Archer's Melbourne Cup

by Vashti Farrer

  I’ve written down what I remember about their bones, but I don’t know how Barney copes. He can’t read or write, so he has to try and remember everything, I suppose.

  Sunday 13th January

  It was raining again this morning and Tom said we’d change their routine round as they still need exercise. We took them out on the track, but it was heavy and Archer wasn’t at all happy. Having to plough through mud, he didn’t run as fast. Some horses are mud-runners and don’t mind, but most do.

  Afterwards I made sure to dry him off properly and the rest of the day we kept spreading damp blankets over the stable doors to air them. As for mucking out, that had to be done one stall at a time, so we didn’t leave the horses standing out in the rain.

  When he took me on, Mr de Mestre said I could have one day off a month, but that doesn’t start for a while yet. I’ve thought of writing letters for Ma to read out, but I barely have time to write up my diary—let alone letters as well. So I’ll save up lots to tell them when I do go home.

  I was going to ask Mr de Mestre this morning which was my day off, but he brushed me aside and said he needed to talk to us about something else. He looked so serious, I thought maybe I was in trouble, but instead he starts talking about bushrangers and how he wants us to be on our guard. I can’t see what bushrangers have to do with us. Then he says that James Boyd held up the Singleton mail coach a while back and Benjamin Allerton’s been caught over near Goulburn. And there are gangs like Keene, Watson and Lawler on the loose.

  I’m still wondering what all this has to do with us, when he says, ‘And they shot a station hand.’ Now I’m worried. It seems most bushrangers know a good horse when they see one and they think nothing of stealing a thoroughbred that’s faster than a trooper’s mount, so they can outride him. They’ve even been known to turn up to race meetings to see which horses are running, so they can steal them afterwards.

  Tom agrees and says Frederick Ward was twenty when he was first nabbed for horse stealing and since he used to be a jockey, he knows what to look for. Now that he’s served his sentence and is out again, he’s one to watch out for.

  Then Mr de Mestre says he’s having bolts and padlocks fitted to the stable doors and windows so the horses will be safe at night. Some of the stablehands grumbled about being locked in, but the horses are too important.

  Danny, he’s one of the oldest strappers, asks what about the brood mares when there are stallions around, but Tom says if that’s a problem he’ll have to sleep out in a paddock with them and take a couple of us to help keep watch. Straightaway I offer to help. So does Barney, and Mr de Mestre smiles.

  ‘Good lads, I thought you would,’ he says.

  Anyway, the rest of the day there was banging and hammering as bolts were fitted. The stables are built solid with strong corner posts and an ironbark shingle roof. They’re bigger than any others I’ve seen and there are no gaps between the slabs. The ceiling goes way up, with heavy crossbeams over the loft to keep the hay sweet and dry, even in flood times.

  Tonight the place feels like a fortress. Danny asks what happens if a fire breaks out and Tom growls, ‘You’ll save the horses first!’

  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but I’ll try to save Archy before anything else.

  Monday 14th January

  The sky was darkest navy this morning when we walked them. I could hardly see twenty feet in front of me, but I knew Tom was beside me leading Exeter, so I asked him about bushrangers’ horses. What happened if they cast a shoe? Or got a stone stuck that needed picking out? Who’d help them?

  He said there’d be some blacksmiths who’d turn a blind eye—out of loyalty, perhaps, or because a pistol was aimed at their heads. But mostly these rogues would rather help themselves to a new mount. ‘So if a prize horse is left out in a paddock overnight, by morning it’s most probably gone and a broken-down old nag’s in its place, lame and in need of shoeing.’

  This got me thinking what hard lives some horses must lead. Not like ours—comfortable, with plenty of people to care for them. Lots of horses must have to gallop over hard ground all day and go hungry a lot of the time.

  I said as much to Tom and he said the roads round Terara are nothing compared to some and I should spare a thought for those poor horses trekking through the outback now.

  When I asked what he meant, he said the horses on that Irishman’s expedition. ‘What’s his name? Burke. They set out from Melbourne back in August, hoping to find a way from south to north. They took fifteen horses and sixteen camels with them. Don’t tell me those poor creatures are having an easy time of it,’ he said. ‘And even if Burke does make it north to win the £2000 prize money, the horses will be long dead, and the camels too, most likely.’

  I must have been thinking of those poor horses and not watching what I was doing when I went on the track.

  Tom legs me up on Archy and tells me to take my time. Since Fridays are the same as Tuesdays, I’m meant to build him up to a steady canter, then take him down the track into a strong gallop. So I’m heading down hard and can just make out the white side rail and Mr de Mestre’s lantern in the distance, when I pass the first time. I make the turn into the back stretch and can hear Barney near me on the inside rail, yelling, ‘Too slow, Robby! Look out, or I’ll beat you!’ And all I can hear is pounding and snorting and we’re suddenly neck-and-neck.

  What happens next, I don’t know. One minute I’m bolt upright, then I come crashing down and land in a heap of dirt. For a second, I don’t even know where I am. I try to stand, but my knees buckle and I fall over. Tom comes rushing up shouting, ‘Robby!’ and Mr de Mestre’s behind, holding the lantern up. Barney dismounts, runs over, kneels down. ‘You hurt, mate?’

  Tom turns on him, ‘Did you try and make him race before he was ready?’ Before Barney can answer I yell out. My arm’s really sore and my ribs hurt something awful.

  Archer wanders back and stands, looking down at me. He leans forward and nudges me. Then his saddle slips half-off and Tom’s angry.

  ‘Something’s happened to his saddle. I’ll be checking that, as soon as it’s light enough.’

  ‘Let’s have you up to the house,’ says Mr de Mestre and next thing they bring a stretcher from the stables and Tom and some of the bigger strappers put me on it. Then when we get to the homestead, Mrs de Mestre has them take me into the parlour, and shoos them away.

  ‘I can manage quite well from now on, thank you.’

  I’ve not seen her up close before and don’t know what to say to her. She’s little and birdlike, dressed all in mourning black. Grey ringlets tumble out of her white lace cap, but her face is kind and smiling and she soon puts me at my ease.

  ‘Don’t worry! I’ve brought ten children into the world and they’ve all survived and I cared for my husband when he was ailing. I’ve seen my fair share of falls and tumbles.’

  Very gently she turns my wrist both ways and I wince, but try not to call out.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken. Just a sprain and we can bind that up. Anything else hurt?’

  I’m sore round the ribs whenever I move. It’s a sharp pain and she has me pull up my shirt so she can prod me. ‘You’ll be blue-black, but I think you’re only bruised. All we can do is wait till they heal, but maybe you’d like a bandage to support them and stop them hurting so much. What do you think?’

  I nod and she goes off and comes back with an old sheet that she sets about tearing into strips. She wraps long pieces firmly round my ribs and ties them off. Then she tears a small strip down the middle, knots it, binds my wrist and hand, then ties it off like Ma does.

  ‘Now to make sure you rest it!’ She tears a big triangle, which she then ties behind my neck. ‘There. A sling. That’s to remind you.’

  Then she asks when my day off is and I say, ‘The 31st, I think.’

  ‘I’ll tell Etienne to let you go early. He has business in town this afternoon and can take you home, then pick you up again next M
onday. A few days home with your family will help. You’re no use round the stables. But promise me you’ll rest?’

  I promise and she sends a message to Barney to pack my spare shirt and my diary. I’ve written this up while I waited for Mr de Mestre, but he’s here now and I can’t write in the buggy.

  Tuesday 15th January

  I didn’t want to think about leaving Archy, if only for a few days, just when he was getting used to me, but I asked Mr de Mestre to look after him for me and he said he would.

  Then I told him that I’d seen his name in the land sales. Pa can’t afford land of his own—not at £1 an acre—but he still has me read out the notices and a while back there were twelve lots on offer south of Nowra, some adjoining Mr de Mestre’s land.

  He said everyone wants land and now Queensland has opened up vast areas up north there’ll be a rush of settlers. Then he said that Mr Robertson might make a difference.

  I can’t see how the Premier can help Pa, but it seems he’s trying to get a bill through parliament to allow poor men to own land. They’ll still have to pay a deposit, but after three years it’ll become theirs.

  He couldn’t have scrubbed the grin off my face if he’d tried. ‘Pa will think all his Christmases have come at once,’ I said. ‘It’s like you giving me this job. That was the best birthday present ever!’ He looked puzzled till I told him my birthday’s on the 20th of December. Always the same week as Christmas, but it gets lost somehow and no-one ever gives me two presents.

  When we pulled up at home, Ma was all of a fluster seeing Mr de Mestre and bobbed a curtsey and asked if he wanted tea. He smiled and thanked her, but said he had to be going. As soon as he’d gone she had me lie down, and I did because I was aching all over from the buggy ride.

  This afternoon Hetty sat beside me, stitching her sampler. She had her twelfth birthday not long ago and seems suddenly quite the young lady. Molly and the little ones asked how I got the bandages, had I been in a fight. So I told them and then they wanted to know all about the horses and what their names were.

  Tonight when Pa came in for tea, I told him about Mr Robertson’s bill and he suddenly picked Ma up and twirled her round like she was a girl again. She came over all giggly, saying, ‘Put me down!’ and Pa said this could be the break he’s been waiting for.

  It’s good to see them all again, but after Terara I can’t help noticing how much rougher and smaller this place is than any of the buildings back there. Between the slabs there are gaps as big as your hand that let the wind howl through in winter—even if Pa says they help keep it cool in summer. All I know is it’s a regular battle with flies during the day, though Ma does her best with little dishes of quassia and brown sugar and pepper. It’s her special mix, but I can’t see that it makes any difference. Still, I’m only home for a few days and glad to be, even if I am too sore to move.

  Now my diary’s up to date and I’m about to doss down with Joe and Sam, head to toe as always, which is no more uncomfortable than a hammock and at least these two don’t snore!

  Friday 18th January

  This morning Daisy and Molly picked wildflowers for me. Joe showed me some tadpoles he’d found down the creek and after dinner Sam wanted me to see him ride Old Rowley. So I dragged myself out to the yard, but somehow watching Sam on Old Rowley wasn’t the same as seeing Barney flash past on Archer.

  I slept most of the afternoon and now it’s night and I’m wide awake again. Joe and Sam are asleep, but Ma’s let me have a candle to write by. My wrist’s still sore but I’m not bothering about the sling anymore and it’s too hot for bandages round the ribs.

  I keep wondering how Archer is. Has he noticed I’m not there riding him? I hope he misses me a bit. Only one more day and I can hardly wait, but I can’t tell Ma. She’s been saying how much she misses having me around.

  Monday 21st January

  Ma let me sleep in this morning since it was my last. It’s been good being home, but I’m better now and keen to get back to Terara.

  Then just before Mr de Mestre arrived, Ma gave me her copy of David Copperfield. Pa bought it for her when Sam was a baby and she used to read it to us. Now she’s insisted I take it as something to remind me of home.

  On the drive back, Mr de Mestre talked about the horses and their chances of winning big races. I asked what about horses that couldn’t run to save themselves and he said he sells them or tells the owners to. There was a horse sale in Terara only this morning he said, and he sold five buggy horses. The lowest priced fetched £13 and the highest, £25. But as for running horses, he said, it’s not always easy to see what they’ll do. Some horses can fool you. They look and work like donkeys, but put them in a race and they suddenly surprise you.

  We fell into silence then, but he could see something was bothering me and asked what was wrong. So I told him that if only our family lived in Sydney, things would be easier.

  I explained that people there are always advertising for children to clean houses or run messages, girls to mind babies or take on light duties. Or smart boys to manage a horse and chaise, maybe. They advertise for grooms too. But it’s only city people wanting them—never folks round here—and if things don’t get better, Mr Hobbs might have to put our whole family off his land.

  Mr de Mestre tried to tell me that all families have their good times and bad—it’s just luck. I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t see his family ever having bad luck. But he said his father lost almost everything one year and had to sell up in Sydney. That meant a grand house on the corner of Elizabeth and Liverpool Streets, that overlooked Hyde Park. So they all had to move to Terara, and that year he died, and left Mr de Mestre, who was fourteen, and his brother Andre to run the place. That had me wondering how I would have managed, because I’m only a year younger.

  His mother did well—enough to build a wharf and a steam flour mill and set up stores. But in January last year she lost the wharf in the floods. They were so bad round here that a whole stretch of shoreline—even Mackenzie Street—was washed away!

  We drove on for a bit and I told him I’d been thinking over what he said about land and Pa needing a deposit, and I wondered if maybe I could send Pa some of my pay each week. And he said why not send it all. I’d nowhere to spend it and he could hold some back in case I needed it—otherwise 7/6 a week would really add up.

  ‘To £20 a year!’ We both laughed since that was what Pa shouted when he first heard about my pay, and Ma blushed and tried to shush him.

  I asked if I can give it to Pa each month when I see him and he said he’d make sure George has it ready for me to take whenever I go home.

  Then he asked about the book I was holding and I told him Ma gave it to me. He says he’s read it and others by Mr Dickens, so if I wanted to borrow them I could. And I will, too, if I get some time. By then we were nearing Terara and I was counting the last fence posts till we drove in through the gates and I got to see Archer again.

  I raced round to the stables, threw my arms up to his neck and buried my face against his shoulder. Smelled his coat. Then Tom said maybe Archy had missed me a bit. ‘It’s all the fuss you make of him,’ he said. ‘There were times he’d be looking over his shoulder to see where you were.’ And now that I was back, perhaps he could do with a bit of extra walking before he was bedded down.

  So I set off with him and even the sound of his hooves was comforting—gentle somehow, even though he’s so big, and muffled, when we walked on grass.

  When I brought him back, he bent down and nibbled at my hair.

  Barney said he missed having me to boss around. So I thumped him—but I was only kidding.

  I was in time for evening muck out and inspection. Then over supper Tom asked how I felt about riding again. I said fine.

  ‘You’ve not lost your nerve?’ he said. And I had this sudden cold shiver. I hadn’t thought of that, but now I was worried.

  I probably won’t sleep for worrying.

  Tuesday 22nd January<
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  First thing I tell Tom I want to try. Get it over with. So after I walk Archy I lead him onto the track. The closer I get the more nervous I am. It’s almost as dark as last time and Archer’s looming over me so big in the shadows. But there’s only one way to find out, so I ask Tom to leg me up.

  He says not to push myself, but to take it easy. There’s no hurry. Think of it as just a ride. So I take my time and move Archy up slowly. I don’t try anything fancy; I only want to be comfortable with him. Barney’s on Exeter, but he keeps well away from me.

  I’m knife-edge scared, but determined to show Tom I can do it. I wonder if Archy can tell something’s different, but he doesn’t seem to. He trots up the far end and turns slowly. Waits patiently for the slap on his neck. I take a deep breath and we’re away, settling into stride and I try not to think of anything but staying on down to where Tom’s waiting. Nearer and nearer we come and I’m starting to slow, pulling on the reins when I come level with him and stop.

  ‘Good lad,’ he says. ‘You’re fine.’

  There’s some boys lose their nerve after a fall if they don’t get straight back on again. But not me!

  Sunday 27th January

  Tom went up to the homestead early and when he came back he told Barney and me to pack a blanket and spare shirt each. Blankets for Archer and Moss Rose, too. Then he went off to the cookhouse and appeared soon after laden down with damper and cold mutton, apples and cheese all wrapped up, which he put in his kitbag. Then had us collect a bag of oats and a half-bundle of hay. He threw one over each horse’s back and shouldered his kitbag. We were still wondering where we were going, but he wouldn’t say as we headed out through the gates and onto the road.