© 2011 Alex Hogan

New South Wales, Australia, 1862

(A glossary of Australian colonial usage can be found at the end)

With the setting of the sun, the flies that walked upon their faces all day were replaced by mosquitoes. The two horsemen rounded up their sheep and led them to the clearing near the riverbank. They rolled out their swags and set a billy of tea boiling on the fire. As they watched their sheep curl up next to each other and settle in for the night, they began their meal of bully beef and damper.

Johnny sat on the ground and rested his back against a fallen gum tree. He stared out across the river into the brilliant gold of the sunset and the vast expanse of empty plain that led ultimately to the desert in the centre of the land.

‘No black fellas about these days it seems,’ he said.

Thomas nodded. They used to be seen about the herds of sheep and cattle that wandered in the open plains, finding them easier to hunt than the wild kangaroos and wallabies, but in the last year or two they had rarely been seen.

‘Not since the gold was found,’ Thomas said.

‘How come the black fellas never found the gold? Huh! Too stupid for it?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘What use would it be to them? They don’t use money.’ He unpacked the tin plates and cups and began cutting the bully beef. ‘But I swear, these days, you constantly hear the noises of bullock drays carting settlers. Where could they be coming from?’

‘The goldfields, of course,’ said Johnny.

‘But Lambing Flat’s too far to the south.’

Johnny shook his head. ‘They are going to Black Ridge now. Don’t you know? Plenty of gold has been found in the river up there.’

‘I hadn’t heard that.’

‘Where have you been? Head too lost in the backside of a sheep?’

Thomas shoved Johnny. ‘You know whose backside my head has been lost in.’

‘No, tell me,’ Johnny said, grinning from ear to ear.

Thomas shoved him again. ‘Don’t make up stories about sheep to me, my woolly friend. Where have you experience of such activities?’

‘From endless weeks spent out here, you think?’ Johnny said. ‘Certainly not! I’ve been up at Black Ridge, before the season started. There is plenty on offer up there, with two legs.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Thomas smirked. ‘Nothing as good as I can offer,’ he said.

Johnny grinned back at him.

As the sun was lost behind the horizon, the few stars of the southern skies began to rise. Thomas sat up on his swag, stoked the fire and placed the billycan on top.

‘So, you’ve been spending time up at the new goldfields at Black Ridge?’ Thomas asked. ‘That’s why your Da is grumbling so.’

‘He grumbles all the time. I can do no right to him. Ned is always better and wiser, by virtue of him being older. You never see him dismissed out here to the never never to watch over the sheep.’

Thomas handed Johnny a mug of tea. ‘Maybe that’s because your brother has a wife and child?’

Johnny snorted.

‘So, how many bags of gold have you found?’

Johnny snorted again, ‘None. That’s a fool’s game. Too much dirt for no pay. But I’ve met up with some flash coves with better ways of finding gold.’

Thomas looked up startled. But Johnny pulled his cabbage tree hat down lower over his face. The Southern Cross rose in the sky, telling them it was time for sleep. Thomas tossed out the old tea leaves, lay down upon his swag and looked over again at Johnny. Johnny was still leaning against the tree trunk.

They had been out droving the sheep along the river bank for several weeks, following the river to find feed. The summer was yet another in a long series of dry ones. The time drifted by in a haze, the heat shimmering off the land in the day and the evenings too hot to need any bed coverings.

Thomas and Johnny had been droving together for a number of years, ever since Thomas found himself out in the western plains along the Lachlan River in search of land. Thomas’s property neighboured the vast Sheehan sheep station. His holding was small and his herds were sparse. To make ends meet he shared resources with Johnny’s father, Patrick Sheehan. Sheehan spent most of his time working with his older sons, and used Johnny to herd the sheep in the distant parts of his property.

Thomas enjoyed the long slow sojourns out in the bush, with just him and Johnny, the sheep and the dogs, and no one around to decide for them what was right or wrong.

‘You gone to sleep, have you?’ Johnny asked.

‘Na, just lying here; watching you.’

Johnny threw a piece of bark over at Thomas and laughed. He got himself up, stretched long and slowly, then ambled his way over to where Thomas lay, and settled in beside him.

* * * *

When they finally ended their droving run they returned to Thomas’s property. They killed and skinned one of Thomas’s sheep, hung it in the back shed and used part of it for their evening meal.

Thomas’s house was a simple wooden two roomed hut – a kitchen and a bedroom – with a dirt floor. It was dusty and the flies buzzed, but the two were happy to be in a house sitting at a table. They ate the mutton and drank some porter Thomas kept stored in the shed. As the evening progressed the sound of crickets could be heard, replacing the daytime song of the cicadas.

‘Weren’t you supposed to go on home to your Da?’ Thomas asked.

Johnny threw his hand up in dismissal.

‘Tomorrow?’

Johnny took a swig of porter and shook his head. ‘Naa. Bugger him. Tomorrow I will go to Black Ridge and meet up with Michael Kavanagh. He’s a good mate of mine. Here take a look at this,’ and he dragged out a crumpled piece of thin cardboard he had stashed in the inside pocket of his coat.

‘Indeed, I can tell,’ said Thomas, looking at the item. ‘A bit affectionate, I would say.’

Johnny laughed through his grog. He had shown Thomas a photograph taken at a roving studio at Black Ridge, an expensive item. Michael Kavanagh and Johnny Sheehan were sitting next to a card table, part of the studio setting. Michael, with his mane of black hair and beard, was laughing, and leaning over the table touching the fair haired Johnny lightly on his arm.

‘I have seen some of these photograph things before, but they all seem to have solemn faces, like the faces you’d see in a church.’

Johnny spluttered in his drink, giggling. ‘That’s Kavanagh! He’s always laughing. It ruined the photograph, so the man who took it said. Kavanagh’s face looks blurred. But I don’t care. He was making some joke; I can’t even remember what it was. No show of affection, Thomas. What? Are you jealous?’ Johnny asked, pocketing the photograph.

Thomas shook his head. ‘To return to my original question, is it too late for you to return to your Da’s property tonight?’

‘Absolutely. I might get attacked by a dingo, or a black fella. Or worse still, a bushranger.’ Johnny fell about laughing. ‘I’ll just have to stay here the night.’

‘Oh, well then, you can roll out your swag under the verandah.’

Johnny flicked his bottle in Thomas’s direction causing the porter to spill out and splash him. Thomas flinched.

‘Enough of that too, my friend. Come here.’

‘You get me,’ said Johnny, and he jumped up and ran off. Thomas chased him through the room and out into the yard, past the stable and back into the small house. They ended up in the bedroom. Johnny flung himself onto the bed, and Thomas threw himself on top.

‘You’re trapped now, my good man.’

Johnny grinned as Thomas started to undo the buttons on his trousers. He offered no resistance, but simply stretched his arms behind his head and let Thomas do his work.

* * * *

The morning sun seeped in through the loose weaving of the hessian bags that were nailed up along the top of the windows to make a curtain. The two men still lay in bed.

There was a knock on the door. Neither man stirred. The front door opened slowly and Patrick Sheehan stepped inside. He looked about the kitchen, over to the ashes in the fireplace, and the empty porter bottles on the table.

‘This place needs a woman,’ he said.

He walked through the room to the rear door which opened onto the back yard. He could hear the chooks moving about in the shed. He cast his eyes about; no sign of anyone. He went back into the kitchen, wondering where his son was, then he saw, from the corner of his eye, the open bedroom. He gasped. From where he stood he could see the bed and the two bodies in it. Sheehan thought Thomas had killed his son. But then he saw that Thomas’s arm lay gently over Johnny and the two were lying peacefully asleep. He felt the world stop turning for a moment, then he took a long slow breath and quietly left the house.

He mounted his horse and headed back to his station. He stared steadfastly ahead for some time, then gritted his teeth. ‘That Thomas has to go,’ he said.

* * * *

As dusk approached on a day in late autumn Thomas was sitting out on his verandah enjoying a cup of tea when he saw a small group of horsemen approach. One of them he could easily tell was Johnny, but he could not recognise the others.

The horsemen stopped in front of the house. Johnny spoke, ‘Thomas, let me introduce you to these coves from Black Ridge, and especially to this one here, Michael Kavanagh.’

Thomas sighed. He put his cup down, nodded a welcome and reluctantly led the group of men, or rather one man and three boys, into his house.

Johnny first met Michael Kavanagh in the winding streets of Black Ridge. Johnny had wandered in there after a horse race meeting nearby. He’d planned to camp overnight then return home, having lost his meagre money stores at the race, but instead of returning to a scolding from his Da, he stayed in the township to see what all the excitement was over the gold. He found he had to purchase a miner’s right before he could dig, and there was little space left anyway, so he headed for a grog shop. With no money he sat at the bar and watched the diggers; there was a wondrous variety of types, with different coloured skins and different accents. He barely recognised anyone from the original village that had been there before the gold.

It didn’t take long for someone like Kavanagh to pick out a young man who was restless in his soul, who also sported a fine-boned frame that would handle the mountain-bred horses suited to Kavanagh’s livelihood. Companions who were quick with the horses and could wend their way among the craggy hills and scraggy eucalypt trees were useful for eluding the traps, those untrained mounted police on their slow and unfit horses.

Kavanagh took Johnny under his wing, and introduced him to the pleasures of the town, which included spending many nights together in a tent with space for only two bodies. He also took him out on his travels along the road, and showed him how to trick innocent travellers of their gold. Johnny still spent some time at home, working on his father’s property, and hiding the little gold he managed not to spend on grog buried in a hole in a distant paddock.

Kavanagh had already spent some time in the small gaol of Cockatoo Island near Parramatta. He had been out for a few years, but now descriptions of him, along with sketches – ‘a poor likeness’ – had reached Black Ridge. ‘I have paid my price, I should be let alone,’ he claimed, but men did not always forget. Kavanagh decided he would make his last stand, and then get out of New South Wales, and indeed Australia itself. ‘I will make my way to the gold fields of New Zealand perhaps, or even as far as California.’

Kavanagh explained all this as they sat about the kitchen table in Thomas’s house, picking at the bones of their chicken dinner and drinking porter.

‘I plan one last grab, or maybe two,’ he grinned. ‘But it will be a grab to remember. If I am to be caught by those useless traps, let me go down in history.’ He grinned and took a swig of porter. ‘But I don’t intend to be caught. Once I have swiped them of enough gold, I will be out of here, and all you will hear of me is the stories.’

Thomas looked up to Johnny, wondering what he would do once Kavanagh had gone, but Johnny sat grinning wildly, seemingly unaware that he’d be left high and dry. Was he hoping to go with Kavanagh? It hadn’t sounded like that was Kavanagh’s plan.

‘Once a month along the rickety road to Bathurst,’ Kavanagh continued, ‘the town of Black Ridge sends a coach laden with the gold that the townsfolk have sold to the banks. You see, I won’t be stealing from the innocent diggers but rather the greedy banks, and the greedy government.’ Kavanagh grinned triumphantly and Johnny fell about laughing, the grog having had its effect on him.

‘So how do you plan to do this?’ Thomas asked.

‘Easy. John, you can explain from here,’ Kavanagh said, and he indicated that Johnny should take up the story.

With this summons, Johnny sat up, leant forward on the table and began excitedly, ‘Near to the village of Sandy Hill, there are lots of rocks, as you know. As we say, they are rock farmers over there,’ and Johnny fell about laughing again.

‘John!’ Kavanagh prompted.

‘Sorry.’ He took a swig of porter, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and began again. ‘Anyway, just near the road at one point near Sandy Hill, there are many huge rocks, standing up tall. Just as the escort comes to these rocks, it slows down to round the corner, almost to a walk.’ Johnny grinned wide.

‘And it is there that we can nab it,’ Kavanagh finished the explanation.

‘An escort? What do you mean? Is this coach escorted by police?’

‘Well, they call them police,’ said Kavanagh, laughing again. ‘Mounted police, in fact; troopers. Some call them traps. That is a bad description of them, my lads, for they almost find it impossible to trap anyone. Especially when I have with me such fine horsemen and horses who are used to the rugged terrain here, unlike the untrained mounted police of New South Wales.’ Kavanagh beamed around at his entourage and they lapped up the praise.

‘But a gold coach escorted by troopers would be a hard target, no matter how poorly prepared they are,’ Thomas said.

‘But the police sit inside the coach, they do not ride along the side of it,’ Johnny explained.

‘Exactly. See what I mean by untrained? What fools! Oh, it is simply asking to be taken.’

And so the plan was hatched. Thomas agreed to keep his homestead free for after the attack, but only for one night. He was worried the poorly trained traps could easily find their way to his place. But he agreed to this plan; it was better than having to join the gang in the attack.

He took the gang out to the stable and showed them where they could bed down. As he started back he grabbed Johnny’s arm, raised his eyebrows and indicated the house with a twitch of his head. Johnny laughed and shook him off. Thomas watched as Johnny stumbled his way over to where Kavanagh already lay. Kavanagh grinned at Thomas and winked.

Despite the blankets Thomas lay in bed shaking. When he had first left home and made his way to these parts, he had felt free. The dirt tracks leading through the bush seemed to go on forever, traversed by few white men, and avoided by the blacks. It was as if the whole world had been opened up for him to wander through and do as he pleased with no one to hinder or curtail him. Now he felt like he was in a closed convict ship, deep in the hull, crushed up against the wooden walls by other stinking bodies and hearing the sounds of military footsteps echoing overhead, just like the stories his father told.

By the dawn they were gone. In the stable Thomas patted his own horse and straightened out the straw to hide any occupation. He was relieved. Then he frowned. He suddenly felt alone and isolated. Would Johnny follow Kavanagh to California, he wondered, or to the grave?

* * * *

The gold escort left Black Ridge at noon and was nearing the small settlement of Sandy Hill just before sunset. Clouds gathered in the sky, growing darker as the afternoon deepened.

The coach held strong boxes full of gold, and mail bags carrying bank notes. Three police constables sat inside the coach; they spent much of their journey playing cards, and laughing at the box gums and scraggy stringybark trees that passed by, contrasting them disparagingly to the luscious trees back home in England. After a time two of them drifted off to sleep, despite the jarring of the coach, while the other leant against the window staring wistfully off into the bush of Australia.

On the box seat, sitting next to the driver, sat Sergeant Meddows. He was apprising the driver of his previous life in England. The driver had been born in New South Wales and had no knowledge of and little interest in the Mother Country, but he nodded in appropriate places. Overhead the screeching sound of galahs could be heard high in the trees.

‘The sun is getting low, Sir, we’ll be pulling in to Sandy Hill soon,’ the driver said.

The coach approached a corner on a small rise. The land nearby was covered with many granite rocks. Where the road curved there were some boulders of extreme size, twice the height of a man, creating a wall against the hill. As the coach reached the corner something could be seen blocking the road.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ the driver cursed.

‘My good fellow! Please do try and control your language.’ the sergeant said.

‘Sorry, Sir. But some bullocky has abandoned his dray just near the rocks. It’ll be very difficult to get around it.’

‘Well, would the fellow be about anywhere? We could ask him to move his vehicle.’

‘Doesn’t look so, Sir.’ There were no drivers in sight and no bullocks, just an abandoned dray sprawled over the road. The driver had to slow his horses to a walk to weave his way through. As the driver concentrated and the sergeant lent his surrogate support, there was a sudden cry from nearby.

‘Fire!’

Beside the rocks sat four horsemen wearing the red serge shirts of gold-diggers, but with their heads wrapped in woollen comforters and their faces blackened.

‘Bloody hell!’ the sergeant said.

Before the sergeant could muster his men, or himself, a volley of shots was fired. The sergeant instinctively ducked. The horses jumped to the sound and the driver leapt from the box seat and grabbed the reins. The coach door opened and the three constables spilled out.

As the constables arranged themselves in front of the coach, the bushrangers dropped back but were immediately replaced by four more, their revolvers in place and ready. Another volley of bullets rang out. One of the constables fell back against the coach, grabbing at his shoulder.

Sergeant Meddows joined his officers and they quickly raised their carbines and fired, but their action was too rapid and their aim off mark. The horses bolted, pulling the coach with them. It capsized on the sharp bend.

The bushrangers yelled triumphantly and galloped towards the upturned coach. The driver ran off into the bush, followed closely by the constables. The sergeant, alone, watched as the bushrangers’ horses threatened to overrun him. He too turned and ran.

The bushrangers cheered. In minutes they seized the boxes and mail bags, jumped back on their horses and returned into the hills where the granite rocks gave them immediate cover.

* * * *

Thomas sat in the early morning drinking his third cup of tea. He could smell rain. He got up and peered out through the hessian curtains. The sky had dissolved into soft gentle rain. At last. It was the type of rain that would set in all day; drought-breaking rain. Also, it would wash away any horse tracks from the night before and any that could form during the day.

Thomas’s ears were pricked for every sound. With the early light he heard the ringing laugh of a kookaburra. It rattled in his brain. He was sure it would wake every policeman and every settler in the whole valley. He shivered. It was late in May, early winter, and the rain had chilled the air. Had they been caught? Was the game up? Would the first horsemen he saw be traps?

Finally, through the mist of the drizzling rain, he saw three dark riders appear out of the ring of eucalyptus trees that surrounded his home. They pulled into the stable and disappeared behind the doors. He heard a tiny muffle over the patter of rain, then two of the men emerged and started toward his house: Johnny and Kavanagh.

Johnny burst into the house. ‘Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. We did it!’ He grabbed Thomas and started dancing around with him. ‘Hurrah!’ They twirled round and around until they collapsed against the table. Johnny laughed wildly.

Kavanagh smiled down at the lad, then handed a small canvas bag to Thomas. ‘Your share. Fair.’

Thomas weighed the bag in his hand, and could feel the uneven pieces of stones; nuggets. He didn’t open it, but placed it in his coat pocket.

‘So, now what?’ he asked.

‘Whew! A cup of tea so we can rest and allow our boy here to compose himself, a warm fire to sit beside and some grub to eat. We’ll have a sleep for a short while in the stable, and then we’ll be off again. The traps were running away scared the last we saw.’ He grinned wide. ‘But no doubt they have composed themselves and are attempting to force their nags into the bush. I’d guess they would be about halfway to our camp by now.’ This elicited another round of hysterical laughter from Johnny. ‘Of course, we left that camp four hours ago, but they are probably having a pot of tea to allow their horses to recuperate.’

Thomas prepared some tea and food for the men. ‘Some for your look out too?’

Kavanagh grinned wide. ‘Well spotted. Yes, he is, as you said, keeping look out. Send something out to keep him warm.’

After their meal they left the house and went to the stable to sleep. Thomas cleared up the dishes, then sat with another cup of tea. He took out the canvas bag of gold and placed it on the table. What would he do with it? How could he account for having it? Pretend he had been to the diggings and got lucky?

The front door creaked open. Thomas heard the footsteps creep up behind him. They stopped. A hand reached around and grabbed at his bag of gold. Thomas let it. The hand held the bag for a moment, then dropped it.

‘Some thief you’d make,’ the owner of the hand said. It was Johnny, as Thomas knew. Before Thomas could turn around he felt Johnny bury his head into his neck. ‘Ahh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. It was priceless. And so easy. Those traps are such fools. So easy.’

Thomas pocketed the gold again and said, ‘Maybe it was too easy?’

‘No. It was no trap. They had no idea what they were doing. They were all inside the coach. Traps trapped inside the coach. No trap that.’ Johnny fell about laughing again. ‘If we keep this up we’ll be so rich. Unbelievable.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to keep that up. The police won’t be so stupid next time.’

But Johnny was lost to the laughter again. ‘Why not? Mickey says they are always so stupid. He says they couldn’t find their way outside of their own town if they had no map.’

Thomas grabbed Johnny. ‘You can’t keep this up. If Kavanagh wants to do another raid you’ll be caught. The police may be inexperienced bushmen, but they aren’t stupid.’

Johnny was grinning wildly. ‘Do you have any porter? Enough of this bloody tea.’

‘Johnny! Are you going to stay with Kavanagh?’

‘Yeah. Listen. He’s not going to do another raid like this. He knows what he’s doin’, he doesn’t need your advice. He’s going to keep low and see what happens. Then … we’ll see. Now porter! Or, maybe – ’ and Johnny started pulling at Thomas’s shirt, and his hands began to fumble on the buttons of Thomas’s flies. The spark was in his eye, his grin lop-sided and wild.

Thomas put his arms around Johnny and pulled him close. Their lips closed on each other’s. They wound their way to the bedroom as they hurried to pull their clothes off. Thomas could feel that Johnny was as hard as the boulder they said they had hidden behind. Thomas answered him quickly. They threw their boots into a corner, ripped the last of their clothes off and fell onto the bed. Johnny slid his way down to Thomas’s cock and wrapped his lips around it, bobbing up and down quickly.

‘Not too quick lad, it’ll happen too soon.’

Johnny came off Thomas, looked up and grinned. ‘I’m so ready for this.’ He rolled over, lay on his back and spread his legs wide. ‘Give me a good licking, and then shove it in.’

Thomas obliged; he buried his head into Johnny’s crack. Johnny wrapped his legs around Thomas’s shoulders. He writhed about as Thomas’s tongue slid around his hole and slipped in and out. ‘Ah, ah! Stop. Get inside, now.’

Thomas lifted his head, grabbed his own cock, rubbed it again with spit from his hand, and then pushed himself slowly into Johnny.

‘Aaaahhhh…’ Thomas cried in ecstasy.

The two humped against each other for a short period before both built up and up to the climax, and exploded. For a moment they were back out on the vast open plain again. Thomas collapsed on top of Johnny, his head on his shoulder.

* * * *

‘Come, out of there, boy!’

The two snapped their eyes open, woken from their dreamy sleep. Thomas and Johnny lay wrapped in each other’s arms still in the tangle of blankets.

It was Kavanagh. ‘We need to go. Can’t waste time around here doing things like that. Time enough for that later.’

Johnny peered up at the window where the noonday sun, muted through the layer of rain clouds, filtered in through the curtains.

‘I thought you said the traps would never find us?’ he said.

‘They will find us if we make it too easy for them. Besides, we shouldn’t risk the lives of those we depend on for protection. A quick nap and eat is all we can afford when we visit the homes of our supporters. Now up.’

Johnny got up and hastily dressed. He grabbed some apples from the table, picked from Thomas’s orchard, and followed Kavanagh outside. The horses were waiting at the stable door, packed and ready. Johnny mounted his horse, saluted Thomas, and the group left. Thomas watched as they disappeared into the bush. Would he ever see Johnny again?

* * * *

Over the next few days, Thomas was alert to every possible sound that could indicate a troop of mounted police. Fortunately the rain continued, washing away tracks and hopefully slowing the police search.

At the end of the week he visited the local hotel that sat at the crossroads between Black Ridge and Lambing Flat. It was a rough weatherboard building, surrounded by lush English trees planted by the original owners twenty years before. The rooms were small and dark, built in the old Georgian style; you had to duck your head to enter it. At the bar he saw Patrick Sheehan sitting in the gloom at the back of the room. Thomas stood near the entrance and read a copy of the Black Ridge Weekly Post tacked on the wall. News of the escort robbery had spread rapidly. The paper was full of the embarrassing holdup and the poor efforts of the troopers on the day. It was a huge robbery; the estimates of the amount of gold and cash on board varied wildly. The police inspector had sent out troopers along with a black tracker immediately after he had been notified of the case; by daylight the next morning they had found the bushrangers’ first camp. Presumably they were still on the search.

Thomas tensed as he read one line in the article. The Sergeant at the robbery had confirmed that he believed the voice of the one in command of the gang to be, ‘that of Michael Kavanagh.’

Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. Once again he felt as if he were in a convict ship, with his ears pressed up hard against the wooden walls. He forced himself to drink his beer slowly, then carefully placed the pot down.

‘Did you want to buy a copy of the paper?’ the publican asked. Thomas turned and stared blankly at him. The publican’s voice sounded distant and muffled, as if it were coming through the deep ocean. He forced himself to shake his head. ‘No. No news.’

‘What about the gold escort robbery, eh? That was big.’

‘Oh. Yes. Bushrangers. Well, I don’t have anything they could rob from me, so I don’t need to worry.’

‘Yes. I guess you need to find the gold to have it robbed,’ the man said, laughing. The sound seemed to echo in the water.

Thomas left the hotel. His footsteps crunched on the gravel. The sound of a second set of footsteps echoed behind him.

‘Do you know anything of this, Davies?’ A voice called.

Thomas turned about and tried to focus on the intruder. It was Patrick Sheehan.

‘No, Mr Sheehan. Why … why would I?’

‘Where is John, do you know?’

‘No. I haven’t seen him for awhile. I – assumed he was still at home.’

‘Well he’s not, and hasn’t been for a week or two. He said he had “business in town.” Said he was trying to find gold. He hasn’t found any, as yet.’

Thomas shrugged. ‘A mug’s game, I think,’ he mumbled.

‘What is?’ Sheehan came up closer; his faced loomed in front of Thomas.

‘Gold digging,’ Thomas said, stepping back. 'I told Johnny as much, but, you know, he never listens.’ Thomas felt his voice echoing in the deep water again.

‘Indeed he doesn’t. Not to me.’ Sheehan said. He peered at Thomas in an accusative way. ‘I have always thought he listened more to you,’

Thomas shook his head. ‘He— he may have, once. But not any more.’ Thomas swallowed hard.

Sheehan glared. ‘Your father was a convict, wasn’t he?’ Sheehan asked.

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ asked Thomas.

Sheehan continued to glare, but finally moved on. ‘I’m keeping my eye on you,’ he said over his shoulder.

Thomas stared after him, and started sweating. He couldn’t work it out. Why was Sheehan acting so strange? Did he know anything?

* * * *

Jackie Doogal, the police black tracker, squatted behind a stringybark tree. He watched the bush in front for what seemed hours. Then he signalled with his hand. From behind him several troopers tried to make their way quietly through the undergrowth. Jackie frowned at their noise, but pushed on anyway. He picked his way through the scrub in front of him, stopped and pointed to the ground. Sergeant Meddows was on foot following him. He looked down; there appeared an indistinct mark in the soil.

‘Tracks are hard to find in the rain, boss. But up here in d’ hills, the rain run down, so no mud.’ Jackie pointed ahead.

Before Meddows had time to decide on a command, the troopers behind rushed forward in the direction of Jackie’s pointing finger. Several cockatoos and magpies flew out of the trees screeching.

Jackie looked at Meddows. ‘Well, if Mr Kavanagh and his mob was there, they not no more.’

Meddows sighed and called his men abruptly back.

Meddows camped in the bush again, admonishing his men for their recklessness. They had spent several days and nights pursuing the Kavanagh gang in the gullies and rocky hills behind Sandy Hill. It was almost an impossible task – would have been – without the help of the black tracker. He was not a native local to the area, of which he constantly reminded Meddows, but he had the skills to read movement in the bush. He often laughed at how careless and rough the white men were in their attempts to hide in the bush.

‘We’ll find him, boss, no worries. These men don’t know how to hide in the bush, they like an injured kangaroo, they drag their feet too much,’ he said, and he giggled to himself.

Early one morning Jackie gently woke Meddows from his sleep. He held his fingers to his lips and whispered, ‘That Mr Kavanagh and his mob, they just over the next hill.’

Meddows woke his men and they quickly followed Jackie. The troopers went through a gully and rounded the next hill, and then came across a small camp. Meddows smiled to himself. Kavanagh’s gang were sitting around their campfire having their morning billy of tea. The troopers dismounted at a distance and attempted to sneak up.

‘Michael!’

Kavanagh spun around. The warning call had come from a member of his gang hidden from the troopers. Kavanagh dropped his tea and picked up his pistol. He fired immediately. The other two ran to the safety of the trees and fired. Kavanagh dropped to the ground. Another round of shots was fired on both sides before the bullets ran out. During the lull the gang members behind the trees disappeared into the bush, but Kavanagh didn’t move. The troopers went over to him; he lay there gritting his teeth and smirking up at them.

‘So, it’s one up for you, this time, my friends,’ Kavanagh said. The troopers dragged him into a sitting position and bound his hands and feet together. They tore some material off his shirt and tied it tightly around his wounded leg.

‘So nice of you to take such good care of me, officer.’

‘Want to keep you nice and healthy, Kavanagh, so we can hang you,’ Sergeant Meddows said.

‘Hang me? It was just a robbery. This is not the days of the convicts.’

‘Murder of an officer of Her Majesty’s police is a hanging offence, Kavanagh,’ and Sergeant Meddows nodded his head to where one of his constables lay on the ground.

‘Ah. I see. I should congratulate whoever of my comrades it was who fired that shot. Alas, my good sir, ‘twas not me.’

‘You are good enough, Kavanagh. You’ll do.’

* * * *

In the early morning mist of a mid winter’s day a lone horseman appeared at Thomas’s homestead. He quietly rode into the stable, dismounted and made his way through the puddles to the house. The rain had stopped for now.

He stepped under the verandah and knocked on the door.

‘Johnny!’ Thomas pulled Johnny into the house. ‘What? Where have you been? My god! You look terrible.’ Johnny’s coat was soaked; Thomas dragged him over to the fireplace and sat him down.

‘They’ve got him,’ Johnny said.

‘Got him? Who? What’s happened?’

‘Michael. They got him. The traps. They shot him.’

Thomas sat down beside him. ‘Dead?’

‘No. Only in his leg. And they bandaged him up. But they took him away. I heard them say ‘hang’.’

‘Hang? Why? ‘Struth! This robbery has been big, Johnny. The police inspector has been determined with this. But – I knew he’d get a lagging, if caught, for maybe twenty years or more, but I didn’t think it would be a hanging?’

Johnny shivered. Thomas put his arm around him and pulled him close. Johnny laid his head against him. He tried to swallow his tears, but could not hold them back; they came flooding out.

After a few moments, Johnny started to quieten. He gulped several times, then took a deep breath. He lifted his head and looked at Thomas. ‘One of the troopers was killed.’

Thomas caught his breath. ‘Bloody hell.’ He gazed at Johnny, then reached out to stroke his face; the sweet gentle boy’s face. ‘Was it you?’

Johnny shook his head. ‘No. It wasn’t Michael either. It came from one of the gums near me. We were all hiding behind the trees, but Michael didn’t get a chance, he was still at the campfire. I didn’t see who it was. But it wasn’t Michael; he was already on the ground, from the shot in his leg.’ Johnny took a deep breath. ‘I thought he was killed, but he wasn’t. That was a relief.’ Then he laughed bitterly. ‘But not really, eh, since they will kill him now. Why? Why are they allowed to kill someone as a punishment for killing someone? It doesn’t make sense.’

Thomas patted Johnny on the shoulder and held him close. They sat quietly. Thomas savoured the familiar feel of Johnny lying against him. ‘You can stay here today,’ he said. ‘But maybe you should take your horse out into the back paddock, and hide it in the shed out there.

Johnny shook his head. ‘I can’t stay here. I don’t want to get you into this. I’ll have to move on. They’ll want me now.’

‘Johnny stay, at least until tomorrow, I want to talk about this. We need to talk about what you are to do.’

‘It’s too late, Thomas. It’s too late.’

* * * *

Thomas led Johnny into the bedroom. Johnny lay down upon the bed with his rifle next to him on the floor, and fell asleep in minutes. Thomas prepared some food for him, flour, tea and mutton, wrapped it in a swag and strapped it to his horse. Then he started on his day’s jobs, feeding the chickens, milking the cow.

After some morning tea he peeped in on Johnny. He lay curled in a ball, still sound asleep. Thomas planned to do some work in the orchard, then return to the house.

Thomas was heading to the stable, when he heard a horse approach. His heart jumped. He looked up, it was Patrick Sheehan.

‘Ah, Thomas, glad to have caught you still at home.’

‘I was just on my way out.’

‘Out? Where would you be going?’

‘Out to the orchard. I need to do some pruning.’

‘Well, would you mind giving me a cuppa first, I’ve come a way, you know.’

Thomas looked over at the house. Now was not the time for Johnny to have to face his father. He should have taken Johnny to the back shed. He should have let him go. He looked back to the stable, and out to where his orchard lay.

‘Sorry, Pat, I’m running late. I really need to get this work done.’

‘Well, Thomas, I was wanting to talk with you.’

‘Maybe you can come out to the orchard with me?’

Now it was Patrick looking around, seemingly reluctant to move away from the homestead.

‘Are you asking after Johnny?’ Thomas asked.

‘Now, why’d you be thinking that?’

‘Well. I thought you were worried about him. He’s been… running a bit wild lately, you know that.’

‘I do indeed, Thomas, I do. So, yes, that is what I was wanting to talk about.’

Thomas sighed. He started to head back to the house. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for Patrick to find Johnny there.

‘Come on in then,’ he said.

‘Well done, lad.’ Patrick turned his head to the side, away from the house, and nodded; then he dismounted.

Thomas heard a clatter of horses. He looked up toward the track that led to his house. Police. He saw Patrick turn and greet them.

‘Ah, Sergeant Meddows. May I introduce you to Thomas Davies.’

The sergeant, still on his horse, lifted his rifle and aimed it at Thomas.

‘Stand firm, Davies. If you have any arms, do not reach for them.’

Davies held up his hands. ‘I have nothing. Why do you aim at me?’

‘You are suspected of being a member of the Kavanagh gang.’

Thomas sighed. He shook his head and began to lower his arms.

‘Keep your arms raised!’

Despite the cold he started sweating. ‘I am not a member.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’m not involved.’ He tried to inch his way from the house toward the stable.

‘Stay where you are! Why are you moving?’

Sergeant Meddows recited: ‘The members of the gang of bushranger Michael Kavanagh are wanted for the murder of Her Majesty’s police officer, Constable Macallistar. They have been declared outlaws and as such can be shot on sight.’

Thomas lowered his head. There was nothing he could do. He almost felt he could hear Johnny’s breathing, his heartbeat, in the house behind him. Surely they would too. If he could somehow divert the troopers away from his property at least Johnny might get away. His own heart was pounding. If he could just run fast enough.

He turned and bolted away from the police and into the trees surrounding his property. The troopers thundered after him. Before he could reach the trees a shot ran out. He was hit in the back.

‘Hurrah!’ Patrick Sheehan called.

There was a noise behind them. Sheehan and the troopers looked back to the house, Johnny stood under the verandah, holding his rifle.

‘John!’ Patrick called and started toward him.

Johnny pointed his rifle at him, then he saw the troopers gathered near the trees. He gave a cry, dropped the rifle and ran over to where they were. He pushed his way through and stood in front of Thomas. A pool of blood had collected beneath his body.

‘Arrrrgghhhh!’ Johnny fell on top of the body of Thomas. He yelled and fisted the ground, then collapsed into a keening cry.

‘That’s— That’s my son.’ Patrick Sheehan cried as he headed over. ‘Ignore him. He used to know him as a boy. That’s all. He has nothing to do with any of this.’ Patrick started to grab at the troopers, pulling them out of the way so he could get to Johnny.

Sergeant Meddows nodded to one of the troopers, who grabbed Patrick and pulled him away.

Meddows said, ‘This is Johnny Sheehan? And … he is your son?’

‘Yes, but it is nothing. He has nothing to do with him now.’ Patrick tried to wrest himself free of the trooper. ‘Come on John, pull yourself together. Come home with me,’ Patrick called. ‘Meddows, he has nothing to do with this. He is just a poor boy, he—he knew him since he was a kid. He didn’t understand what this Davies was all about—’

‘Mr Sheehan. Johnny Sheehan is a known accomplice of Michael Kavanagh. He is in the gang, and was definitely at the scene of Macallister’s murder.’

Patrick closed his eyes and shook his head. The sergeant nodded again, and the trooper moved Patrick away, holding onto him tightly to control him. Another constable then went over and dragged Johnny off the corpse of Thomas and began to recite; ‘John Sheehan, in the name of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, you are under arrest …’

When they had finished they led Johnny away. Sergeant Meddows went up to Patrick, who was still being held by his constable. ‘The likes of Michael Kavanagh; they are of a bad seed and can turn a good boy in the wrong direction; and gold can turn any man’s head.’ Patrick collapsed onto the ground, his head buried in his hands.

They chained Johnny’s hands and feet and hoisted him onto one of the troopers’ horses. They wrapped Thomas’s body in a horse blanket, laid it over the back of his own horse and yoked it to theirs.

Patrick Sheehan sat in the middle of the yard, shaking. The troopers headed off toward Black Ridge, as the rain began again.

--- THE END ---

Acknowledgement is given to Charles White, History of Australian Bushranging Vol.1 (1903), Curry O’Neil Australian Classics edition, 1980, pp 234 – 291, for his description of the Gold Escort Robbery.

Please note this is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real historical figures is not intended.

Alex Hogan grew up in the rural New South Wales town of Forbes, the heart of the gold rush along the Lachlan River. She has drawn upon many stories of bushrangers, Australian highway men of the 19^th century, both in the Lachlan and all over Australia, to create a work with fictional characters, although she admits to paying homage to the colourful Frank Gardiner and his audacious Gold Escort Robbery.

A glossary of Australian usage:

Billy or billycan – a large tin can emptied and turned into a tea pot, which can be heated up in an open fire.

The bush – lightly forested rural areas

Bullocky – driver of a bullock dray

Bully beef – canned beef

Bushranger - outlaw

Chooks – chickens

Cove – 19^th century slang: man = ‘Dude’

Damper – a loaf of bread cooked quickly in the coals and ashes of a fire

Flash – 19^th century slang = ‘cool’

(so ‘flash cove’ = ‘cool dude’)

Lagging – 19^th century slang for doing time in jail (or rather, gaol)

Station or property – large sheep or cattle farm (‘ranch’)

Swag – rolled up blankets used by itinerant workers for sleeping

Traps – 19^th century slang for mounted police

 

 

Wilde Oats is published three times a year, in April, August and December. Click here to be automatically informed of new issues when they are published.

Thomas enjoyed the long slow sojourns out in the bush, with just him and Johnny, the sheep and the dogs, and no one around to decide for them what was right or wrong.

‘You gone to sleep, have you?’ Johnny asked.

‘Na, just lying here; watching you.’

Johnny threw a piece of bark over at Thomas and laughed. He got himself up, stretched long and slowly, then ambled his way over to where Thomas lay, and settled in beside him.