He can’t have been shot.
‘Wake up. Please.’ I pat his cheek. Has he fainted? He must have fainted. He’s lost so much blood, and Carver nearly winged him, and the pain must be terrible…
But he came back. I didn’t think he would. I didn’t think he’d have the strength. I sent him away and he came straight back.
He came back and saved me.
‘Please,’ I tell him, with a catch in my throat. ‘Don’t die.’ Glancing over my shoulder, I check that Carver isn’t anywhere near. Then I lean close to Rowdy’s ear and whisper, ‘I’m just fetching my gun. I’ll not be long. I haven’t left you.’
That’s when his eyelids flutter open.
Thank God. ‘Can you hear me?’ I ask. That shot by his temple would have all but deafened him.
‘Tom,’ he croaks.
‘I’m here.’ Dropping the pistol, I take his hand and squeeze it.
‘Carver…’
‘He’s gone. For now.’
A crooked smile cracks across his face as he mutters, ‘Sure, and ye saw him off. You’re a warrior, indeed.’
‘No, you saw him off. You saved me.’ Tears sting my eyes. ‘You—you came back…’
‘’Course I did.’ He gasps and winces, as if from a stabbing pain. When he continues, his voice is tight with it. ‘I’ll have ye know I’m as good a man as Gyp.’
I know. I can see that now. You came back for me.
‘I have to fetch my gun,’ I warn him. ‘Stay here. Don’t move. Play dead. He’ll not shoot you if he thinks you’re dead.’
‘Mmmm,’ Rowdy grunts. He shuts his eyes again.
‘I’ll fetch the gun and put you in the house.’ There are beds in the house. There are fireplaces. There’s laudanum and clean linen and glass in the windows, to keep out the flies. ‘I won’t leave you, I swear.’
Rowdy doesn’t answer. He’s playing dead. He looks dead. But I can feel the pulse still beating, very weakly, in his wrist.
So I lay his hand carefully across his breast before I struggle to my feet and limp towards the stables.
My mother used to tell me Cornish tales every night before I went to sleep. She would hold me in her lap, by the fire, with her chin on my hair and her eyes on the flames, and she would murmur stories that she’d heard when she was a little girl in Cornwall. Sometimes she would sing to me. Sometimes she would rock me back and forth, stroking my head. But mostly she told me her tales.
She told me that ants were faeries in the very last stage of their life on earth. She told me about a giant who used to come out of his seaside cavern, sink ships by throwing stones at them, and eat the sailors he brought back home.
She also told me that a married giant named Bolster once fell in love with St Agnes. The saint asked him to prove his devotion by filling a hole in the ground with his blood. It was a small hole and he was a big giant, so he opened a vein over the hole. But what he didn’t know was that the hole led down to the sea—so his blood kept flowing until he died.
I think of that tale as I help Rowdy all the way across the yard, up the back stairs, into Mr Barrett’s bedroom. I have to hold him up like a crutch, and every step opens his wound again, causing fresh blood to flow. How much more blood can he spare? Though a fine, big man, he’s underweight, and must be near emptied.
At least he’s been bled, I suppose. Bleeding helps to bring down fevers.
‘Don’t move again,’ I tell him, as he collapses onto Mr Barrett’s feather bed. ‘I’ll fetch some water. And there’s laudanum here, for the pain.’ There are spare shirts, too. Rowdy’s already stolen one, so we might as well take another. ‘I’ll dress that wound again when I come back.’
‘A drop o’ the craither wouldn’t go amiss,’ Rowdy groans.
‘Yes…well…I’ll look.’ Is it wise to mix rum and laudanum? I don’t know. Besides, I’m sure Carver would have drunk all the booze in the house.
But before I go searching for Mr Barrett’s brandy bottle, there’s something else I have to do.
The Lord Lyndoch was a sickly ship. We’d barely left port before smallpox broke out; Mr Pineo, the surgeon superintendent, had to go about vaccinating those who hadn’t already been infected. Then two men died of consumption. Then, after we passed the Cape of Good Hope, half the ship was laid low with scurvy. Mr Pineo didn’t have berths enough in his hospital. He was so busy that he needed more attendants. And he was blind enough to put his faith in Obadiah Johnson.
Johnson was a shuffling rogue. As a forger, he was greatly favoured; all the lettered lags were. When Mr Pineo gave him lemon-juice duty, Johnson used it to his own advantage, withholding the cure from any young lag who wouldn’t stoop to be his molly.
Two of ’em took their concerns to Mr Pineo, who referred ’em to Mr Stead, the master. But nothing happened because Mr Stead thought Mr Pineo conceited and Mr Pineo thought Mr Stead dishonest. As far as I could tell, they were both right. Mr Pineo, a naval man, was always trying to teach the merchant crew their business, while Mr Stead was skimming supplies. I know this after seeing the volume of stores he unloaded for sale when we reached Sydney Cove. There’s a reason ten men died of scurvy on that voyage.
Scurvy is an ugly affliction, and it filled us all with terror. So did the flogging that one lad received for stabbing Johnson with a sharpened spoon handle. Johnson’s wound wasn’t bad, but the flogging was. Mr Stead chose to regard the attack as mutinous, and after that, Johnson had free rein. Many preferred his attentions to the blight of cankered gums and lost teeth, having already endured worse buggery aboard the prison hulks, but I wasn’t among these unhappy souls.
That’s why I spent the last three weeks of the voyage in a hospital berth. I could hardly lift a hand to defend myself, but Johnson’s only revenge was to leave me alone. Some days I wasn’t fed at all. Sometimes the food was left beside me, and the lag in the next bed stole it.
I survived only because the crewman given the task of killing the ship’s rats after I fell ill would come to me for advice. In exchange he’d give me food and water and other small attentions.
I’ll never forget how it felt to be marooned in that bed, too weak to rise and too ill to do more than groan. I don’t want Rowdy to feel like that. I won’t leave him for long if I can help it.
I couldn’t save Gyp, but I’m not going to let Rowdy die.
My father turns to me in the dark. He’s angry; I can hear it in his breathing. He raises his hand and there’s a riding crop in it.
‘No, Pa, please—’
I gasp as I’m jolted awake, wide-eyed. This isn’t my father’s cottage, nor the shepherds’ hut, neither. I’m not even lying down. I’m in a chair—a padded chair—with a carbine across my lap.
I’m in Mr Barrett’s bedroom.
It must be morning, because daylight is flooding through the strip of exposed window-glass that I wasn’t able to cover last night. The rest of the window is blocked by Mr Barrett’s campaign chest, and by the barrel sitting on top of it. The fireplace is blocked, too; I packed it full of pots and firewood and sharp tools before I went to sleep.
Somewhere a cock is crowing. Could even one of the chickens have survived the night?
Rowdy did. His eyes are open. He’s lying on Mr Barrett’s bed, under Mr Barrett’s bedclothes, wearing Mr Barrett’s shirt. Mr Barrett’s card table sits beside him, its top cluttered with an empty glass, a dirty plate, a heel of bread, a joint of mutton, the vial of laudanum, a bloody cloth and Mr Barrett’s duelling pistol.
‘Good morning,’ Rowdy says in a weak voice.
I sit up, blinking and rubbing my eyes. My head aches, my nose is still throbbing and my foot isn’t quite what it should be, but I’m well enough.
‘I see ye cleaned yerself up,’ says Rowdy.
I did that. You could smell me a mile off, and a stench won’t help me while I’m stalking, for all I might stay downwind. A little soap, a little water, new slops from the laundry—the only thing I need now are a few handfuls of c
rushed leaves and damp earth, to rub into my boot-soles.
Rising, I go to the door, open it cautiously and peer out. Mr Barrett’s four dog traps are lying on the floor of the hallway, carefully spaced, between the bedroom and the front door. I’ve scattered a carpet of broken bottles around ’em.
But the path to the back door is clear.
‘He’ll not bother us again,’ Rowdy says behind me. ‘He’s probably dead by now.’
Hah! I pull my head back and turn to look at Rowdy. He’s not so handsome anymore. His colour is muddy and there are dark circles around his eyes. His cheeks are sunk and his hair is clinging damply to his skull. He looks bad. He looks like the fellow at Bury gaol who was kicked half to death by a turnkey in his cell.
‘That’s what Joe and I thought last time,’ I point out. ‘But we made a mistake.’ Shouldering my carbine, I add grimly, ‘This time I have to be sure.’
Rowdy’s eyes widen in alarm. He struggles to sit up but the pain of it defeats him and he sinks into the pillows again. ‘No, lad, please,’ he croaks. ‘Don’t even think of it. That Carver—he’s mad. He’s a wild beast—’
‘My pa was no better. But he didn’t kill me.’ Seeing Rowdy’s expression, I remember how I used to feel whenever I left Gyp outside the hut at night. So I approach the bed and lay a hand on Rowdy’s arm. ‘You’ll be safe,’ I assure him. ‘Just don’t leave. Don’t use them back stairs.’
‘Tom—’
‘Carver won’t get in here. No one will. I’ve made sure of that.’ It occurs to me suddenly that I need to eat, so I pick up the bread and bite off a mouthful as hard and dry as freestone. ‘Even if someone does get in, you’ll have the pistol. Who’s going to know it isn’t loaded?’
‘Tom—listen.’ Rowdy gropes for my hand. ‘You should take the horse. You should ride for town.’
‘Where is the horse?’ I ask, pulling away. Rowdy looks surprised.
‘Couldn’t you find her?’ he says.
‘I didn’t search for her.’ I was a mite busy last night, what with laying traps, fetching meat, binding wounds and fortifying the bedroom. ‘Why—what did you do with her?’ A terrible thought strikes me. ‘She’s not dead?’
‘Ah, no, she’s good.’ His speech is slowing, as if he’s too tired to talk. I don’t like the way he’s slurring his words. There were lags in hospital aboard the Lord Lyndoch who did the same, and it was never a good sign. ‘She’s a quarter-hour’s walk down the road, in a meadow. You can’t miss her.’
The meadow. I know the meadow. Carver knows the meadow, too. But he was heading in the opposite direction last night, when he stumbled off. Would he have had the strength to go looking for Woodbine? He’d have known she was close, because Rowdy came back.
Rowdy came back before Carver could kill me.
‘Tom.’ With his last flicker of strength, Rowdy raises his hand to grab at my coat-tails as I’m turning away. ‘Don’t go chasin’ Carver. Sure, and no good’ll come of it.’
Gently I detach myself. ‘If I don’t go after him, he’ll come after me,’ I point out, heading for the door.
‘Please, Tom.’
I pause on the threshold. ‘If you’re worried, go to Gyp’s grave and hide there. But don’t tread on the middle step outside. Remember that.’
I’m not sure what else to say. That I shan’t fail him? That he mustn’t lose hope?
‘You should take the horse into town,’ he says. ‘Tell ’em what happened. Tell ’em to send the troopers.’
And leave you here, alone, unarmed, with only a few dog-traps standing between you and Carver?
Not likely.
‘If ye ride into town, and tell the troopers what befell Barrett’s farm, like as not they’ll believe ye,’ Rowdy wheezes. ‘Sure, and you’re a slip of a thing—I could blow you away with a breath. ’Twill be hard for folk to believe that ye killed nine people.’
‘Rowdy—’
‘I’m not finished! Fact is, I’m destined for the triangle—or worse—because I bolted. Stay with me and ye’ll be punished for consortin’ with an escaped convict.’ He offers me his crooked smile. His lips are dry and cracked. ‘You go. Take the horse. I don’t want to spoil yer chances.’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Tom—’
‘No.’ He’s talking pap. ‘If I go to town I’ll be hanged for murder. The troopers won’t believe me. There’s not a magistrate in the colony will think I’m innocent.’
‘Lad, if ye could see yer own face—you’ve the face of a choirboy—’
‘I can’t talk like you!’ God ha’ mercy, we’ve no time for this. ‘I’ve never passed false coin in pubs. I’ve not the knack of persuading folk.’ But I have to persuade Rowdy, so I put everything I’ve got into it, trying not to pause or stammer. ‘Once I’ve dealt with Carver, we can lay our plans. I’ve lived off the land for weeks, in England, and know the way of it—even in a strange country. If we fight shy o’ the blacks, and mind how we light our fires, we’ll fare well enough.’
‘Tom—’
‘Most bolters are caught because they don’t know how to feed themselves. They steal and plunder. We shan’t.’ Seeing his quizzical look, I stand my ground.
‘We cannot part. We’ll fail if we do.’ I don’t say that he’s the only true friend I’ve ever had, leaving aside my dogs. I don’t say that I need a friend to help me survive the dreams that plague me every night. All I say is, ‘Rest here. I’ll not desert you. Don’t you desert me.’
‘Lad—’
‘Stay quiet,’ I add. Then I head down the hallway.
‘He’ll kill ye…’ Rowdy calls, his voice cracking.
No he won’t. Not if I kill him first.
Outside, the air is fresh and the sky overcast. Colonel Bates the rooster is scratching in the dirt. The kitchen chimney isn’t smoking.
There’s no sign of Carver—or of anyone else. I can smell the cool-room from way over here. Those poor folk need burying. I’ll do it when I return.
Three wooden steps lead from the garden to the back veranda. I jump to the ground from the top step and study the next one down. It looks convincing enough, though I put it there myself last night, after removing the original stair-tread. What rests on the risers now is a rotten piece of wood as fragile as a biscuit. When I lift it up, chips and flakes of wood patter down onto the open bear trap underneath.
The jaws of this trap are still stained with Cockeye’s blood. I had to pull ’em off his ankle, last night, using the clamp and the poker. ’Twas harder than entering a pitch-black cool-room full of corpses.
Cockeye’s in the cool-room now, along with the rest of ’em. I owed him that much. And I’ll bury him too, when I come back. If I come back.
Carefully I lower the rotten plank. Carefully I sweep away all the loose splinters. Then I make for the kitchen, where there’s water and cheese and meat.
I don’t want my belly growling while I’m sitting in a covert, stalking game.
A week after Joe and I first crippled Dan Carver, a pack of dogs attacked the fold. Three of ’em kept Gyp and Pedlar occupied, while a fourth squeezed under a hurdle before Joe could stop it. Once in the fold, this beast was protected from musket balls because Joe couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting a sheep. The big grey bastard ran through the flock, taking a bite out of every sheep it passed—ten in all. Only three of ’em recovered.
I remember how I threw myself in front of Sweet-pea to shield her. I remember how I stood fast, armed with nothing but my lantern, and yelled at the approaching dog. I was so angry I would gladly have sunk my own teeth into its neck. I would have done anything to guard my sheep, which were so frightened they rushed the fence, almost overturning it.
The wild dog must have sensed my anger because it made no move against me. Instead it veered and fled, and was pursued as far as the tree-line by Gyp, who savaged it cruelly before they parted. Poor Gyp suffered a torn ear, but I was untouched.
Later it occurred to me that
I could have had my throat torn out or my limbs worried. Joe realised it too. ‘The good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep,’ he recited, then muttered that I was a fool.
But I don’t think it foolish to defend those whom God has seen fit to place in my care. What is a shepherd if not the protector of his sheep? And I’m still a shepherd, though my flock is much reduced.
I might have failed Sweet-pea, and Mags, and Daisy, and Queenie, and Nell. But I’m not going to fail Rowdy Cavanagh.
14
A POACHER who has a good dog can grow lazy. My father told me that. He used to take me stalking without the dogs. My brother would come too. We would follow a hind to its couch, or a hare to its nest, by relying wholly on our eyes and ears and noses. We would watch for prints, droppings and tufts of fur. If we didn’t, my father would beat us.
Sometimes, when I hid from his fierce temper, he would try to track me too. He couldn’t, though, not without his dog. I grew cunning and had a knack for hiding in plain sight. At Bury gaol, though constantly watched, I never really caught the turnkey’s eye. Other folk were put on the treadmill or had their food and bedding stolen, but I always avoided notice. Since I had no money for the luxuries many inmates bought, there was nothing of interest in my possession. Still, I like to think that my talent for concealment worked to my advantage.
On the voyage to New South Wales I skulked about like the rats I killed. A ship such as the Lord Lyndoch has any number of dark holes and dim corners, because the convict quarters are never lit. Among all those hundreds of government men, I was small and quick and quiet and noticed only when the indents were checked for someone with a poacher’s skills. Mostly I went unregarded—except by Obadiah Johnson, who had a finely trained eye for the insignificant.
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