to themselves by spacing out, which suited Lincoln who had a four-seater compartment to himself. He had no remorse. A man could be pushed just so far and just so often, and he'd reached his limit.
He yawned and counted his money. It amounted to £37 12s 6d—all but a few shillings of it stolen. He relaxed against the amply padded backrest and felt himself slipping into a doze. Why not? Could be hours before they find that mean little bastard. He slept, lulled by the motion of the train, and when he woke up after an hour his first thought was about the price of horses in Gee-long. He was hungry but there was no dining car on the train. Lincoln took out a pack of cards and played solitaire until the game bored him and he resumed staring out the window. He was beginning to think that the whole of Victoria must be one flat plain when some large, rounded shapes loomed up in the near distance to the west.
On arriving in Geelong, Lincoln went to the station washroom and used his Bowie knife and a cutthroat razor to remove his beard. It was much cooler than in Melbourne, with a southerly breeze and a light rain falling. He took a cab to a respectable hotel in the centre of the town and registered as Samuel Taylor, again trying to imitate the local speech and taking care to keep his gloved hand in his jacket pocket. The dining room was closed but he arranged to have some cold meat, bread and cheese sent to his room along with two bottles of beer. He ate and drank and stretched out on the bed with his Colt on the counterpane beside him. He dozed. A wind pushed branches against his window and he grabbed the pistol and sat up, pulse pounding and eyes straining. When he realised what had made the noise he relaxed, undressed and got into bed. He turned down the lantern and lay in the gloom, making plans.
In the morning he checked out of the hotel without eating breakfast. He hailed a cab and asked to be taken first to a haberdashery and then to where he could buy a horse. In the shop he bought several pairs of gloves and was wearing a smart leather pair when he rejoined the cab.
'I've been thinking, sir,' the driver said. 'Is it a racehorse you're after?'
Lincoln laughed. 'No, mate, just a good riding horse. I'm planning to visit a friend of mine. He's got a farm near here.'
'Where would that be, then?'
Lincoln had prepared himself for this question by studying a map on a wall in the hotel lobby. 'Bacchus Marsh.'
The driver nodded. 'I'd say Tom Sayers' stables'd be the place for you. Tom's honest and he's got good horses. I got my Bertie here from him. Named after the late prince, he is.'
'Why not?' Lincoln said.
'Where are you from, sir, if you don't mind my asking?'
'Canada.'
'Ah, that accounts for the way you talk. Canada, eh. My word.'
Lincoln abandoned attempts to speak Australian. 'Just over here on holiday. What do you reckon a good horse'll cost me?'
'Ten quid, near enough.'
'How's that?'
'Ten pounds, sir, and I'll have a word with old Tom and see if he'll throw in a saddle and some harness. I suppose you use saddles to ride in Canada?'
'Everyone except the Indians.'
'Indians, my word.'
'How about the black people here, the Aboriginals? Do they use saddles?'
The driver pulled off his cap and scratched his head. 'Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen one of 'em riding a horse.'
23
Lincoln bought a strapping grey geldi
ng for which he paid £12 after requesting new shoes and selecting a better saddle than the one Tom Sayers had been willing to provide. He also bought a pair of saddlebags and distributed his belongings among them without allowing the horse-dealer to see the guns. His own bags he left at the stables, saying he would return for them later. The cab driver departed, happy with his tip, and Lincoln jogged from the stableyard carrying a bill of sale for the horse, which was named Jem after the prize-fight champion. The new owner's name appeared on the document as 'Tom Shelby' and Lincoln was aware that he was running up a confusing number of aliases.
He stopped at a general store a few miles out and bought some apples, bread and tinned meat. The map on the hotel wall was already vague in his memory but, as he left the straggling buildings on the fringe of the town behind, he saw a sign that pointed towards Portland. He recalled snatches of conversation with Benjamin Turley about the geography of Victoria and recalled that Portland was a sizeable coastal town with a hell of a lot of huge sheep and cattle ranch country behind it. He was tempted, but the road looked well-travelled and Lincoln left it early, turning off onto another that seemed to carry less traffic. The country was like none he had ever seen before—undulating and well watered by creeks, but with a dried-up look to it even though there had been recent light rain. It struck him as old and worn-down. He had asked Sayers about the rounded hill he had seen from the train and had been told they were the You Yang mountains.
'That sounds Chinese. You got lots of those folks around here? Saw a good many in Melbourne.'
Sayers tugged at his scraggly moustache. 'Never thought about it, Mr Shelby. No, I seem to remember hearin' that's a word from the blacks' lingo. As to Chinks, there were plenty around twenty years or so, back when the gold was being dug up everywhere. Still some about, but not near so many.'