Around me the other horses milled, whinnying and wondering what to do.
But I couldn’t lead them now.
White Foot was dead because I had tried to lead us all to freedom.
CHAPTER 9
Billy, 1832
Billy had been in the shepherd’s hut for three months, and all he’d seen were sheep.
Oh, there’d been roos, great mobs of them, and furry bears up in the trees. But mostly his life had been sheep. Watching sheep, eating sheep, stopping sheep from straying, protecting sheep from dingoes. In this land with few fences the lead sheep were all ‘belled’ so that the shepherd could find them to round them up, and keep them more or less as one mob. Sometimes he thought he’d hear sheep bells ringing his whole life.
It was a long way from the fields of home, enclosed for hundreds of years, their neat stone walls so old that flowers grew in their crevices.
There were few flowers here. There were dry yellow ones, from last summer maybe, and now in spring some of the gum trees were blooming. He could smell honey, and hear the heavy hum of bees under the sound of bells. One of the men back at the farm had said that bees here didn’t sting, but Billy didn’t want to rob a wild hive and find out that he was wrong.
A cloud of stinging bees could kill you, just like the snakes, the spiders, the rum and the roads.
He didn’t want to die. More than that—he didn’t want to die here alone.
At least he’d been given a shepherd’s crook, to grab at the sheep’s necks and haul them in the right direction. He had a knife too, and even an old battered pistol to shoot the dingoes, if they came too near, or bushrangers or natives if they attacked, or to shoot a roo to eat. Sheep cost money, but roo meat was free, if you didn’t count the bit of powder needed to load your pistol. He only bothered with the roos’ tails, roasting them over the fire outside his hut, eating them with damper and a bit of treacle. He’d told Roman John he knew how to shoot (trust Master Higgins to learn any new boy that) but he’d been surprised he was trusted with a firearm.
Roman John had shrugged. ‘You’ll soon run out of lead and powder if you go bush. Just make sure you keep the powder dry. Damp powder makes pistols explode.’
Even your own pistol could kill you here.
Billy didn’t mind the dingoes—much: their howling could drive you mad at night. He didn’t even mind the sheep. For the first time in his life he had all the meat he could eat, all the lambs’ tails and mutton from old sheep that’d died. He was ordered to cut the wool away from the bodies; wool was more precious than meat. Wool could be shipped and sold in England; meat only lasted a day or two even in winter before it went bad, if you didn’t have enough salt to preserve it.
The food, exercise and fresh air had made him strong again after the weakness of the voyage. He wondered hopefully if the meat might make him grow taller too, but his trousers didn’t seem any shorter on his legs.
At first his skin burnt and blistered. He’d plaited himself a big wide hat, like the other men’s, using bark that peeled off in great sheets from some of the trees. ‘Cabbage-tree’ leaves made better hats, but there were none around his hut.
The hut wasn’t flash, just poles in the ground with bark walls and roof, and more poles on top to stop the bark blowing away, and a fireplace marked out with rocks in front.
The bark leaked when it rained, but Billy was warm enough under his sheepskins, though they stank a bit. The strange dull trees dropped endless wood for fires; he had to keep piling it on, for he had no flint or any way to make a spark if his fire went out. Raw meat and cold flour and water…it was threat enough to make him heave a big log on his fire before he went inside to bed, and to hurry out to put twigs and dry branches on the coals as soon as he woke up.
But he’d got used to that. Got used to the old man possum that tried to steal his breakfast. Found he was even starting to enjoy the bush around him, sweet air you could breathe deep instead of choking on, birds yakking at him from the branches till he threw them crumbs.
It was the loneliness that killed you.
All his life there had been people. Pallets crowded together at the workhouse (he shut his mind to the years before that). The friendship in Master Higgins’s attic, him and Jem with their bed rolls next to each other, then the prison and the ship…he’d longed to have a bit o’ peace in those days.
But now.
He’d started talkin’ to the sheep. Singin’, just to hear a human voice. At times he’d reckoned he could hear voices, had leapt up hoping someone were comin’. But it was just a bird, or a sheep baaing…
Which was why now, when he heard the yell, he just sat there, holding the branch with the dough wrapped round it over the coals of the fire. Sinkers were better’n damper, in his opinion: easier to make and quicker, and not as heavy in your belly. A bit o’ treacle to cover the sour taste of weevils in the flour, and—
‘You deaf or what? I bin yelling fer an hour!’
The man stood with his hands on his hips. Billy recognised him from back at the farm: one of the men who shared the long stone barracks building, convicts or old lags who’d been freed, he didn’t know which. It didn’t seem to matter out here whether a man had served his sentence or not. What was his name? Gummy Jake, that was it.
Billy stood up. ‘Sorry. Been so long since I heard anyone.’
The man grinned, showing his hard black toothless gums. ‘Know what you mean, matey. You got to approach some of the coves gently like, in case they blow yer head off. Which is why I called out to you. You ain’t barmy yet though, I reckons.’
‘No,’ said Billy. ‘Not yet.’
Jake sat down next to him. ‘Sent me out ter help you bring ‘em in fer shearing.’ He yawned. ‘Do it termorra. Too far to take ‘em tonight.’ He eyed the sinker. ‘Got any o’ that to spare?’
Billy handed the stick to him, and went to mix more flour and water. People. Buildings. Voices other than sheep…
He found that he was trembling.
They were about halfway back, lugging the wool Billy had taken from the dead sheep, pushing the live ones in front of them and keeping an eye out for stragglers, when the thought occurred to him.
Why go back at all?
He had his pistol, and enough powder for at least another thirty shots. There was food back at the hut. He could get to the road, hold up travellers like Flash Jim…
And then what? Run away on his two legs, while they chased after him on horseback?
He needed a horse.
There were horses back at the farm.
Jake gave a yell. ‘Hey, matey. Come look at this!’
Billy wound his way through the mob of sheep, the ewes bleating and hunting for lost lambs, the wethers bending down to hunt for grass. ‘What is it?’
‘Must be old Crookshanks! He were out at the hut afore you. Lost half the sheep afore we found he were gone.’
Billy looked down. Rags, and among the rags, bones. A human skull. ‘What happened to him?’ he whispered.
Jake shrugged. ‘Dunno. Snake bite, maybe. Knew a cove whose jaw swelled up with a bad tooth. Killed him in a week. Maybe the heebie-jeebies got too bad an he shot himself. Known that to happen too.’ He poked at the rags with his boot. It was prison issue, but so old it was held together with twine. ‘No sign of his pistol though. Mebbe a bushranger got ‘im. Some of those cove’s kill you fer a bag o’ flour.’
‘Should we bury him?’
Jake shrugged. ‘Why make work fer ourselves? Plenty more bones about the bush. Some coves reckon they can walk all the way to China. Bush gets them an’ all.’
It seemed wrong to leave the bones. But Jake was already moving the sheep on. Billy bit his lip, and followed him.
CHAPTER 10
The Horse, 1832
We walked. It is hard to see where to put your hoofs when you are walked in a mob, with men behind and on each side, using their whips to keep you close together. We ate when the men let us—never enough, so our
ribs began to show. We drank at the waterholes they led us to.
Until one day we walked no more. Instead we were left to look for food, and drink at the narrow creek that trickled along one end of our new enclosure.
The barriers were made of logs now, not the white stuff. The logs were so high I doubted even I could jump over them, and felt solid when I leant against them.
I called out to the others of our mob to come to me…the ones who were left. It was good to have the smells of familiar companions about. We had walked with the other horses for many days, but they were still not really our mob.
I led them down to drink, and stood guard to stop the strangers from nudging them away, and then I led them back to the spot where there were tough tussocks no one had tried to eat before. They weren’t much, but they were better than empty stomachs.
Men came when the sun was high above us. At first I paid them little attention as they led one horse away, and then another. They were not my mares or their foals.
And then they came for me.
Grey Beard and Red Beard leant on the lengths of wood keeping us in. Grey Beard laughed. ‘You said you could break any horse. Let’s see what you can do.’
Red Beard chewed a blade of grass, not properly, like a horse swallowing it down, but so that it sat in his mouth. ‘I will and all,’ he said, showing his teeth. ‘He’s a beauty, ain’t he? Half Arab, I’d say. Look at that head.’
I knew they were talking about me. I tossed my head, and pawed at the ground.
‘Bet you a guinea you can’t break him.’
Red Beard showed his teeth again. ‘That’s a guinea easy earned. There ain’t no horse I can’t break in just three days. I gets half o’ the price for him when I break him, remember.’
‘I’m no man to skimp my bargain,’ said Grey Beard. He spat on his hand, and held it out to the other. ‘You have my word on it.’
That’s when Red Beard threw the rope at me.
It went around my neck. I leapt in the air, bucking, fighting to get free, but the rope—that’s what they called the white stuff, I knew by now—choked me so much I grew dizzy.
At last I realised that the more I tried to get away, the more I choked. I quietened, my sides heaving, and paused to see what Red Beard wanted. The other horses were milling around the yard, disturbed by what was taking place.
Grey Beard pulled some of the wood away. Red Beard tugged at the rope. I pulled back, prancing and shaking my head to get rid of the restriction. It wouldn’t shake free. I had to follow him, or choke.
I heard one of my mares whinny behind me. I tried to call back, but the rope was still too tight.
That was the last I ever saw of my horses.
How can you be King when you’re alone?
Step by step, Red Beard led me to another enclosure. This was made of wood too, but smaller and stronger-looking than the one before. It was so small I couldn’t easily turn around, even if I hadn’t had the rope about my neck.
Red Beard fastened the rope to one of the bits of wood. He climbed into the enclosure. I tried to bite him, but he lunged away behind me where I couldn’t reach.
I tried to kick. I missed.
I felt another rope, this one under my tail. Another circled my body. I could hardly move, the ropes held me so close.
Red Beard ducked under the ropes, and came up to my head. He tied more ropes across my face. Again, I tried to bite. He flicked me with his whip. The pain made me lose my aim.
I tried to lift my head. I tried to yell, in anger and in fear.
I could do nothing. Nothing but stand in that wood cage held tight by ropes.
The man climbed over the railings again. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave you there a while, shall we? Let you get used to who is boss.’ He showed his teeth again. They were yellow, like old bones.
And so I stood there. The day grew hot. I needed to drink, to eat. My body began to ache, and shake, from standing still so long.
Then he came back.
‘Down!’ he yelled. ‘Down! Down! Down!’
The whip lashed me from every side. At last I realised what he meant. I knelt, buckling my legs till I was kneeling on the ground.
Back he came, into my pen. I felt his weight upon my back. I tried to rise, to shake him off. But every time I moved he whipped me hard again.
At last I knelt there, quiet. I heard him chuckle. ‘Said that I could do it. Let’s see how you obey tomorrow, heh?’
He got off me then. He loosened my ropes—not much, but so I could move enough to stop the pain. He brought me water in a small container. It smelt of wood, not of stones and mountains and the sun. But I drank. My mouth was dry, drier than I had ever known.
And then he left me, tied up and all alone.
CHAPTER 11
The Horse, 1832
Have you ever been alone? Truly alone? No other horses whinnying nearby; no thump of hoofs. No humans even, or kangaroos. Just by yourself. Alone.
I didn’t know if he would ever come again. I thought I might die there, of hunger and of thirst. But they were not the worst.
The worst was being alone.
I had been a king. Now I was nothing. A horse alone is nothing. Trapped inside this cage.
The night came. I shivered, but not from cold. Bats flew; an owl hooted somewhere near. Dawn came more slowly than I had ever known it to.
Red Beard walked up to me again. He flicked me with his whip. It stung my face, my back—only lightly, but I still shook, for I had done nothing to make him whip me.
He made me kneel. He mounted me again. This time I stayed still, and when he squeezed his knees together and pulled on the rope in my mouth, I stood up slowly.
He laughed. I was learning about humans now. I knew what a laugh was, and a whip. He whipped me on my sides and face, just to show he could, but lightly, to show me it could be worse.
Up and down and up and down. Finally he gave me water, though still no food. He wouldn’t even let me bend my head to take a bite of grass.
All day he made me obey his words and signals: up, down and halt. And then he let the ropes go, all but the ones about my face and tail, and began to lead me, out of the pen, this way and that.
I followed, my head down, obeying everything he said. What else could I do?
He led me out of the pen, into a bigger paddock. He held the ropes around my face in his hands. And then he clambered onto my back again.
I waited, feeling the roughness of his body against my skin. I waited till I felt he had relaxed.
And then I reared.
The whip lashed me, one side and then another, but I didn’t stop. I reared and bucked, over and over, ignoring the pain. My legs came down on the wooden rails, smashing the wood to splinters, hurting my knee. But still I reared and bucked. No pain was going to stop me now. No man was going to ride me.
And then I felt him slide. He gave a yell. All at once he was below me, trying to crawl free. I trampled on his legs, over and over. He rolled over toward the pen to get away from me, using his arms. I bent down and bit his arm. I tasted blood. I had never tasted that before. I rose again, onto my back legs, and yelled in triumph as he snarled at me.
I galloped about the paddock as he yelled for help.
At last I stopped. I was shaking, sweating. I knew the whip would come again. I had defeated Red Beard, but there were more men to hurt me.
Grey Beard came. He half-carried Red Beard away. Then he came back. He looked at me for a while, not speaking. He went away again. When he came back it was with water in a bucket, and something that smelt like grass after the summer has been dry.
He poked the bucket through the railings, and threw the dried grass in too. I sniffed, to see if it would hurt me, but it smelt good. I drank, and ate, and watched the man.
He watched me too.
‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Didn’t think I’d see the day old Hogan would get his from a horse. Needed to be taken down a peg, that man. But what to
do with you?’
I looked at him. Most horses wouldn’t look straight at a man. But I had been a king.
‘Could send you to the tallow house for boiling down for fat. Be a pity though, a horse like you. But Hogan says if he can’t break you, no one can. Ain’t no horse has ever trampled Hogan before.’
He chewed a shred of his beard, still watching me. I ate more of the dried grass.
‘Tell you what. I’ll keep you for a year. See how you go. Pay Hogan for his share. Let you in with the mares, too. Get a few good colts that way. Then in a year…’ He shrugged. ‘If you ain’t quietened down by then, if no one’s broke you in, I’ll sell you for whatever I can get. Sixpence to the tallow house or fifty guineas to some fool who thinks you can be broke.’
I watched him through the railings, and wondered if he would come close enough to bite.
CHAPTER 12
Billy, 1832
The farm were just as he had left it.
There was the horse paddock, and the paddock where the sheep waited to be shorn, and the grassy flats that were left to cut for hay.
There were other cleared areas too, not fenced, one planted with potatoes, and one with corn, still too green for cobs. Two of the men had to sit up all night guarding the crop from the roos. Part of the creek flats were planted with pumpkins, big-leafed vines still without any fruit.
It was good to sleep with the noises of other people, in the big stone barracks where the men slept on last year’s musty hay.
Old Roman John didn’t sleep at the barracks—he had his own farm, a small one next to the Reverend Hassell’s, with a house on it and a wife. She kept to herself; none of the men had ever seen her. Most of the men here hadn’t spoken to a woman in years. Billy didn’t wonder that Mrs John stayed away.
The storeroom was stone too, with holes to fire through if the natives or bushrangers attacked. The cook shed was next to the storeroom, though most of the cooking was done on the fire outside by Cookie One Arm.
The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger Page 4