The Horse Thief

by Téa Cooper

  Twenty-Six

  The imposing gates of Maitland Gaol threw a shadow that penetrated even the depths of the prison cart. Jim craned his head and peered through the narrow slit in the canvas, flexing his cramped muscles and aching shoulders. Massive sandstone walls towered above him. He shrugged, trying to ease the deadening ache in his body. At what point in time had he crossed the line from dutiful son to horse thief? When he first heard Kilhampton’s accusation he had expected to laugh it off. He was no thief. Goodfellow belonged to his father. Your father is dead, the voice in his head reminded him. And he had inherited Goodfellow.

  The truth sat like a solid stone in his belly. No matter what accusations Kilhampton made he couldn’t think of his father as a thief. But … there were no ‘buts’ in the law. He knew that well enough. As unpalatable as it may be to admit, his father had stolen the animal. In the face of the law it was irrefutable and he’d walked straight into the trap by delivering Goodfellow to Helligen. Gaining from stolen goods? He’d heard the muttered conversation between Kilhampton and the bloody constable.

  The cart ground to a halt and the back door flew open. Jim blinked against the hovering lamplight.

  ‘Down you get and no funny business.’

  He shuffled along the timber seat and launched himself onto the hard-packed dirt, staggering as he landed. The heavy chains destroyed any sense of natural balance he may once have had. Out of the cart the full impact of the towering sandstone walls hit. Caught like a rat in a trap. There would be no escape. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping his hair into his eyes and cutting through his shirt.

  ‘Foul bloody night. We’re not hanging around. All yours.’ The constable pushed him at the turnkey with a sniff and disappeared into the darkness. The cart rattled back towards the gates and they clanged shut.

  A jab in his kidneys propelled him across the courtyard to a massive door, padlocked and bolted. The turnkey swung a heavy chain up from his waist and inserted a key into the lock. He turned it with a clunk then drew back the bolt and released the door. A sound far louder than the screeching wind assaulted his ears and the hairs on his neck quivered. The shouts of men, defiant whistling, and women. Women’s voices. Singing. The cries of children. A hell on earth.

  Led through another doorway and into a corridor lined with solid timber doors, Jim gritted his teeth and fought back the desire to pull away from the sour-smelling gaoler. They passed at least a dozen more tightly sealed doors with small barred windows before the turnkey jabbed him again. Taking it to mean they had arrived at their destination Jim stopped. The tunnel of the dark corridor stretched ahead and behind him. The clamouring noise shot through with the howling whistle of the wind drummed inside his head.

  The key twisted in the padlock and the door swung open with a metallic grind. Plunged into an eerie gloom, he was trapped in a tiny space between the putrid gaoler and a barred gate. He waited, hands hanging by his sides, the metal of the cuffs cutting into his wrists while the door behind him was locked once more. In front of him was another door of iron bars and through it a damp, dank smell wafted, a mixture of festering humanity and bodily fluids.

  The turnkey fumbled with another lock and the barred gate swung open. A final shove and he toppled onto the ground. He crawled around in time to catch the turnkey disappearing then stilled. Alone in the darkness. The fetid air coated his tongue. Below the constant whistle of the wind and the muted noises of the prison, the rasp of shallow breathing sounded. Not the regular breath of sleeping men but a tense silence, as if something held its breath and waited in the shadows.

  A sudden longing for the fresh clean air of the bush swept him. Another door clanged shut. His eyes adjusted to the darkness; a pale slant of moonlight shone through the two barred windows high above his head, throwing a pattern of bars across the dirt floor. He turned, scouring the recesses of the cell. Huddled mounds became visible. He eased down onto his haunches in the centre of the cell, filling the only space that guaranteed he wouldn’t sprawl across one of the blanketed bundles. Four mounded shapes, one propped in each corner, with heads resting on knees, arms pulled tight around their legs as though they were gargoyle cornerstones, part of the solid walls.

  His chains rattled as he eased the blanket around his shoulders and hunched down with his legs crossed, listening to the rasping gasps, picking out the individual breathing patterns. He measured the size of the cell. No more than three paces by four. Above him iron girders reinforcing the ceiling ran the length of the cell.

  A long slow exhalation and a movement. From one shrouded bundle a face appeared, eyes dark as Hades; cheekbones bleached white by the moonlight above a bushy beard. ‘You’re in the way. Back against the wall.’

  The sound took him by surprise. He twisted around. Back against the wall, where?

  ‘There something the matter with you?’

  He shook his head and pushed onto his knees, shuffled across the floor useless as a baby with the weight of the chains, until he reached the wall beside his hollow-eyed companion.

  ‘Sort the links out. It’ll give you enough play to sit. You’ll get used to it soon enough.’

  He shot a glance across the cell at the man lounging against the opposite wall and took heed of his words.

  ‘What’ve they got you for?’

  ‘Horse thieving,’ Jim muttered. He fiddled with the rusty chains until he could turn and take a closer look at his cellmate. A long beard covered the lower half of his blackened face and his straggling hair hung almost to his shoulders. ‘You?’ He received no response. How long would this last? The turnkey hadn’t taken his name, hadn’t recorded his arrival. What about sentencing, facing a court? ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘Either you prove your innocence or you’ll be committed to stand trial at the next quarter sessions. If you’re lucky you’ll get bail or they’ll keep you here in the interim.’

  Proving his innocence was a long shot. There was no escaping the fact his father had stolen Goodfellow, no matter which way he looked at it. By virtue of his father’s death he now owned Goodfellow. What in God’s name had possessed him to take him back to Helligen? If he hadn’t done that the worst thing Kilhampton could have done was kick him off the property. ‘That’s a long shot.’

  ‘Guilty or not? No point in sitting around waiting to see what happens. You need someone to speak for you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t do it, but I’m responsible. It’s a long story.’ A long story that still made little or no sense. It had spiralled out of all control and he was being sucked down into the vortex of the past, made to pay for events that had occurred when he was no more than a child.

  ‘You’re going to have a lot of time on your hands to sort your story out. Magistrate ain’t due for another two weeks. Is the animal branded? Local?’

  Jim nodded. ‘Stud stock, local, branded.’

  ‘You’re history. Ten years at best. More if you’ve crossed someone with any clout.’

  Oh yes, Kilhampton had clout. He had no doubt about that. And contacts.

  ‘Count your blessings. They did away with the death penalty for horse thieving a few years ago. Not for the likes of me. Or them.’ He indicated to the other three corners of the room with a wave of his hand. Who were these men? Why were they here? Bushy hadn’t given away any details, no names, and no crimes. They all looked as though they could handle themselves and none of them appeared intimidated by their incarceration or their plight. No longer huddled shadows beneath the blankets the men stared back at him, their pale faces clearly visible now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

  ‘What are we going to do about him?’ The bloke in the far corner tilted his head and all but spat the words at Jim.

  ‘Bloody lousy timing.’

  ‘Piss weak.’

  The phrases batted backwards and forwards, the underlying tension tighter than the chains around his wrists. He shuffled further back against the wall and attempted to pull his arms from under the blanket.
>
  Bushy’s hand snaked out and tweaked the blanket free.

  ‘You’re not chained?’

  There was a general rustle and three other pairs of hands lifted and turned. None sported the iron bracelets that chafed his skin. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

  The man closest to Bushy heaved his stubby body vertical then lumbered three paces across the room until his shadow loomed across Jim’s body. With his face almost pressed into the man’s festering crutch he craned his head back. The meaty hands above him brandished a weapon. His heart rate kicked up. A heavy chisel. The scars of cuffs were clearly visible on the man’s brawny wrists.

  ‘Well?’

  He was a sitting duck. Was the bloke threatening him or offering to remove his chains?

  He took a punt and held his arms up. What had he to lose? These men had worked out a way to do without their cursed irons and he wanted the same.

  ‘Not so fast. What do you reckon, boys?’

  ‘We got two choices. Leave ’im trussed or take the risk.’

  ‘Keep him tied. He can’t interfere then.’

  Interfere? What would he interfere in?

  The third man uncoiled himself, long and sinewy with bunched and corded muscles, not an ounce of fat. ‘Or offer him a chance?’ A chance? A chance at what?

  ‘Too much risk. Who the hell is he?’

  ‘James, James Cobb.’ He clamped his lips closed. What was the matter with him? Helligen manners had rubbed off on him. This was no civilised meeting; he’d answered no advertisement though it was where it had landed him.

  ‘No names.’ Bushy turned to him, and then nodded up at the two men. ‘Give him a go. He’s got no bloody chance. Horse thief’ll go down for ten at least.’

  ‘Pfft.’ A globule of spit flew through the air and landed with a soft thud on the dirt in the centre of the cell. The fourth man threw back his blanket revealing a pile of worn and rusted implements at his feet, a small bow saw and several cold chisels. ‘Keep bloody talking and we’ll be out of time.’

  Bushy heaved to his feet with a resigned sigh. ‘You’ve got a choice. We leave you chained and go about our business or you take your chances with us.’

  A chance at what?

  ‘He’ll have to come with us otherwise they’ll have us pegged.’ Stubby hauled the chain upwards, wrenching Jim’s arms above his head.

  ‘Jesus, you can be fucking dense sometimes. They’re going to know who’s shot through the minute they open the cells up.’

  Swimming through the impenetrable fog that had clouded his mind since the constable had bundled him into the cart, Jim sifted through the garbled words. The only conclusion he could draw was the turnkey had thrown him into a cell where he’d interrupted an escape attempt.

  ‘Are you in or not?’ Bushy’s remark confirmed his suspicions.

  What had he to lose? Stay and he’d have a long wait for the magistrate and then no chance in hell if Kilhampton pulled the full force of the legislature down on his head. Run and maybe, just maybe he’d have the chance of clearing his name, prove to Kilhampton his intentions were honourable. And India. He still owed her an explanation. Had she known? Had she watched from the security of an upstairs window while they bundled him away? Relieved to be free of the man who’d lied to her.

  He pushed the thought away and held his wrists higher, his mind made up. ‘If you’re getting out of here, I’m in.’

  ‘No guarantees.’

  ‘No guarantees.’

  ‘We’ll get rid of these chains then you can make yourself useful.’ Bushy wiped the back of his hand over his hairy lips and stepped back. ‘You got something there to do the trick?’

  The fourth man, a giant, produced a heavy metal chisel and hammer.

  ‘Blacksmith reckons he’s the best in the colony at removing irons. Put your wrists down on the ground.’

  Jim lowered his arms and looked away. One slip of either of the two lethal tools the blacksmith brandished and he’d be minus a few fingers or have his wrists slashed. He tensed as the giant raised the mallet above the chisel then held his breath. The force of the blow ricocheted up his arms making his teeth rattle. Two more swipes and the chains were gone. Meaty fingers clasped his wrists and the bow saw bit into his flesh as it ground across the rusty metal of the cuff.

  ‘What’s the go?’ he choked out in an attempt to draw his attention away from the stench of mangled flesh, his flesh.

  ‘Just do what you’re told. And keep your mouth shut.’

  In response he offered his other wrist and watched as the saw bit through the metal.

  ‘Want these for a souvenir?’ the blacksmith asked as he lifted off his second cuff.

  Jim shook his head. ‘You can have them and thanks. Thanks a lot.’

  With the chains and cuffs gathered in one hand, the blacksmith loosened a sandstone block from the wall and slipped the chains and one chisel onto a pile in the cavity. ‘Leave no trace. Might do some other poor bugger some good.’ He replaced the block and ran his large hand over the wall, checking the alignment.

  Jim twisted his wrists and flexed his fingers. The sudden lack of weight seemed odd. He’d worn the cuffs for less than twelve hours and already he’d become accustomed to their presence. The thought made him shudder. What would it be like to be sentenced to work in chains, wrists and ankles restrained, for years? Would the chains become an accepted item, like shoes or a hat? He wasn’t about to find out. He was well out of the place.

  ‘I owe you. All of you.’ He squinted at the mismatched assortment of men crammed in the small space then settled back against the wall to wait, his head propped against his knees. Soon enough dawn would come and his fate would be set. Given his time again would he have played it the same way? Had he not travelled to Morpeth a couple of months back and picked up his repaired boots wrapped in a single sheet of The Maitland Mercury he wouldn’t be sitting in a cell contemplating the prospect of escape with a motley crew of gaolbirds.

  Boots or no boots, gaol or not gaol, he wouldn’t have given away the opportunity to return to Helligen, to lay the old ghosts to rest. His father could rest easy now. Goodfellow was back where he belonged. Alive, very much alive, not buried under some granite slab along with a thousand heartbreaks and half-truths.

  His only regret was India. For a short time he believed they were destined to be together—separate souls swirling aimlessly in the heavens, finally drawn into each other’s sphere by some unknown force.

  Lost in thought the weight of Bushy’s hand on his shoulder almost sent him through the roof. A dirty and rather smelly hand covered his mouth. ‘Ssh!’ He shrugged it off.

  Through the barred windows high above his head the sky lightened to that peculiar lilac grey that heralded the first spark of dawn. Around the cell the blanketed forms unravelled, grasping saws, chisels and random tools, now weapons, in their hands. Jim forced one foot in front of the other, trying to ease his muscles and restore the blood flow to his cramped limbs.

  Bushy stretched to his feet, reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He slid his hand through the metal bars on the first door and lifted the padlock. With a twist and a jiggle the lock snapped open and the door swung free. The door the turnkey had locked. He moved to the second door and sank to his knees, ran his fingers below the metal reinforcing bar and pulled the hefty chain and padlock aside. He lifted the chisel and inserted it into a hole and proceeded to work his way along the timber, until he lifted free a panel to reveal a gaping hole about eighteen by fifteen inches, open to the corridor.

  Jim stared. He’d walked through that door only hours before and it had appeared solid. No wonder the strange breathing pattern he’d heard and the tense sense of hostility as he’d entered the cell. His arrival had interrupted their preparations. ‘How?’ He clamped his mouth shut.

  ‘Five o’clock turnkey’ll get the boys up on cook’s duty. Makin’ the hominy for breakfast. We’ll spring him before he unlocks their cells. Tie him up an
d make our way outside. Rest of the place’ll be quiet as a grave. There’s a ladder waiting by the cookhouse. Over the wall, down the other side and God willing, we’re out.’

  Jim massaged the throbbing flesh on his wrists. Over the walls, the sandstone walls.

  ‘Main thing is to move as fast as we can.’

  The words swarmed in his head. Out. Out of this godforsaken hole.

  ‘Sure you’re in? Makes no difference. Leave you here trussed up with the turnkey and you can deny all knowledge. Or come with us.’

  His heart lifted for a moment and then sank. All well and good if they were successful. What if they failed? Did he really want to be clobbered with escape as well as horse theft?

  ‘You’re the last one up the ladder but it’ll give you the chance to make a bolt for it.’

  He hesitated too long.

  ‘Make up your mind. Otherwise you’ll be sitting festering here until they decide to pull you up in front of the magistrate. Ten years. No less. Stud stock, branded. Not a hope in hell.’

  ‘I’m in.’ What had he to lose? Nothing. If he was going down for ten years then an attempted escape would make little or no difference, and there was always the possibility they may succeed. ‘And once we’re on the outside?’

  ‘Got horses lined up. You’ll be on your own then. Only got four sorted. Weren’t expecting an extra.’

  Not so good. The gaol sat in the midst of East Maitland surrounded by houses and businesses. The sun would be as good as up by the time they cleared the wall.

  ‘Double with me,’ Bushy said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you to the outskirts of town then you’re on your own.’

  The outskirts would suit him well enough. If he cut across country he’d be back close to Helligen by sunset. Then what? He’d get Jefferson, leave Goodfellow and think about the rest. Kilhampton could lay no claim to Jefferson. There was no proof Goodfellow had sired him other than their uncanny similarity and there were no papers to prove it. Maybe it was a good thing.

  The men stood and Jim followed suit then turned to his hairy-faced companion. ‘Now?’