The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  I had always been fond of riding. As a child I had played on my father’s ponies, and at Budgong had begun to learn the proper technique of riding side-saddle. We had all of us improved our horsemanship at Budgong—James in particular. But our removal to Sydney had put paid to any further study of equestrian matters. In town, wherever we did not walk, we took an omnibus.

  So it was both strange and invigorating to find myself once again mounted, and mistress of an almost limitless space. I do not know if I can convey to you the pleasure of a good, hard, unhampered bush ride. It is so utterly absorbing, for one thing. When you are going pretty sharp, and your way is blocked here by a fallen tree, or there by a rivulet—when you must dodge encroaching boughs and descend a hill plentifully scattered with loose stones—then your arms and legs and eyes must be constantly active. There is no time for mournful reflection. Your mind becomes wonderfully concentrated, and all other thoughts simply fly out of your head. Nor do they return very quickly, since after the ride you are generally much too tired to mope. I remember dozing at the dinner table more than once, during this period. Two or three hours in the saddle would leave me so thoroughly exhausted that I had not even the energy to argue with my mother. No doubt this pleased her, though she did complain about the horses. She felt that I was too greedy with them.

  ‘A little exertion is all very well,’ she said, ‘but if you ride those horses into the ground, how will Ida draw the gig, or Sovereign bear a trip to the Post Office? They are not hunters, Charlotte. They are not being kept for your personal amusement. You should be more sparing with them.’

  ‘But they must be exercised,’ I pointed out. ‘Thomas says so.’

  ‘Exercising a horse does not mean exhausting it.’

  ‘I never tire Sovereign. He tires me. He drags like an ox. He is a man’s hack, Thomas says, though he’s barely fifteen hands.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said James, looking up from his mutton. ‘He may not be all that big, Mama, but he has hocks down to the ground.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should be using Ida, Charlotte, in that case.’

  ‘Ida!’

  ‘She is a perfectly useful little horse, and if it weren’t for your silly prejudice—’

  ‘It is not prejudice, Mama!’ (Though of course it was.) ‘Thomas says that a lady should always ride a gelding in preference to a mare.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas!’ My mother spoke crossly. ‘Is Thomas such an oracle, that he must be quoted at every turn?’

  ‘You have told me that I should mind what Thomas says, lest I take a tumble. Have I permission to ignore him now?’

  ‘Don’t be clever. You know perfectly well what I mean.’

  ‘Really, Mama, I do not.’

  ‘These days you talk about nothing but cruppers and galls and pole-straps and suchlike. It is immensely tedious, and not the least bit useful. You sound like a stockman, Charlotte. And you know how I feel about stockmen. They might be sturdy fellows, but you would hardly call them intellectually developed. If you’re not careful, you will find yourself unable to make cultured conversation at all.’

  ‘Cultured conversation!’ I cried. ‘What purpose will that serve, when we never see any cultured people?’

  ‘Do not raise your voice at me.’

  ‘It is your fault, Mama, if I talk about nothing but galls and pole-straps! In Sydney there were books and fashions and lectures to discuss, and people to discuss them with! What have we to remark on here, except manure and milk-veins?’

  ‘Once again, you are grossly exaggerating your plight—’

  ‘Once again, you are grossly exaggerating your plight—’ ‘I am not! I am not! What would you have me do, converse about the Linnean Society with Mary Ann?’

  ‘It would be better than conversing about snaffle bits with Thomas McNeilly. You spend too much time in the stables, Charlotte, it is a dreadful waste of a perfectly good education. Thomas is an excellent coachman, I appreciate his talents, but they are not wide ranging. There is more to life than horses. Rather than frittering away your time in Thomas’s company, you should apply yourself to an improving book. Historical and Miscellaneous Questions, perhaps. Emily has just finished with it.’

  She was no fool, my mother. Nor was she inexperienced. She must have sensed that all was not as it should have been in the stables.

  But her warnings came far too late.

  Thirty-four

  It was a struggle between us from the very first.

  We differed in our opinions. I was perhaps over-confident in my abilities, while Thomas wanted me to ‘start slow’ on the cob. When I protested, he would not yield. Side-saddles were dangerous enough, he said, and ours particularly so. For they were not made to measure. ‘What’s yer height?’ he queried. ‘Five foot six? This saddle’s too short by a good inch, Miss. It’ll pay to learn a few tricks afore ye try yer strength on Sovereign.’

  ‘I shall not ride that cob,’ was my stubborn reply. ‘I don’t care what you say. She is the ugliest, squattest creature I ever saw, with the very worst proportions.’

  ‘Sure, and she’s no beauty. But she’s serviceable.’ He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘For meself, I’d always pick a broad chest and ragged hips over a handsome, round-barrelled, gaudy-lookin’ high-stepper any day. On account o’ when a creature’s bred for ornament, two hours’ work is all she’s fit for.’

  I glanced at him sharply, wondering if I had just been offered some kind of insult. But his expression was too bland to read.

  ‘If you will not saddle Sovereign then I shall girth him up,’ I declared, and proceeded to do so. While Thomas watched, I worked myself into quite a fluster trying to lay the saddle on Sovereign’s back—for it was monstrous heavy, and rucked up the saddle cloth every time I heaved it over his ribs. When at last I triumphed, however, it was only to endure yet another blow.

  Ideally, a lady should mount with two people in attendance: one to help her, and one to hold the horse. Otherwise she will find herself in a pretty pickle attempting to position her right thigh between the pommels without sliding ignominiously off. With one assistant, or even a mounting block, it can be done. With neither, her success depends entirely on her level of expertise.

  It may not surprise you to learn that I embarrassed myself thoroughly, and was forced to ride the cob.

  After that defeat, I was hard pressed to prove myself worthy of the stockhorse. For when it came to riding, Thomas McNeilly was of an acutely cautious temperament. Though he seemed rather more concerned about the comfort of the horse than of its rider, his fanatical attention to the quality of my seat, and the disposition of my hands, stemmed from a perfectly justifiable emphasis on safety. ‘If ye persist in hangin’ off the pommels like that,’ he warned, ‘then ye’ll be goin’ over backwards wit’ every sharp turn.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ I protested. ‘How can I help slipping, when the saddle is worn smooth?’

  ‘Smooth my—’ He caught himself just in time. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss,’ he went on, with elaborate courtesy, ‘but that there’s good doeskin, not leather. And doeskin don’t wear. Ye’re not sittin’ square, nor usin’ yer back, is yer problem.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Then why’s yer left knee out there flappin’ in t’wind? It should be close in, heel down, toe raised.’

  ‘It is!’

  ‘’T’isn’t.’

  ‘Well, what would you know about it? I haven’t heard that you trained up any duchesses to the hunt.’

  ‘Nor you have, neither. So mind me, if ye please. Lessen ye fancy a broken nose.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I exclaimed in alarm, and he burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, Miss. Ye’d not be thinkin’ I’d throw a punch? No, no.’ He shook his head, still grinning. ‘I’m only feared ye’d take a tumble, is all.’

  ‘Well I won’t. You watch.’

  ‘Aye. I will.’

  He did, too. Whenever I was on horseback, he
would not let me out of his sight—at least not for some weeks. He was especially loath to give me free rein with Sovereign, who had an iron mouth and a slightly wilful character. My word, but he was a tiring horse! And he resented the side-saddle too, for which I cannot blame him. Side-saddles are wretched things. If ill-fitting, a side-saddle is far more likely to gall a horse than a man’s saddle will. A sidesaddle is also very uncomfortable for both the rider and the mount, when ascending or descending a hill. Furthermore, its effect on the spine can be most unfortunate. I have known women with one hip higher than the other as a result of riding side-saddle.

  When I put these arguments to Mama, however, she would not allow me to don men’s clothing of any description. She had ‘never heard of such a thing’, she said. Fifteen years later, Louisa freely looped up her riding habit to form trousers when she was exploring the Blue Mountains, but no such latitude was granted to me. Again and again I pointed out that I should not be seen by anyone of importance. My mother replied that Thomas would see me, and Richard Prince, and perhaps one of the tenants, if I rode too far afield. ‘You would be thought a disgraceful object, not worthy of the protection that is normally afforded our sex,’ she declared. ‘At any rate, I have ridden to Budgong and back on that same saddle. It never hindered me.’

  ‘Because it was made for you, Mama! You are shorter than I am! If you had only seen me today, wriggling about like a worm on a hook—’

  ‘What a disgusting comparison, Charlotte.’

  ‘Not nearly as disgusting as my posture. Thomas says he wouldn’t trust me on a steep slope.’

  ‘Then you must stay on the flats,’ said my mother, firmly. She would not be drawn into any further discussion on the matter. And since Thomas was in her employ, he was obliged to enforce her ruling. Though he distrusted side-saddles, and was utterly bemused by the voluminous folds of my habit (which had to be ‘trayned up’ like a theatre curtain, and carried over my arm when I dismounted) he was immovable on the subject of riding astride. ‘Mrs Barton would have the hide off my back,’ he insisted, quite incorrectly. ‘I’d not be wantin’ to lose my place, Miss.’

  ‘You would not lose your place! How absurd! She would not even know, if you didn’t tell her!’ Seeing him shake his head, I added: ‘You could take him for a ride yourself, and meet me at the creek. She never goes down there anymore. And when I have finished, you could ride him back again!’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘It would work! It would, I tell you! Oh, bother it all!’ Frustrated past bearing, I actually stamped my foot. ‘This is ridiculous, what harm can it possibly do?’

  ‘I dunno about harm,’ Thomas replied. ‘But it’ll do no good— leastways not to me. What would I gain from such a ploy? If ye’ll pardon me for askin’.’

  It was an unexpected question, phrased with peculiar emphasis. I frowned up at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ A sudden thought struck me. ‘I hope you’re not wanting money from me?’

  He gave a crooked smile. ‘No, Miss. That I’m not,’ he murmured.

  ‘Because you must see that I have absolutely none at all! If I had any money, I should have bought my own saddle! And my own horse! As it is, I suppose I shall have to crush myself into that nasty object, and haul away at the reins as if I were a seaman hoisting the mainbrace!’ As he grinned again, I snapped: ‘What are you laughing at?’

  ‘Ah, ye’ve a way wit’ ye, Miss Charlotte.’

  ‘Have I? Well, I’m glad you find my distress so amusing! Next time you’re nipped or trodden on, I’ll be sure to enjoy the spectacle just as thoroughly!’

  I cannot count the number of times I stormed out of those stables, deprived yet again of some dear wish. Thomas would not allow the horses in his charge to be tired out or overpaced. He had an aversion to cantering, which ‘knocked a horse’s hoofs to pieces’, and brought it home too hot; he did not seem to care that trotting for any length of time can be agonising to the back when one is riding side-saddle. We were forever at loggerheads on the subject of martingales, and he refused to let me gallop. ‘Not yet,’ he would say. ‘Ye’re not safe enough yet, Miss.’

  I thought that I was, however. And was ready to prove it. But Thomas slept in the stables, and spent a good deal of time there. When he was not about, he entrusted the horses to his mongrel, Bennett. Bennett was the perfect guard-dog. I have never encountered a more snappish, low-bred, sour-tempered animal. He would mind only Thomas, and eat from no one else’s hand. If left to watch the horses, he would remain by them indefinitely until his master instructed him to ‘git down’. Though generally feared, he was also much admired. ‘There’s nowt would get past that ould gentleman,’ Richard Prince once remarked, as the noise of Bennett’s hysterical yapping announced the approach of Mr Welby’s gig. It was felt that, with Bennett about, we had nothing to fear from horse-thieves. Nor, indeed, from marauders of any description.

  I loathed Bennett. More than once, when I quietly approached Sovereign with a saddle and a mounting block, Bennett confronted me with his hackles raised and his savage teeth bared. He could not seem to understand that the horses were more mine than Thomas McNeilly’s. And I could hardly request that Thomas explain the matter to him. For in doing so I would surely expose myself.

  In the end I grew desperate, and stooped to underhanded methods.

  You may recall that my mother kept a small supply of laudanum at Oldbury. In Sydney, there had always been doctors close at hand—and dispensing chemists also. In the country, however, this was not the case. So my mother stocked her medicine chest with useful doses and unguents, all of them carefully locked away. Since she still wore her keys at her waist, gaining access to laudanum was a matter of careful planning. I saw my opportunity one afternoon when she sent me down to the cellar, unaccompanied, with her keys. On my way back, I made a short detour to unlock the medicine chest, which she was not in the habit of checking very frequently. After that it was just a question of waiting.

  I waited until Thomas took the gig to Berrima. He went to collect the mail, and James and my mother went with him. Because the gig could accommodate no one else comfortably, my sisters and I were left at home. Louisa was recovering from a nasty cold, and Emily had been designated her nurse; they consequently kept to the house, where they were very attentive to the sitting-room fire. I was not. I made myself busy, bustling in and out with wet clothes and dry clothes and wood and water and anything else that struck me as convincing. During one of these trips, I put a few drops of laudanum in Bennett’s water-bowl. Then I returned it to its customary place, from which I had secretly filched it early that morning, when word of the trip to Berrima had first reached my ears.

  Poor Bennett, being thirsty, was soon unconscious. (I wonder if I was a trifle generous with the laudanum, for he was not himself for a week afterwards.) By ten o’clock he had collapsed in the dirt, and my way was clear. Having already smuggled my riding habit into the stables, piece by piece, during my morning’s rounds, I dressed myself in Thomas McNeilly’s little sleeping alcove, away from prying eyes. Then I saddled Sovereign. It was the trickiest task that I had set myself, for Richard Prince was always about, and the black boy moved everywhere like a shadow, soundlessly. Side-saddles, moreover, are heavy things, festooned with all kinds of jingling buckles and slapping straps and creaking seams. I had to smother my grunts as Sovereign whinnied and tossed his head. Even with the mounting block on hand, he was difficult to control. No doubt he sensed something untoward.

  Horses can be very canny, in that way.

  I had decided to take him west, past Mereworth. East would have brought me to Sutton Forest, where I would have attracted unwanted attention, riding around on my own. Northwards lay Berrima, and I had no wish to encounter Mama. By heading west I would see no one—unless dogged by a singular misfortune—and would have the chance to enjoy several wide, clear meadows before striking thick bush. I was seeking cleared land because I wanted to gallop. I had an all-consuming picture in my head:
I saw myself flying along like a spirit of the ether, utterly unrestrained. It was an alluring fancy.

  I had just passed the front fence when Richard called my name. Glancing back, I saw him standing quite bemused, with his hoe. But I did not tarry, nor reply to his hail. Instead I rode on in a determined fashion, using my stick to apply pressure. Sovereign, I should point out, was still not wholly comfortable with the absence of a leg across his right flank. He was accustomed to cross-saddle riders; yielding to a stick instead of a right leg made him nervous. Therefore we were both in a somewhat jittery state when we set out, notwithstanding the stillness of the morning. Had I been more experienced, I would not have attempted too much. I would have known better than to over-excite the horse with a headlong gallop on a loose rein—especially in light of the fact that, once left even briefly unchecked, Sovereign was a difficult animal to regain control over.

  Not that I wholly disgraced myself. The gallop was a fine one. Sovereign did not fall foul of any wombat holes or hidden logs, but flew across the crisping pasture as if airborne, beating a rapid tattoo on the hard ground as I held on for dear life, employing every muscle of my body. How the old stumps rushed past! A brisk wind stung my face, dragged through my hair, whipped tears into my eyes. I remember repeating to myself Thomas McNeilly’s useful adage: ‘Head and heart up, hands and heels down.’ Though we started with an easy, swinging gallop at three-quarters’ speed, I soon lost my head with the thrill of it, and we must have got to twenty-odd miles an hour at one point. Then the forest loomed up, and I was forced to wrestle with that iron mouth. It was like pulling at the side of a house. In fact I cannot take credit for the way he eased off. His own horse-sense guided him, and we entered the woods at a far more sedate pace, though he was sweating and snorting already.