Ironbark (47 page)

Daniel emerged with his hand cupped around the chest of a slender girl wearing a long green skirt. She was far from pretty but she had a sensual mouth. The ragged, cropped hair suggested to Jake she was a recent inmate of the Parramatta Female Factory.

The moment Daniel saw Jake he defiantly engaged the girl in a rough kiss. Then as if already bored, he smacked her on the rump and sent her scurrying back inside the hut.

Face to face with Jake's rage, Daniel gave him a smug, drunken smile.

‘Now you know the truth!' he said as he swigged from the neck of a bottle.

‘What the hell are you playing at?' Jake demanded. ‘You've got a good woman at home. You made a pact with Kez, remember?'

‘With
my wife
. No business of yours. What Keziah doesn't know won't hurt her. I keep her very,
very
happy,' Daniel taunted. ‘Don't take my word for it. Ask her!'

‘I bloody well warned you!' Jake dismounted, his hands were clenched, ready to fight.

Daniel's mocking laughter failed to camouflage how nervous he was, but he continued to bait Jake. ‘You haven't got the guts to tell my wife, have you?'

Jake jerked his thumb at the figure in green watching them from the doorway.

‘That's strictly business between a man and his wife, but this is business that needs to be settled between you and
me
.'

Jake let fly with a right jab and a left cross that rocked Daniel on his heels against a tree trunk. Daniel warded off the blows with loose, flaying hands, refusing to fold his fists into any semblance of a fighter. His passive stance made Jake feel like a schoolyard bully.

‘Don't pretend you're so drunk you can't fight, you bastard. I'm as drunk as a skunk. I reckon that makes us even.'

Daniel smiled through the blood that trickled from his nose to his chin. His hands hung limply by his sides as he moved towards Jake, then unexpectedly grabbed him in a desperate wrestling hold. Caught off guard Jake threw his full weight into grappling Daniel to the ground.

They rolled over like two ruffian schoolboys in the playground, grunting and yelling. When Jake found himself pinned down by Daniel, he paused in surprise. He wasn't used to being bested and he was stunned by the strange expression on Daniel's face.

‘Don't you understand,' said Daniel, ‘why I can't fight you?'

Jake broke the hold by kneeing him in the groin with a force that sent Daniel sailing into the bushes. Jake stumbled over Daniel's writhing body to get to Horatio.

Daniel swayed to his feet. At that moment Scotty burst out of the hut and called to Jake to stay and drink his new brew. Scotty's Irish mob followed in search of a fight, so drunk none of them knew which side they were on but all were enjoying the stoush.

Jake yelled at Daniel, ‘Stupid bugger. You'd rather I beat you to pulp than damage your precious hands!' He failed to think of an appropriate insult, so finished wildly, ‘You bloody
artist
!'

He called back from the saddle, ‘Betray my mate and you're a dead man!'

• • • 

Daniel watched until horse and rider disappeared from sight then staggered across and mounted Keziah's brumby. When the green-skirted figure in the doorway called out huskily, ‘Come back, Danny,' he glanced back over his shoulder but didn't bother to answer.

He felt numb with shock as he rode to the shallow creek behind Keziah's cottage. There was just enough water to wash his bloodied face. Intent on avoiding his wife until morning he stretched out on the veranda. Sleep eluded him and he lay staring out at the starry sky as the moon passed over.

That piece of skirt meant nothing to him. Their connection had given him a brief moment of physical relief but left him feeling degraded and ashamed.
That tart was a poor substitute – for what? My wife?

His mind replayed fragments of his drunken fight. The words he'd said to Jake without thinking.
Don't you understand why I can't fight you?

Daniel relived the moment he had rolled around locked in Jake's arms. He was consumed by dark, secret feelings.

Another full moon rode the sky. Camped beside the Sydney Road, Jake hunched over his campfire re-reading the latest report from The American Investigations Agency to lift his spirits.

Although he had been initially disappointed there were still no clues as to little Pearl's whereabouts, the Yankee's letter did contain startling news about the conte's fiscal empire:

The net closes. The conte is caught in a financial bind. Those canny New Zealanders have proved right cagey about investing in his get-rich schemes. The steamship he'd had converted from sail, the
Contessa Giovanna,
was found beached off the South Island, stripped of cargo, no trace of her crew. He's suspected of fraud. My Auckland source reports that his behaviour is increasingly erratic – from lavish hospitality to enraged outbursts. They say he plans to return to New South Wales because ‘his lady' is bored.

His lady is bored.
Jake flinched at the phrase and steeled himself against the memory of Jenny's body, her voice, her perfume. He reminded himself he held the trump card, the Yankee's first extraordinary report. He kept this with him at all times, wrapped in oilskin to protect it from the weather, ready for the moment he came face to face with Jenny and forced her to reveal where Pearl was hidden. The conte's days were numbered. Jake reminded himself of that favourite phrase of the Doc's, that the British lose every battle – except the last! Jake vowed he would win his own last bloody battle even if, like Horatio Nelson, he died in the attempt.

On the brink of sleep Jake jerked awake. From his swag beneath the wagon he could see a pair of men's boots outlined against the dying light of the campfire. His hand moved to his pistol, curling around the trigger.

A voice slurred by drink asked, ‘You asleep, Jake? I've a bottle that needs company.'

Jake crawled out from under the wagon to face the young lad who was now known as the legendary Jabber Jabber, the Gentleman Bushranger. It was good to see Will Martens alive and free.

Jake clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus, how'd you manage to escape this time? Berrima's new gaol is supposed to be foolproof. You're giving the screws a bad name.'

By the light of the full moon Jake took in every detail. Will's eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw covered in stubble, he swayed in his heeled riding boots and his coat was torn. Not the Gentleman Bushranger's usual immaculate style. Even his bravado was a pale imitation of his usual cocksure demeanour.

‘There's a trick to getting out of Berrima. Remind me to share it with you in case you ever find yourself in residence,' Will offered. ‘First I need to discuss a bit of business. I've been on the lookout for you for days.'

Jake steered him toward the campfire, threw on another log to build it up and heated up the pot of leftover Irish stew.

‘Get this grub into you, mate.'

Will ate hungrily, washing it down with a pannikin of wine.

Jake waited for him to state his business. Meanwhile they talked horses, their favourite subject. Will jerked his head towards two horses half hidden in the bush.

‘My bay mare is the best horse I ever had. Makes me feel my short life wasn't a total waste.' He looked wistful. ‘You know something, mate? I never
did
get to kiss a girl.'

‘What's all this short life rot? You'll kiss a score of girls and live to be ninety-nine.'

Will shook his head sagely. ‘You know as well as I do how long your average bolter can expect to stay alive once he's taken up arms. Six months. A year tops. I'm already on borrowed time.'

‘Bull. That's just violent bushrangers. Everyone knows you've never fired a shot in anger. Those newspapers love writing about you. You're a hero to the youngsters around Ironbark.'

Will was clearly preoccupied with death. ‘Did you hear the latest about The Finisher? Governor Gipps can't sack him. There's no one else in the colony low enough to take over the hangman's job! People hate him so much he's hiding in a cell in Woolloomooloo Stockade – only game enough to emerge to perform another public hanging.' Will looked philosophical. ‘His next job could be me!'

Jake refilled his guest's pannikin. Will was so drunk, what harm could another bottle do?

‘So what's this mysterious business you came to discuss, eh?'

‘Not mine. Gem's.' Will pulled an envelope from his pocket and offered it to Jake. ‘He asked me to write this out on his behalf. It's sort of his last will and testament.'

‘Jesus wept,' said Jake. ‘This is all getting a bit morbid, ain't it?'

Will raised his hand. ‘I gave Gem my solemn word I'd deliver it to you.'

Jake stalled. ‘How about you read it to me seeing as you wrote it?'

Will read by the firelight:

Dear Pal,

This will and testament is not strictly a legal document. From where I stand the law has never done right by me, so I'd be a hypocrite to rely on the law after I'm dead and buried. In my twenty-five years I've met two
gaujos
I can almost trust. The bearer of this letter is one, you are the other.

I am leaving two things in your care. Sarishan, who did us proud winning the silver cup. I know you'll do right by him.
Secondly I am bequeathing to you a thing of far less value to me but maybe not to you. My whore. You aren't a Rom, but you're the next best thing to it. Take care of the bitch. I know in my gut my days of freedom are numbered. You can have her when I'm dead – not a minute before!

You know who I am

Jake took a hearty swig from the wine bottle to stop his hand from shaking. Despite Gem's denial his words were embedded with such tortured love for Keziah that Jake felt ashamed to compare it with his own obsessive revenge against Jenny. Gem had too much Romani pride to forgive his wife. Even now when faced with the imminent prospect of death, he could not refer to Keziah without insulting her. Jake realised that in another way Gem was a better man than he was. This will and testament was proof. Gem loved his woman enough to relinquish her to another man's protection. Jake's only solution to Jenny's lover was murder.

Jake's voice sounded tight when he asked where Sarishan was. Will gestured in the direction of the horses hidden in the darkness.

Jake nodded. ‘Tell Gem to rest easy. I'll honour the terms of his will.'

Together they downed the bottle of wine. Then Will rose to his feet, swaying so much that a stiff breeze would have knocked him over.

‘Thanks for your hospitality, Jake. Got to get back to work!'

‘Jesus wept! You're as full as a boot, Will. You'll get your head blown off.'

Food, wine and a good yarn had restored Will's confidence.

‘Not me. I lead a charmed life. I need a new coat and a fresh horse to spell my mare. So it's time to bail up the next traveller.'

‘Over my dead body, you will!'

Words failed to restrain Will, so Jake gave him a neat clip to the jaw – just enough force to send a drunk to sleep. It had begun to drizzle, but
didn't look promising enough to break the drought. Jake stretched Will out beneath his wagon and hid his boots to slow down any drunken attempt to bolt during the night. Wrapped in Jake's blanket, his face lit by the shaft of moonlight that fell between the wagon wheels, the young bushranger looked like the schoolboy life had intended him to be.

Jake stoked the fire then lay down to sleep. He woke to find Will's head resting on his shoulder, crying the dry sobs of a dream.

Jake felt awkward having a bloke cuddled up to him, but he knew if he woke the lad from his bad dream, the fool would head for the road and very likely meet his death.

He gave a sigh of resignation. ‘It's all right, mate. You're safe now.'

Will's sobs stopped as he clung to Jake in his sleep.

Jake looked into the face of the full moon that bathed his wagon and the surrounding bushland silver. The same moon where Keziah was adamant some female Gypsy spirit lived.

Funny girl, Kez. We're as different as chalk and cheese. I believe in nothing. She believes in every bloody thing! She reckons sleeping in moonlight turns your hair white! I guess I'll find out the truth of that in the morning.

As he drifted in and out of sleep Jake was alerted to the sound of horses close by. Horatio was restlessly pawing the ground, neighing to warn him of danger. Jake grabbed his pistol and crawled on his belly clear of the wagon, ready to take aim.

Will's bay mare was where he had left him but Sarishan had broken away and stood in the open, outlined by moonlight.

Jake listened to the muffled sounds of two horses' hooves until they died away. Had some horse thieves been foiled in the act thanks to Horatio's warning? He knew it couldn't have been the traps, otherwise they would have lumbered Jabber Jabber in his sleep. So why had the riders halted by his camp only to ride off again?

Jake decided to mount guard until dawn.

• • • 

As Jake rode Horatio towards Keziah's cottage with Sarishan beside him he went over in his mind the news from Sydney Town he'd hoped he would never hear. He stopped at Hobson's homestead to register his presence as usual. Polly Doyle greeted him in her friendly fashion.

‘Daniel Browne's gone to Ogden Park for a few weeks to
paint horses
,' she said with amusement. ‘Don't Terence Ogden like the colours God gave them at birth?'

Jake disguised his mixed feelings about Daniel's absence. Normally he would have been pleased to find Keziah home alone. For once he wished he was thousands of miles away. Swan River. Timbuktu.
Any bloody where.