The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger (16 page)

It felt good to be ridden again. It felt good to have a master. This man had gentle hands.

And now he knew I needed apples.

It had been boring in the paddock. Now the world stretched out before us, the new smells of bush, of wallabies and native cats. I could smell an eagle’s nest, the sharp stink of the bird’s droppings. I wanted to gallop, I felt so free, but he held me back to a fast canter. The other horse cantered behind us. It was no match for me. I could sense that it knew it. I would lead, and it would follow.

We
clip clopp
ed down the road for a while, then my new master pulled me off into the trees, away from the droppings of other horses, the rutted cart tracks and the dust.

It felt good to be among the trees again. It felt good to have the stars wheel overhead, to canter with the wind and know no fence was going to stop me.

It felt good.

Ben Hall felt the leaves brush his hat as they rode below the trees. The moonlight washed silver shadows across the tussocks.

He wanted to sing, and to hell with any trap or informer who might be listening. He wanted to wave his hat in the air.

It had been years since he’d felt like this. Yesterday all he’d had was anger mixed with hopelessness. Now he felt as though he could float up to the moon.

He bent down to pat the horse’s neck. It was a good goer, with a firm and even stride. He could feel its power, even though they’d done no more than canter. A horse like this would carry you for years.

Maybe he could pay to have it shipped to America with him? Mrs Marks wouldn’t mind. He’d write to her from California, pay her properly for the horse. He’d write to Mattie Jane.

That girl couldn’t die. If he could live then so could Mattie Jane. She had courage and was stubborn too. He reckoned courage like that could outface even death.

He breathed in the soft night air, smelling of gum leaves and old bark and horse. It was good to be alive. He had a future now. A second chance.

I could have galloped through the stars at the horizon and kept going long past dawn. But instead the new master stopped by a creek, a thin line wandering through the rocks.

The master dismounted. He lifted off my saddle and blanket, tied me to a tree till he hobbled the other horse, and then he hobbled me. It was a loose hobble. I could lean down to drink, and crop the grass.

I expected the master to light a fire. But he just leant against a tree. He watched us as the moon sank down out of sight. The stars began to shine, the way they always did when the moon vanished. I could hear a cuckoo call to say that dawn was near.
Plonk plonk plonk plooooonk.

I bent down and tasted the grass. It wasn’t as lush as my paddock, but it was a new taste. It was good after so long.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘How do you like being a bushranger’s horse?’

I glanced at him, in case he was saying something I needed to understand, like ‘Come here’ or ‘Stop’. But he was just using lots of words, the way humans do. Words that are not worth trying to understand.

I went back to munching. He came over and stroked my nose. ‘You’re not a bushranger’s horse, are you, boy?’ he said softly. ‘I need to remember that. I’m a new man now. What should I call myself, eh? James? James Worthy, respectable citizen. Or Harold Goodfellow. No, I could never think of myself as a Harold.’ He stroked me again. ‘I’ve got your apples in my saddle-bag. I’m hanging them high in a tree where you can’t get them, in case I can’t get you saddled tomorrow without one. I don’t want to get bit again.’

I bumped him with my nose when I heard the word ‘apple’. He laughed, and stroked me again. ‘I think you and I will get on all right,’ he said. ‘We need each other. You behave right, old boy, and before I sail away I’ll buy you a whole barrel of apples. Should give you indigestion for a week.’

He laughed, but softly. ‘I’m due to meet the others day after tomorrow. I’ll tell them what I’ve planned. Old Horricks will get the money for me. And then it’s Sydney for me, or Brisbane. And then California, where they’ve never heard the name Ben Hall.’

He wrapped himself in a couple of blankets then, and slept. He woke sometimes, sitting up and staring around when a wallaby jumped too close, and later when a kookaburra laughed above us. Any little noise seemed to wake him. But each time he lay down again and went to sleep.

The sun was bouncing on the horizon, all fat and red, when we set off again, still keeping to the trees. I could taste my morning apple, sweet in my mouth.

This was a good man. He knew about apples, and how to tell you what to do with just a touch of his leg. He never used a whip or swore.

I liked riding among the trees. Roads smell of many horses. But here there was just the one other horse, and I was getting used to him. The ground was soft under my feet. It was more fun to dodge the branches than plod along a road.

I was happy. I missed Mattie Jane, just a bit. But maybe she would come and find me, and I would have the two of them, my master and Mattie Jane, and trees full of apples just for me.

It was a good creek, twisting through the trees with deep waterholes that smelt of fish and ducks and wallabies who had squatted there to drink. The master hobbled us. He didn’t need to tie me up while he hobbled the other horse now. He knew that I would wait till he was ready. It was always a loose hobble, so we could travel as far as we needed to find the sweetest grass, the freshest waterhole, or scare away a wombat who trundled too close during the night.

The master pulled up bracken. I wondered why, as I munched my grass. Bracken is no good to eat, even if you are very hungry. But there is no point thinking too hard about the strange ways of men.

At last he had a pile. He placed a blanket over it, then lay down, using his saddle to rest his head. He pulled something from his pocket. It was a piece of wood. He stared at it for a long time, then smiled, and put it in his pocket once again.

I rubbed myself against a tree trunk. A big fly had bitten my hindquarters that afternoon, and I was itchy. Suddenly I stopped.

I could hear horses. I could smell them too. And men. They were creeping through the trees, still too far away to see.

I snorted, and pawed the ground, then gave a neigh of greeting. The master looked up. ‘What is it, boy?’

I snorted again. The creeping sound had stopped. But they were still there. Suddenly I was uneasy. Men and horses should come straight up to you. They shouldn’t stop nearby like that, not with no sounds of laughter or smells of food on a fire.

The master stood up. He looked around, then trod quietly through the trees, peering as he went. But the men and horses were too far away for him to find.

At last he came back to our camp. He lay down and shut his eyes. I heard him snore.

The creeping sound began once more.

I pawed the ground. I snorted. The master sat up. The darkness hid everything but the starlit tree trunks nearby.

And the creeping sound had stopped.

The master looked at me. I tossed my head, nervous now; I wasn’t even sure why. There was more wrong here than I could understand.

I stood still and silent so I could listen. The other horse was still too. He didn’t have my nose and hearing, but he understood that I was wary, and our master too.

An owl swooped low, almost touching my nose. Bats flickered above the creek, darting at the mosquitoes.

There was no sound of horses or of men.

Finally my master wrapped the blanket around himself, and leant back against a tree. He dozed again, waking every time either of us horses moved or made a sound.

It was a long night. Even the grass tasted sour, and fear burnt through my body. The men and horses were still there, to the left of the big star. But there was no way I could explain that to my master, no way to make him understand.

I listened all the night, but the footsteps never came again.

He couldn’t sleep. The new horse kept snorting, and pawing the ground.

Had it heard something he’d missed? Each time he listened, but the bush around was quiet.

Too quiet. There should have been wallabies drinking from the creek, a wombat maybe. He’d have scared them off earlier, but now the horses were grazing and he was making no noise, they should be creeping out again.

He’d leave at first light. The other two would wonder where he’d got to, but he suspected they’d guess. He couldn’t see either of them wanting a farmer’s life, but they knew that’s what he was still, in his heart.

He pulled the girl’s picture from his pocket. He couldn’t see her features in the starlight, but he could still remember her face, so earnest and unafraid. He’d write to her, with his new name. He wished he’d asked her to choose one for him.

The horse was quiet now. He shut his eyes. He wouldn’t worry about the money in the bank. He had seventy-four guineas in his pocket. That was enough to get him to California. He could get the rest wired to him over there.

Now at last he heard the gentle thud of a wallaby. An owl hooted; another answered further away. The breeze felt gentle on his skin. He’d miss the smell of gum leaves. He’d heard there were no gum trees over there.

It took a while to realise he was happy.

Dawn came gently, with clouds hiding the sun on the horizon. It was a grey morning; the dew was clinging to me, cold and damp.

My master stood up with the first light. He beckoned to me: already I knew his signals. I plodded over, still listening for the horses and the men. Midnight was along the creek, munching at the grass.

The master stroked my nose. ‘We’re going,’ he said softly. ‘They should be here by now. Something is wrong. I’ll fetch Midnight and saddle you up.’ He stroked my nose the way I liked, then lifted his saddle-bag from the branch, and handed me an apple.

I crunched it, feeling the juice run down my throat. For a moment the crunching covered the other sounds behind…

Footsteps. Men this time. Not horses. Men’s feet crackling on the bark and leaves.

I let out a neigh. I stamped my feet. My master tensed. He began to turn around.

The world became noise, behind me and on both sides. My master’s back grew wet and red. Blood flew out, splattering his clothes, the grass, the trees.

I screamed! I tried to rear, but the hobble kept me down.

More noise.
Bang bang bang bang.
My master tried to run, his arms stretched out toward me. I tried to canter to him, but the hobble kept my steps too small. If I could reach him he could undo the hobble. If I reached him we could gallop away, away from the noise and yells.

I heard my master’s breath, sobbing as he staggered closer to me. A few more steps…

The men were all around us now. One grabbed my tether. I jerked my head away. He swore, then jumped back as I tried to bite him.

My master began to slide onto the grass. ‘I am wounded,’ he whispered. ‘I’m dying. I’m dying.’

One of the men ran up. He stood over my master’s body. My master’s eyes met his. ‘I’m wounded. Kill me dead.’

Another bang, and then another. My master’s body twitched. His legs beat upon the ground. Then he lay still.

I wanted to run, to rear. I stamped, the hobble tearing at my legs. I whinnied, my eyes rolling in my fear. But my master’s eyes were closed.

I could smell only blood, and death.

At last they quietened me. One man with gentle hands spoke to me softly, stroked me till I stopped shivering. He found the saddle-bag, held out an apple.

I couldn’t eat. I shivered again at the thought.

The other men wrapped my master in his blankets. It was easier then: I couldn’t see his face. I could still smell the blood though, and the fear. They had caught Midnight now, had him tethered with their horses. At last they threw my master’s body over my back. The man with the gentle hands held my tether as he led me from the camp. I think that he was crying, although he made no sound.

I didn’t understand how a man could kill another and still cry. I didn’t understand at all. All I knew was that my master was dead.

Again.

We walked. I could smell my master’s body as my hoofs clopped along the road. Smell his sweat, his blood, his death. I hung my head and watched the ground. This time too the dead man was heavier than the living one had been.

There were houses, and then more houses. A boy let out a yell. For a few moments people crowded around us. ‘Ben Hall!’ they cried. ‘Ben Hall is dead.’ I shivered again. But the crowd melted away. One by one the doors of the houses shut. The curtains were pulled at all the windows.

We walked in silence now, just the
clip clop
of the hoofs.

And then a building, small and squat and stone. They lifted off my master’s body. They carried him away. The man with gentle hands led me to a stable. There were other horses. None of them smelt of blood and death like I did.

He unsaddled me. He brushed me down. He gave me water and fresh hay.

I drank. I couldn’t eat. I stood and stared down at my hoofs. I stood there for days and nights and days. Neither dark nor light mattered. I stood there, in the stable, and I grieved.

Ahmed the pedlar brought the news. He called every month these days, his cart crammed with bolts of calico, with saucepans, fry pans, chamber pots—cheap things that a settler’s wife might buy. Mama rarely bought much from Ahmed, but she gave him a good meal with the family, and sent him away with fresh bread and pudding.

Ahmed was so excited he’d brought his pony to a trot. That pony always plodded, but not today. ‘Madam!’ he called, jumping out of his cart and running to the kitchen door, while Elijah took the reins. ‘Madam! You’ll never guess!’

Mama wiped her hands on her apron. She was making jelly with the last of the crab apples, straining the juice from the stewed fruit through muslin into the big copper pan. Mattie was washing the dishes in the washing basin. She hadn’t been able to wash them straight after the meal, because Elijah had forgotten to bring in more water. Now she wiped her
soapy hands too, and walked slowly to the door. Her cough was worse today. Cold nights always made it bad.

‘Ahmed, what is it? You sit down,’ added Mama. ‘There’s tea hot in the pot.’ Most of the travellers wanted Mama’s ale or beer, or a rum tot, but Ahmed drank tea. ‘Such news!’ cried Ahmed. ‘You know the bushranger, madam? The big bad one who held up your ball?’

‘Nothing was stolen,’ said Mama gently. ‘But yes, I know the one you mean.’

‘He will never make trouble again! Never!’

Mama’s hands clenched her apron. Mattie moved closer to her, needing the comfort of Mama’s arm around her shoulders. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that he is killed! The troopers killed him stone dead while he was sleeping. They carried his body through the streets of Forbes, strapped on his horse, so everybody could see, and then—’

Mattie Jane could hear no more. He was dead. The brightness gone. His future cut like it had been sliced off with a knife.

She wrenched herself from Mama’s arms. She ran out the door, oblivious to Ahmed’s exclamation, raced to the storeroom, and shut the door—quietly, as always, so no one would know that she was there.

There were barrels of apples at the far end of the storeroom, next to the cool stone wall. Rebel Yell’s apples. But Rebel Yell was gone as well. Ben Hall was gone.

Everybody leaves, she thought. Everyone I love.

She crouched behind one of the apple barrels, and held her apron over her head. If she could block out
the light maybe she could block out the thinking too: the dead man carried by Rebel Yell.

He was dead. If he could die so suddenly then she could die as well. Everything she had hoped for was just a dream. He had been right to call her a little girl. A little girl and her stupid dream.

She wanted to scream. Screaming might help block it all out. But it would also make her cough. People would hear a scream too. They’d ask her why she was making a fuss. They’d laugh at a girl who loved a bushranger, who dreamt that one day he’d come for her, or write her a letter from California, where Mama said he was going. A letter that said: ‘I have a house, a farm. I’ve booked a passage for you. Will you sail to me and be my wife?’

The door opened, then shut again. Someone stepped across the flagstones. Mattie pulled her apron down.

It was Mama.

Mattie waited for the questions, the comfort. But somehow Mama seemed to know there could be no real comfort now. Instead she sat beside her on the cold and dusty floor.

‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘The poor young man. Never got his second chance. And if anyone deserved it, that man did.’

Mattie said nothing. At last Mama said, ‘He’s dead, my darling. But you’re still here. You’re still alive. There’ll be other men, lovely men, you’ll see.’

‘No,’ said Mattie Jane. She looked at Mama, met her eyes. ‘I’m dying, Mama, aren’t I? I’ve got the consumption. I heard the doctor tell Martha, two years ago. My cough is getting worse, not better.’

Mama was silent. Tears ran down her cheeks. She didn’t move to wipe them off.

‘I thought,’ said Mattie, ‘that maybe he was a sign. From an angel maybe. A sign to say I’d have a life, that I’d grow up. Even if I didn’t marry him, it didn’t matter. I’d be alive to choose. But now it’s like I’m dead as well.’

‘No!’ Mama’s hand gripped hers so hard that it hurt. ‘You’re not going to die!’ She tried to smile. ‘Or not till you are eighty years old, with your great grandchildren by your side.’

Mama stood up, and held out her hand to help Mattie Jane to her feet. She held her gently then, in the sweet jam warmth of her apron. ‘I failed you once,’ said Mama quietly. ‘I won’t fail you again. There is a place up in the mountains. It’s called a sanatorium. I read about it in the paper. I wrote to them. Ahmed brought the answer now, with the mail from town. There are doctors there from Switzerland, in Europe. They say they can cure consumption with cold air, and walks, and lots of cream and butter. We’re going there, you and I. And when you’re better we’ll come home.’

Mattie stilled. It was as though the whole world stilled around her too. Ben Hall was dead; so was the future she had half believed in, but not quite. A bushranger’s dream bride.

But a sanatorium up in the mountains, eating butter and cream. That was…almost…like it could be true.

‘Can Sarah come too? Please?’ she added. ‘Sarah would like to come.’

Mama hugged her closer. ‘And you would like it. Yes, she can come. The doctors say you need to be happy.’

‘I will be happy with Sarah,’ said Mattie. ‘And with you.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Mama. ‘I promise you, Mathilda Jane. I’m not leaving you again.’

They stood there in the cold silence. Mattie could feel Mama’s heartbeat, and her own. We are alive, she thought. He is dead but we are alive. For the first time she could imagine herself as an old woman, a walking stick beside her chair; a good fire in the fireplace and children’s laughter out the window. Her children’s children’s children…

‘Mama?’

‘Yes?’

‘What about Rebel Yell? Mama, what will they do with him?’ Sudden fear took her. ‘Maybe they’ve sold him already.’

‘A horse with two masters dead? No one will buy him now, except for glue and hide. I’ll send Elijah for him. He’ll be your horse, when you’re strong enough to ride again.’

‘And he’ll have foals,’ said Mattie. ‘If he’s going to be my horse I want him to have foals too.’ Slowly happiness was seeping in. Sadness, loss, pain for the man who’d died. But there was hope now as well. ‘Can I give one of them to Sarah? Please, Mama?’

‘Yes,’ said Mama. ‘A big white horse for Sarah too.’

‘Elijah likes Sarah,’ said Mattie Jane.

‘Well,’ said Mama, ‘we’ll see about that in a few years. Now we’d better give Ahmed some cake. He’ll have drunk the teapot dry by now.’ She took Mattie’s hand. ‘Life goes on, my darling,’ she said. ‘Life goes on.’

Mattie Jane nodded. For suddenly it seemed it did.