Shepherd

by Catherine Jinks

  I know he won’t leave without the gun, though. And I don’t want him leaving with it.

  ‘Ye can do that?’ he asks. ‘Ye can find yer way to Barrett’s farm?’

  I nod. The hill isn’t high. Though long, it’s level—a ridge more than a hill. I climbed it once to gauge the lay of the land.

  ‘Well then, let’s go.’ Rowdy jumps up, holding out his hand for the carbine.

  Again I shake my head. He’s not going anywhere in those boots. ‘Sit down,’ I tell him, dropping the gun. Then I take out my knife and call Gyp over.

  I need two more pieces of sheepskin.

  6

  GYP HAS saved my life three times. She did it when she attacked Carver the day he tried to kill me. She did it when she told me that there was a snake in my bed, and again when the chimney caught fire while I was asleep next to it. If she hadn’t woken me, I would have burnt to death. So would Carver, though he wasn’t grateful. He used to kick her whenever he could.

  Gyp’s ma was Mr Barrett’s old collie, Scylla. She was a fine dog. I’ve never met Gyp’s father, Bear, though I know he belongs to a man called Phelps, who visits Mr Barrett on occasion. Mrs Trumble, the overseer’s wife, once told me Bear had saved a drowning child somewhere out west.

  She also told me, more than once, that I was greedy, shifty, lazy and worthless. But she’s the greedy one. Her husband’s a lag—what she likes to call a ‘government man’—yet she came here a free woman to be with him. So she thinks herself better than most and makes a great show of it, for all she’s only Mr Barrett’s cook. She eats more in a week than I do in a month, claiming all the choicest cuts and sweetest produce for herself.

  Her husband would be flogging us bloody if Mr Barrett let him—I’ve not had a civil word from George Trumble. The others at the farm don’t care for me either. Jim Percy is sullen and prone to fits of rage. Charlie McTeale finds his greatest pleasure in telling lies about people. When I first arrived at the farm, he claimed that I hadn’t been lagged for poaching but for housebreaking. He said he knew me from the gaol at Bury St Edmunds.

  It was a lie, of course. I was in that gaol for two months, awaiting the July Quarter Sessions, and I never once saw Charlie. He’s not even a Suffolk man, though he says he was passing through. He’s a horse thief himself but has no horsemanship; I refuse to believe he was an ostler, as he claims. I think he lied about that to win a place with Mr Barrett. He’s certainly lied about the women he’s bedded and the blacks he’s killed, just as he lied by blaming me whenever he broke a crock or a tool. Sometimes George Trumble would believe him, sometimes not. I don’t know who’s taking the blame now that I’m off the farm. Jim Percy, perhaps—though Jim’s not one to take ill treatment kindly. I once saw him chase after Trumble with a scythe.

  Jim was f logged for that. I’m surprised he wasn’t sent to Norfolk Island. Perhaps Trumble wanted the chance to torment him further; when Jim was still healing, Trumble would clap him on the back and set him to work in the sun so the sweat would sting his fresh scars.

  Is it any wonder I’ve always preferred Gyp’s company? She’s not sullen, she never lies, and she doesn’t fill your ears with endless, pointless, dangerous chatter.

  Rowdy is so busy talking that he’s blind to where he is. This is a well-used path, heading straight for water, but he doesn’t comment on the musky smells, the droppings, the tracks, the feathers, the footprints, the marked tree trunks. When birds call and flit, he doesn’t pause to watch them in case they’re warning us of something bigger. When the wind shifts, he doesn’t stop to listen for new sounds, or sniff for new smells. He just saunters along like a captain on a quarterdeck.

  Why is he so careless? Because he’s handsome? Because he’s foolish? Because he has the gift of the gab? Has he never been beaten or robbed or betrayed? Has he never looked over his shoulder?

  At least he’s keeping his voice down.

  ‘Was it Carver scarred yer face?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Is that why ye tried to kill him?’

  I shake my head. ‘He tried to kill me.’

  ‘Why didn’t ye tell Barrett?’

  ‘Because Mr Barrett wouldn’t have believed us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Carver always used a spear.’

  ‘A spear?’ Rowdy seems puzzled. ‘Where did he get that?’

  ‘He stole it from a black he killed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  That’s shut him up. I remember how scared I was when Carver first told me about the dead black. I remember wondering when the other blacks would descend on us to take their revenge. Carver had brought back the murdered boy’s property; I felt sure that the other blacks would come for it. Aside from the notched spear and woomerang, there was a sharp flint, a finely woven basket and a net made of grey yarn spun from tightly twisted opossum fur. I spent a lot of time examining that net and it was a miracle of workmanship, as fine as anything I ever saw in a Suffolk trout stream at night—though I have to admit I’m not well acquainted with nets, since my father didn’t favour ’em. They were too easily damaged, he said, by the weighted thorn bushes thrown into the dubs and pools to foil poachers like us.

  The dead boy’s basket impressed even Joe, who declared that it must have been stolen from a settler. Carver liked it too; he put his tobacco in it. But after he was gone Joe decided to burn the thing, lest it be used as proof against us. He burned the net, too. And the spear.

  Carver also brought back an ear as a keepsake. He tried to dry it in the sun, but the ants consumed a sizeable portion. Later he took us to see the corpse and it was gone. Though Carver blamed wild dogs, I knew better. I had seen the fresh spike of a grass tree, chewed at the bottom. The blacks do that.

  Gyp hasn’t taken her nose from the ground in a very long time. There must be so many scent trails…even I can smell some of ’em. I’ve not walked this way before, but someone uses it a lot. There have been kids along here, drawing in the dirt. Dropping their plucked flowers. Spitting out tree gum.

  Speaking of which…

  ‘Christ. Who’s that, now?’ says Rowdy as I halt to peer up at the sky. Over to the sou’west there’s a smudge of smoke.

  Campfire.

  ‘Blacks,’ I tell Rowdy. But they’re a long way off—too far to bother us. Gyp hasn’t even raised her head.

  ‘Are ye sure?’ Rowdy asks.

  Of course I’m not sure. But the footprints hereabouts are quite fresh. And even if Carver has gone, he wouldn’t take his horses down that way. Why force ’em through the wilderness when there’s a road nearby?

  ‘How d’ye know they’re blacks?’ Rowdy says as I pass him.

  ‘Footprints.’

  ‘Footprints?’

  I point at the ground. They’re everywhere. I can’t believe he hasn’t seen ’em.

  ‘Oh.’ He pauses to study the marks. ‘These are not Carver’s, then?’

  Carver’s? Since when did Carver go barefoot, with a crowd of kids? ‘No.’

  ‘Bloodthirsty devils. They’ll not be coming back, then? We’ll not run into ’em?’

  ‘Not any time soon. Not if that’s their fire, yonder.’

  ‘What if they’re lyin’ in wait for us?’

  ‘You talk too much.’

  It has to be said. The noise he makes in response is halfway between a snort and a gasp.

  ‘If you talk too much,’ I warn him, ‘you won’t hear what’s coming.’

  I can’t see his face, because he’s behind me. But when he answers, his tone is dry. ‘We none of us heard what was comin’, me lad, or we wouldn’t be here now.’

  That’s true, I suppose. When I was caught with my brace of pheasants, the rain was teeming down, battering treetops, smacking against roofs, drumming on roads and making so much noise I couldn’t hear the splashing of footsteps over the splashing of rain in the gutters and ponds. The keeper’s hand was on my shoulder before I knew he was there.

  Sometimes lately I�
�ve wondered if I did know he was there. I was so tired and cold and alone by then; when my father was taken there was no one left. The only welcome I received anywhere was at the beer shop he patronised—and the landlord there gave me a dry corner only because of the cheap game I brought him.

  Perhaps I heard what was coming all too clearly. Perhaps I heard the silence stretching out before me and fled from it, straight into the arms of the law.

  But I shan’t say this to Rowdy Cavanagh. I shan’t tell him that he should have learnt his lesson, or that the more he talks, the more likely it is Carver will hear him. Because if I do speak, he’ll only answer. And then there will be more conversation.

  As long as he’s silent I can forget he’s here—especially if I stay ahead of him. His voice bothers me. So does his face. Though his chin’s like a chisel and his eyes are like cornflowers, he still reminds me of Joe. They’re part of the same picture. And I don’t want to think about Joe. I don’t want to think about what happened to him.

  ‘Jaysus!’ Rowdy squeaks as a distant gunshot cracks the air. I fling myself flat on my belly and he joins me a moment later. We both lie in the dirt, listening. At last I put my ear to the ground.

  Nothing.

  Gyp doesn’t seem concerned. She shoots me an inquiring look, ears cocked. That shot was nowhere near us. There’s no cause for alarm.

  I scramble to my feet.

  ‘What are ye doin’?’ Rowdy whispers. He grabs my ankle. ‘Stay down!’

  ‘They’re miles away.’ To the nor’east, near the road; it may have been a misfire.

  Even so, we shouldn’t linger.

  ‘If they’re miles away,’ Rowdy mumbles as I shake him off, ‘what’s the hurry?’

  A stupid question, not worth answering.

  ‘Tom?’ He’s following me, now, bent slightly at the waist as if he wants to keep his head down. ‘What if ’twas Barrett’s men shootin’? What if they’ve brought supplies up from the farm?’

  ‘They’re not due.’ Here we are. Here’s the river.

  The rivers in this country are small and dry. This one is more rock than water. It runs along the base of the hill, which rears up beside it like a great, sod wall. The white-limbed trees are clustered more thickly around the river than they are on the hillside. They’re so thin on the crown of the hill that its jagged spine is clearly visible, even from way down here.

  I can’t see anything suspicious.

  ‘Mother o’ God!’ Pebbles scatter as Rowdy pushes past me, following the trail to the edge of the river bank. He squats on a patch of sand and scoops up water to drink.

  Doesn’t the fool realise how exposed he is?

  Gyp yelps. Sure enough, she’s spotted something. But when I turn my head to look, there’s no armed man nearby.

  A stray ewe is standing in the water.

  ‘Hello, Queenie.’ Poor girl.

  She bleats. Gyp cocks her ears.

  ‘Queenie?’ Rowdy says, splashing water on his face. ‘That’s a hell of a name for a sheep.’

  Without bothering to reply, I head for the river. Gyp bounds ahead of me and wades into the nearest rill, where she starts lapping.

  ‘Though now I come to look, she is the very spit o’ the young queen,’ Rowdy observes with a crooked grin.

  What? ‘She is not!’

  ‘She is.’ He points at Queenie. ‘No chin. Pop eyes. And her nose is identical.’

  Remembering the picture of Queen Victoria that hangs in Mr Barrett’s parlour, I’m struck silent.

  ‘This sheep’s a deal more handsome, mind you,’ Rowdy says, while I dunk my head in the water. It’s good water: cold, clear, sweet, clean. I drink my fill and soak my shirt-tails and neckerchief.

  ‘We’ve no time for a bite o’ mutton, I daresay?’ Rowdy’s gaze is still fixed on the sheep. ‘I’m a mite peckish, now my thirst is quenched.’

  Is he joking? He must be. Else he’s mad.

  I’m about to tell him so when there’s another shot—closer, this time.

  Why do they keep firing when they must know we can hear?

  My father was brought down by a dog.

  The keeper he shot had a night-dog named Grumbo—a great bull mastiff, brindle-coloured so as to pass unnoticed in a moon-dappled wood. Like all keepers’ night-dogs, he was trained not to savage his quarry but to hold it down until the keeper came. Grumbo’s master was dead, however, so Grumbo kept my father pinned until dawn, when a passing farm-hand ran to fetch the parish constable.

  This was on the Elveden estate. The keeper’s name was Clegg, and he was the one who shot my brother. The constable and the underkeeper claimed that my father fought them and had to be subdued. I don’t know the truth of this, but my father had lost use of his left hand long before he reached the Assizes.

  He served as an example, I’m sure. Ixworth had long been known as a poaching village; there was much talk about the ‘gangs’ who set off to shoot pheasants from the Mackerel’s Eye. My father preferred to work alone, but it made no difference. Though he claimed that the shooting was accidental, caused by a dark night and a thick copse, he was sentenced to death.

  Gamekeepers may ‘accidentally’ shoot folk, but not poachers. Besides, my father had threatened Clegg in the constable’s hearing.

  I never blamed Grumbo for what befell my father. Grumbo was a good dog who served a bad man. Grumbo didn’t shoot my brother or hang fish-hooks on stretched lines at face-height, so that one of them took out my father’s eye. Grumbo didn’t cut off Lope’s feet.

  That night-dog knew to obey a call like an owl’s hoot and was as silent in the coverts as ever Lope was. I heard that he once outfaced a young bull.

  I wish him well, wherever he is. I’ve yet to meet a dog I would count as an enemy—save for the wild ones.

  Rowdy grabs a handful of my shirt. He begins to yank me across the river, splashing through puddles and stumbling on stones.

  ‘Wait!’ I dig in my heels, but he’s stronger than he looks. ‘This makes no sense,’ I cry as I stagger after him.

  Gyp follows us.

  ‘Come on!’ Rowdy’s heading straight for the hill and I know why. The blacks’ fire is downstream, the road is upstream and the gun is behind us; there are threats in every direction but one. We can’t go back, so we must go up.

  ‘What are they shooting at?’ I demand, struggling to loose myself.

  ‘At somethin’ they think is us,’ he replies. But he’s wrong—I’m sure of it. Carver isn’t so jumpy.

  All the same, I can’t stop Rowdy dragging me along until the steep terrain starts to wear on him. At last his pace slows and his breath quickens. When I finally wrench myself free, he lets me go without protest, happy not to be pulling my weight.

  This is nonsense. I feel like a grouse being flushed. Why would they give us so much warning?

  ‘Rowdy—’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘Listen to me—’

  Bang! Another shot.

  Rowdy ducks. So do I, though I know the ball can’t reach us. That gun is somewhere between the road and the river, about half a mile away—or perhaps a little less.

  ‘Come on,’ Rowdy says. He tries to grab me again but I stand my ground.

  ‘Why are they firing?’ I ask.

  ‘To kill us, o’ course.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘They’re too far away.’

  ‘Come on, boy!’

  ‘Wait.’ I’ve got it. They are flushing grouse. ‘They’re driving us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re driving us like game.’ I point to the west. ‘We can’t use the road.’ I point to the east. ‘We can’t brave the blacks.’ I point uphill. ‘They want us going straight up there—they knew we would.’

  Rowdy stares at me. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he finally says.

  I turn away and start retracing my steps, moving downhill, where the trees are thicker. It all makes sense now. If I were Carver, scouring miles of forest for a man and a boy, I’d tak
e my horse to the base of the hill and climb to the highest point. Then I’d herd my quarry towards my position by using the blacks to the east, the road to the west and an armed Cockeye to the north.

  Carver’s not on the road, he’s on the hill. I’m sure of it. He’s standing high on a crag, gazing down on the treetops like a hawk, looking for…what? A red shirt?

  Pray God he doesn’t have a spyglass.

  ‘Tom!’ Rowdy’s reluctant to follow. He hesitates, even as Gyp lopes after me. ‘Tom, wait!’

  I’m not about to wait. Cockeye must be closing in. We’ll have to be quick if we want to dodge him.

  ‘Tom! Where are ye goin’?’ He’s chasing me, now; his footsteps tell me as much. ‘For Chrissake, lad, I’m not a bloody poacher,’ he pleads. ‘What do I know about drivin’ game? You don’t need country ways to pass false coin—you just need to know how to talk to folk.’

  Talk, talk, talk. That’s all he ever does.

  ‘How can I help you if I don’t understand?’ he continues breathlessly.

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Numbskull. ‘Do you understand that?’

  He must, because he falls silent. Now I can listen for the tell-tale sounds of stalking: a whir of wings, the snap of a stick, the creak of leather. Gyp’s listening too, as she sniffs the air. But she doesn’t seem unduly concerned.

  And here’s Queenie again, wandering among the river rocks, pausing to shoot me a lost look. ‘Sorry, girl,’ I say, because we mustn’t stop. Not for a moment.

  Our one way out of this trap is the road. If Carver’s up on the hill, it means he overtook us. If he overtook us, it means he was mounted. And if he was mounted, then his horse must be waiting at the western tip of the hill, where the road skirts its base.

  We need to reach that horse before Cockeye reaches us…

  Oh Christ. Musket shots. Two of ’em.

  ‘Jaysus!’ Rowdy freezes. He peers at the slope above him, trying to see where the shots came from. ‘Two o’ the buggers? I thought Nobby was dead.’

  He was. I’m sure he was. ‘Two guns don’t mean two people,’ I say. But if Carver’s on the hilltop with two loaded muskets, why fire ’em both?