The Prisoner Page 4

  Tossing the calico bag at the prisoner’s feet, he said: “Rub that inta ‘is back. It’ll ‘elp tha wounds ta heal an’ permit ‘im ta work termorrer…an’ don’ be gentle about it,” and turned to walk away.

  “He passed out because he didn’t ‘ave anything to drink all day,” the prisoner said as Morris made to close the door of the shack behind him, and Morris hesitated. Then he stepped back into the shack and walked back, to stand over the prisoner, who sat, his back against the foot of a bunk.

  “Are you sayin’ I should’na done what I did?” he asked, both bunched fists resting on his hips, and the prisoner replied: “No, Mr Morris…I was just explaining why ‘e passed out, and couldn’t tend yer sheep.”

  Morris stood, staring down into the prisoner’s face, for a long time. Then, suddenly, his right foot lashed out and caught the prisoner’s leg where the stump joined onto the wooden prosthetic. Morris leaned down as the prisoner gasped in pain, clutching the stump of his leg: “Yer ever question me again, an’ I’ll ‘ave tha hide off yer own back!” he snarled, kicked the prisoner’s leg again, and stomped from the shack.

  A moment later, the door slammed behind him.

  “’E’s a right bastard, is Morris!” Wallis managed through his pain; “it’s a wonder someone ain’t done fer ‘im before now!”

  The prisoner looked at Wallis, now sitting up on his bunk. He picked up the calico bag, untied the string holding the neck closed, and peered inside. The bag contained perhaps quarter of a pound of salt.

  “Bastard or not, he’s right yer know…” the prisoner said softly; “the salt will help repair what h‘e’s done to yer back. It’ll be rough…but it’s the best way.”

  “Would’na needed it if tha bastard ‘ad a grain o’ ‘umanity in ‘im,” Wallis said, and lay down again; “go on…git it over with.” And the prisoner sat down on the edge of Wallis’ bunk and began rubbing salt into his open back, over the loud protestations of the injured man.

  CHAPTER TEN

  August 27th; 1822: The sky was still grey outside when Morris kicked open the door to the shack and entered. In his hand, he held a torn and tattered shirt.

  As Wallis and the prisoner slowly awakened, Morris walked to Wallis’ bunk and tossed the shirt across his body.

  “Ya better wear that today…or tha sun’ll burn tha hell outa yer back,” he said; “now git out there…an’ make sure none of me sheep don’ escape!” And he was gone.

  They rose, stomachs growling with hunger, and returned to their tasks. The morning was cold, with a light frost overlaying the ground, and the prisoner found the earth frozen from an overnight chill, but put his shoulders into the work, and soon had the hoe working to his liking. He dug his way down the row he had begun the previous evening, and turned to begin the run back up the next row, when he heard a shout from the paddock where Wallis had released the flock of sheep to pasture.

  Looking up, he saw Wallis, struggling to release a sheep from down near the river. It had tried to exit the paddock through a narrow gap in the barbed wire, and become snared, its woolly coat caught in the sharp barbs.

  At the same moment as he dropped the hoe and moved towards the lower fence to assist the struggling Wallis, Morris appeared from the back door of the house, and ran down to where Wallis was on his knees, trying to disentangle the sheep.

  “What tha ruddy ‘ell are you doin’? Tryin’ ta ruin me fleeces?” he heard Morris shout, and then the big farmer was down on his knees, carefully disentangling the animal’s wool from the wire. He watched, as slowly the animal was released and allowed to rejoin the flock. Then, as Wallis straightened and pressed a hand to his back, Morris moved directly in front of the shepherd and struck him a savage blow directly to the face.

  “If I ‘and’t ‘ad these leg-irons on, I coulda got ‘ere in time ta save yer precious fleece!” Wallis cried from beneath Morris’ feet, and Morris suddenly leaned down and struck him again.

  “I won’t stand fer a man back-chattin’ me!” Morris said angrily; “remember it!” As he walked away, passing close to the prisoner, he stopped and glared into his face.

  “You got anythin’ ta say?” he asked, his fists bunched at his sides.

  The prisoner shook his head, and Morris, after staring directly into his eyes for several seconds, stomped back up the paddock and made for the house. As he disappeared through the back door, Wallis said softly: “That man’s a bloody brute! Nothin’ less! A bloody brute!”

  He had just finished hoeing the vegetable garden when, from a grass-tussock near his feet, a long black shape appeared and tried to slither away.

  Remembering the snake that had killed Simpson, he raised the hoe high over his head and struck downwards with it, the handle of the hoe catching the snake behind the head and striking against a large rock. The handle of the hoe snapped just behind the blade, and the snake lay, wriggling, in the sun for a few seconds, before it died.

  He picked up the head of the hoe and, holding the broken handle in his hand, limped up to the house and knocked on the back door.

  Morris appeared a few seconds later, holding a bottle of beer in one hand.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Morris…I broke yer hoe,” he began, holding the broken handle up; “I struck at a snake, an’-“

  The punch took him high on the cheekbone, and sent him staggering back down the steps, to land on his spine at Morris’ feet. Following him down, Morris stood over him, and glared.

  “Gardenin’ tools cost money…convicts cost nuthin!” Morris snarled; “nex’ time, let tha snake bite yer!” He reached down, snatched the head of the hoe from the prisoner’s hand, and stomped off into the barn.

  The man reappeared some minutes later, leading his horse by the halter. He shoved the head of the hoe into his saddlebag, mounted up, and rode out of the yard without saying a word, as the prisoner limped past him, a hand pressed to his jaw.

  He walked back down to the vegetable garden and stared at the body of the snake. Ants had already begun feasting on the corpse, so he left it where it was, and returned to the house.

  Mrs Morris answered his knock. When she appeared in the doorway, the prisoner noticed she had a bruise, high on her forehead.

  “Yair?” she asked.

  “What does Mr Morris want me ta do now? I finished tha vegetable garden,” the prisoner said, and the woman stared at him for a moment, before asking: “Did Morris ‘it yer?”

  “Yes. But it’s nothin’. ‘E’s gone inta town, an’ didn’t tell me what ‘e wants me ta do now.”

  “Then if ‘e didn’t tell yer, I ain’t gonna. I’ll probably tell yer tha wrong thing, an’ then ‘e’ll be arter me. Go an sit in tha shade down by tha shack. If yer see ‘im comin’, make it look like ye’re doin’ somethin’.” And she disappeared, back inside the house.

  The prisoner limped down to the shack, and sat in the shade by the side of the little bunk-house. He pulled out his pipe, filled and lit it, and sat there, smoking. After a few moments, Wallis joined him.

  “I saw ‘im ‘it yer…” Wallis said, sitting down beside him; “it’s not worth bein’ ‘anged, or I’d do fer tha bastard. ‘E’s a right evil one,” he said; “I saw ‘im hit ‘is wife once. Seems ‘e likes usin’ ‘is fists.”

  They talked for a few minutes, then Wallis returned to the sheep.

  The prisoner went and fetched the wire-strainer and a pair of heavy pliers from the barn. He limped down to the bottom pasture, and found a panel of fencing that had loosened, applied the wire-strainer and tensioned it, then tied off the ends of the wire, and freed the strainer. Then he moved on to another panel that was in danger of falling.

  The posts that held that section of fence had rotted, and were in need of replacing. He stood, gazing at the fence-line for some time, then found another section that had loosened, and repaired that, then fetched a sledge-hammer from the barn and drove the post as deep as he could into the hard earth. As he was walking back up to the barn, Morris reappeared, holding
the hoe affixed to a new handle.

  Dismounting, Morris led his horse into the barn, unsaddled it, and led it into its stall, then walked out and handed the hoe to the prisoner.

  “See yer don’t break this one,” he said, and turned away.

  “I’ve finished the vegetable garden…what do yer want me ta do now, Mr Morris?” the prisoner asked, and Morris turned and gazed down over the paddocks. Then he looked up at the sun, low down in the western sky.

  “Go an’ ‘elp Wallis git tha sheep up inta their paddock fer tha night,” Morris said; “then yer can knock orf. There’s nothin’ else yer can do today.”

  “Those posts down by tha river need replacin’,” the prisoner said; “most of ‘em are rotten.”

  Morris turned about: “Are you tellin’ me how ta run me farm now?”

  “No, Mr Morris, I-“

  “Termorrer, put tha sheep in that pasture to tha east,” Morris told him, pointing; “you’ll find some cut fence-posts stacked beside tha barn. Yer can begin settin’ them an’ replacin’ those that need replacin’ in tha mornin’,” he said, and walked away towards the house.

  The prisoner walked down the pasture where the sheep were kept, and between them, he and Wallis got the flock back into the night-pasture. As they closed the gate, Morris reappeared, drinking from a bottle of rum. He walked down to the men as they approached the shack where they slept, and handed the bottle to Wallis.

  “Go an’ sit down inside…supper’ll be along in a while,” he said, and turned away once more.

  Wallis looked at the bottle, then at the prisoner. Then he took a long swallow from the bottle, and passed it to the prisoner.

  “’E’s a queer one alright,” Wallis said; “’e’s ‘ittin’ yer one minute, then ‘andin’ out bottles o’ rum tha next. Yer jes’ can’t figger ‘im out.”

  “He’s a man ta be careful of,” the prisoner said; “an’ ‘e hits ‘is wife, too. She ‘ad a bruise on her forehead when I talked to ‘er earlier.”

  “A man wot ‘its his wife ain’t no man at all!” Wallis growled, and they moved into the shade of the shack and sat on their bunks.

  Half an hour later, Mrs Morris arrived with their supper in the little black cauldron.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  August 28th; 1822: As dawn broke, the two men rose, dressed, and made their way down to the pasture where the sheep were dozing. Whilst Wallis got them moved to the east pasture, the prisoner went down to the pasture where they were normally penned during the day, and inspected each fence-post, finding four that needed replacing.

  He limped back up to the barn, fetched a heavy iron bar and the spade, and set about digging out the first of the rotted fence-posts. Whoever had sunk the posts originally had used, not hardwood, but common pine, which was why they had rotted. By lunchtime, he had dug three of them out, and was about to start on the fourth.

  Morris came down with the cauldron, placed it on the ground with a bottle of water and a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and looked along the fence-line: “Wallis can leave tha sheep fer a while, an’ ‘elp yer get them fence-posts set,” he said; “I want that fence back up by nightfall. Yer’ve done a good job. Done fencin’ before?”

  “A little…back in England,” the prisoner replied.

  “Well, can yer ride…I mean, with that wooden stump?”

  “Not too easily. But I can handle a buckboard.”

  Morris gazed along the lower fence that ran beside the river: “In that case, when yer’ve finished with this fence, yer can take tha horse an’ buggy, an ride out an’ inspect all me fences. If yer find any that need replacin’, let me know. Yer’ll probably find a few in tha same state…damn fool that put tha fences up in tha first place ‘ad no idea what ‘e was doin’, usin’ softwood instead o’ hardwood posts…me wife coulda done better.” Then he grinned, and slapped the prisoner on the back.

  “Well, I’ll be buggered!” Wallis said as he joined the prisoner and helped himself to the stew in the little cauldron; “did yer see that? ‘E akshully grinned, an’ slapped yer back! Bastard might be ‘uman arter all!”

  “We all ‘ave our good days,” the prisoner replied, digging into the stew with a chunk torn off the loaf. As he ate, he considered the man. He was cruel, given to using his fists, and impelled by a very short temper. Yet today, for the first time, he had shown a different side of himself.

  When they had finished the stew, Wallis went down to the river and found a few large river-stones. He carried them back up to the paddock, dropped two into the first hole and drove them with the bar, then sat a new post on top, and the prisoner took the shovel and poured earth back into the hole around the foot of the post. Then, while he held it upright, Wallis pounded the earth into place with the bar, and they moved onto the second post.

  While they were working, Mrs Morris came down and fetched the empty cauldron. She did not speak to either of them, but the prisoner noticed a fresh bruise at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes, when he looked into them, were dull and lifeless.

  Just before dusk, they had replaced all four posts. Wallis fetched the strainer and handed it to the prisoner, and they managed to get the wire strung and tensioned just as the sun was setting.

  The prisoner picked up the tools and headed up to the barn, while Wallis moved the flock of sheep back into their regular pasture for the night, and they washed up in a barrel of rainwater beside the shack.

  Morris came down with the cauldron and set it on the floor of the shack. Then he tossed half a pack of tobacco and a box of Congreves beside the cauldron, and left again.

  “Don’t speak much, does ‘e,” Wallis said, and the prisoner shook his head.

  “No…but it’s when ‘e speaks that yer want to watch out,” he commented, and they set about their supper.

  Just as they finished eating, Morris reappeared with a rolled sheet of paper in his hand.

  “I drew this up for yer,” he said, handing the paper to the prisoner; “it’s a layout of me paddocks. Mark any fences yer think need replacin’, an’ when yer’ve finished, give it back ter me. There’s two new rolls of wire in the barn, an’ we got plenty o’ fence-posts.”

  ”How much land does it cover?”

  “Twenty-seven acres,” the farmer answered, lighting a battered pipe; “start from tha outer fences first, an’ work yer way in. Then we’ll start on ‘em, paddock by paddock.” He turned, and was about to leave the shack, when he stopped, and faced about again.

  “Jes’ a warnin’…” he said, glaring from one man to the other; “…they’re bringin’ a female out termorrer, ta help me wife in tha house. You two keep away from ‘er. I want no trouble ‘cause o’ males makin’ free with me female servant. Got it?”

  Wallis stared at Morris for a moment, then nodded his head. As the prisoner was about to reply, Morris said: “You I don’ ‘ave ta worry about: who’d want a man with a wooden leg?” Then he laughed, a harsh sound in the stillness of the night, and left the shack.

  The two men ate their supper, then went outside to the rainwater barrel and washed their faces and hands. Then they sat on the step in the cool of the early night, and smoked.

  “Makin’ free with ‘is female servant!” Wallis growled; “what makes ‘im think I’d wanna ‘ave anything ta do with a scrawny female convick, anyway?”

  “’E was just warning us, that’s all,” the prisoner said, rubbing the leg where it joined onto the wooden stump. It had been chaffing whilst they had been working on the fence, and now felt raw and tender. Reaching down, he unfastened the straps holding it in place, and took it off, laying it beside his body on the step.

  “Is it ‘ard ta get used ta walkin’ with that thing?” Wallis asked, and the prisoner shook his head: “No. Not arter a while. At first, it throws yer off-balance, but when you get used ta balancin’ on it, yer hardly notice it…except when it chaffs against the skin, like it’s been doin’ all afternoon,” he replied.

  Down in the lower paddocks, a fog began
to creep across the ground, hiding the flock from view. Somewhere up in the hills, a dingo howled, then was silent.

  “’Ope it comes down an’ eats ‘is flamin’ flock! I’m goin’ ter bed!” Wallis said, and rose, made his way back into the shack, and was soon asleep.

  The prisoner sat alone on the front step, smoking for some time, and listening to the night noises all about him. Then he, too, retired.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  August 29th; 1822: Just on dawn, Morris roused the men and went back up to the barn. He harnessed an old grey gelding to the buggy, led it out into the yard, and called to the prisoner, who turned and walked back up to where Morris stood.

  As he was about to climb aboard the buggy, a Black Mariah drew up in the yard beside the house. A female prisoner, young, with long, stringy hair climbed down, and stood waiting until a guard got down, took hold of the manacles securing her wrists, and led her towards Morris.

  “Mr Morris?” the guard called when within a few yards of them; “this is Mary Sullivan. Transported fer prostitution in London. She’s yer assigned servant now.”

  Morris looked at the girl, at the sullen face and downcast eyes. Then he said: “Take ‘er up ta tha house. Yer’ll fine me wife inside. She’ll be takin’ charge of ‘er.” As they were about to walk away, Morris called: “Sullivan! Make sure yer do as ye’re told, or ye’ll feel tha lash, right smart!” Then he helped the prisoner climb aboard the buggy, slapped the gelding on the rump, and the buggy set off down the yard.

  The prisoner began working his way around the boundary-fences, marking panels that needed replacing with a stub of pencil on the map Morris had given him. Whoever had erected the fences originally had known nothing about the trade: most of the posts were pine, and had not lasted many years before giving way to rot, and several panels lay, flattened, on the ground.

  By noon, when the sun sat directly overhead and he could feel the heat through his worn and tattered shirt, he had completed inspecting roughly a third of the boundary-fences. He drove the buggy up through the bottom gate and across the river, then up through the gates separating him from where Wallis was working, and with difficulty, climbed down.