Ironbark (5 page)

‘If you want to hear any more confessions – save up your own for your priest.'

Mac rubbed his beard. ‘Righto. Let's get down to business. You look in pretty good nick – physical like. But what about inside your head?
Are you gunna be able to fix your sights on the Bulldog's style? Hone in on his weak spots? You ain't never fought anyone as downright dirty as Kane before.'

Jake's voice was dangerously quiet. ‘Get this straight, Mac. I need that purse to be able to track down Pearl. So if it takes me all bloody night and half of tomorrow I'll flatten the Bulldog. That answer your fool question?'

Mac nodded. ‘Loud and clear.'

Jake rose. ‘Let's go size up the Pommy bastard's tactics.'

• • •

Jake saw that the caricature of Bulldog Kane was no joke. In the flesh he was a dumb ox of a man with a barrel chest and a neck as thick as the trunk of a baobab tree. They watched as the Bulldog swiftly dispatched the first local contender, breaking the lad's jaw. No one else in the crowd volunteered to accept the challenge.

‘Want to change your mind, mate?' Mac asked Jake.

Father Declan was taking no chances on his church roof. He grabbed Jake's arm and steered him toward the ring. The Bulldog played to the crowd and gave Jake an insulting two-fingered salute.

The spectators were shaggy-bearded emancipist farmers, ticket-of-leave stockmen and shearers. Only one or two women. Most had Irish accents. All were well primed with grog.

Jake watched Mac circle the crowd accepting their stakes. He stripped down to his bare chest, hitched up the moleskin trousers tucked into his boots, clenched his fists and took a fighting pose.

Father Declan held up his hands for silence and rattled off the rules.

‘These lads will fight by the old bare-knuckle Broughton Rules. We'll be having none of those newfangled London prize-ring rules in
this
county!' After the crowd roared patriotic approval he continued. ‘Under Broughton Rules head butts and wrestling holds are still fair game!'

The crowd cheered their support but belligerent voices yelled to get on with it.

The priest charged through the standard warning. No hitting a man when he was down. No blows below the waist. Each round to continue until a fighter goes down. Thirty seconds between rounds.

Inwardly Jake tried to imagine that the opponent standing before him was actually Jenny's protector – and this was his chance to vent all his rage and frustration and beat the living daylights out of him. But publicly, for the sake of entertaining the crowd, Jake tried to appear as cocky as hell.

Father Declan announced the final words, ‘When a fighter is in no fit state to square off within one yard from his opponent, I'll declare that man beaten.'

Jake was quick to toss in a final taunt. ‘Don't look at me, Father. Warn the bloody Bulldog!'

The crowd whistled through their teeth. The fight was on.

Jake knew his style was so unorthodox his awkward southpaw tactics always looked pathetic initially. He aroused sympathy for the underdog as he staggered to duck out of range of the Bulldog's long reach. When Jake slipped, it drew a roar from the crowd but he came bouncing back until a near lethal haymaker knocked him to his knees for the thirty-second count. The spectators appeared confident the Bulldog was a dead certainty.

In the second round surprise ricocheted through the crowd as Jake's weaving and jabbing proved he was more effective than some drunk blessed by the angels. This round ended with the bemused Bulldog hitting the dirt for the count.

A tricky barrage of jabs from Jake in round three enraged the Bulldog. He delivered a murderous head butt that sent Jake reeling. For a few seconds Jake was unsure where he was until he had a flash of Jenny holding their newborn baby in her arms. The memory of the happiest day of his life was now like a punch in the gut.
Pearl.
He scrambled to his feet and squared off just as the count reached twenty-eight.

The next round appeared to be going the Bulldog's way until Jake threw a wild punch that missed the Bulldog but threw the big lug off guard as Jake intended. Seconds later Jake wiped the smile off the Bulldog's face with a left hook to his solar plexus. The Bulldog roared like a blacksmith's bellows. He locked Jake in a vicious wrestling headlock that the crowd loved. Jake's eyes bulged as he gargled a sound he hoped wasn't his death rattle. He saw Mac's eyes widen in alarm as he realised Jake's performance was no act. Jake gave a convincing slump as if unconscious in the Bulldog's arms. The bewidered professional dropped him. Ape-like, the Bulldog stood with his mouth open, afraid that he had killed Jake and that the partisan Irishmen would soon lynch him.

Jake bounced back to his feet. In one beautifully timed movement he delivered his killer southpaw punch to the jaw. The Bulldog's knees buckled and he lay spread-eagled on the ground. Jake felt a rush of triumph and couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

Father Declan gave a speedy thirty-second count and jubilantly raised Jake's arm in victory. He announced to the crowd: ‘This young heretic has kindly donated half of his winner's purse to build our church roof!'

The crowd gave three lusty cheers.

Jake could not actually remember making this generous offer to the priest that day they set up the fight, but he knew Albion Ale was a potent brew. He was happy to make a donation on behalf of his Catholic mother but after one round of drinks shared with Mac and Father Declan, Jake realised it would be all too easy to get drunk enough to blot out the pain of his memories until his money ran dry. Instead he exchanged a warning look with Mac.

Mac made the offer anyway. ‘Y'know you're welcome to a shakedown here, mate.'

‘Thanks, Mac. But I'll be on my way. I've got business with a bloke that won't wait.'

Jake tipped his hat to Father Declan. ‘Good luck with your church roof, Dennis. Me being an agnostic I can't say I'll see you in church, but I reckon Mac can best do the honours for me.'

Father Declan smiled but his eyes were serious. ‘I'll be praying your search ends the
right
way, Jakob lad.'

Jake tried to keep his tone light. ‘Thanks, Dennis. But I reckon your idea of what's right is
very
different to mine.'

He rode Horatio in the direction of the road to Sydney Town, his winnings stashed in his boot. Now he was a cuckold the words ‘winner take all' had a bitterly ironic twist. But Jake told himself these funds would widen his search. In his mind's eye he carried the map of the colony, from Moreton Bay in the north to the Port Phillip District in the south, as well as the tracks leading to every settlement in the colony's nineteen counties.

But Sydney Town was his first goal. Jenny's beauty could never pass unnoticed. His bolter of a wife would lead him to the man who had no name and no face.

The silver coins in her grandmother's drawstring purse had been a generous gift and Keziah Stanley knew they would just cover her passage to New South Wales. Then
baxt
turned against her. A footpad grabbed her purse and fled. It was a waste of time for a Romani to seek help from the law. Keziah knew she must build up enough money to secure her passage.

Now, as she travelled on foot along a cobblestone road that snaked through a village in the direction of Liverpool, she was confident that wherever she went in the world she would survive by reading the palms of the
gaujo –
or for those who could afford it, by predicting their future in the Tarot.

‘I'll earn my passage before the moon turns over,' she assured herself. Her spirits soared in delight when a flight of swallows swooped low across her path – a sure sign her Romani ancestors were endowing her with good luck. This proved that she was on the road that was right for her. Not simply the road to Liverpool but the road to Gem.

To conserve her few remaining coins she resolutely bypassed a fruit barrow and collected fallen fruit at the base of a tree instead.
A bit green but hungry bellies can't be as choosey as princes.

Twilight fell in a gentle English cushion of light that Keziah loved; the faint reflection of the sun between sunset and nightfall. She cautiously approached an isolated farmhouse set back from the road, its windows lit like the eyes of a candlelit pumpkin on Allhallows Eve.

Keziah evaluated the hedgerows bordering the farmer's meadows, judging if it was safe to doss down for the night. When rain fell in a soft mist that covered her hair like a hairnet, she caught herself wishing she could spend the night in the warmth of the farmer's barn. Instead she
made her way along the hedgerow, keeping a sharp eye out for any movement from the farmhouse. No roving Romani was ever a welcome guest of the
gaujo
. She could never forget how a farmer's evidence had sent her father, Gabriel, to prison.

She took her handkerchief with her few remaining coins knotted in the corner and laced it securely inside her bodice. Swathed in her shawl she nestled beneath the hedge. She clutched her amulet, comforted by the Romani belief, ‘After bad luck comes good luck!'

Gazing up into the almost perfectly round face of the moon she prayed to
Shon,
the female spirit of the moon. In the beginning of the world
Kam
the Sun was a great Gypsy king. Each day he pursued his beautiful sister
Shon
in the sky. But before he rose each morning she managed to slip over the horizon to avoid an incestuous relationship. When he finally caught her, she fought him so hard it caused darkness to spread across the earth. During this first eclipse
Shon
was seduced. Their union gave birth to the Romani people.

On the heels of her own prayers Keziah tacked on the Christian Lord's Prayer in the Romani language for good measure.
‘Moro Dad …'
When she reached the Amen, ‘
Avali. Tachipen
', she assured herself that should keep both the Romani and
gaujo
gods happy. You couldn't be too careful.

Sleep was slow in coming. She was drawn back to her first vivid memory from when she was four years old.

Their Romani camp lay in darkness pierced by clusters of tribal fires at the heart of each family. Her father, Gabriel, himself still a boy, was the handsomest man in the whole world. His dark eyes were lost in the magic he created with his violin. His love song seduced her beautiful young mother who sprang to her feet, her yellow hair flying like gossamer. She beckoned Keziah to join her and they danced together. Keziah was enchanted by her mother's violet-blue eyes – a mirror image of her own.

Keziah shrank from her next memory. The day Gabriel brought home a
hotchiwitchi
, a wild hedgehog that was a delicacy for the cooking
pot. It was his right under Romani law to live off the land, but under
gaujo
law the magistrate ruled the hedgehog was on the edge of the farmer's property and pronounced him ‘Guilty'. Gaol was a badge of honour to her people. However, within months her mother broke the worst Romani taboo – she betrayed her man while he served time in the
sturaban.

Gabriel had returned from gaol a broken man. Keziah remembered seeing him sharpening a knife on the wheel he used to repair the villagers' scissors and knives. He slashed the tattoo on his arm, until his blood covered her name – Stella.

He never spoke her name again.

As Keziah finally surrendered to sleep she was haunted by her child-mother's face smiling at her, even when Keziah cursed her.
The Devil be in your bowels!

• • •

The first thing Keziah saw on waking were the fetlocks of a chestnut gelding on the far side of the hedge. The rider was screened from her sight except for his mud-covered riding boots.

‘Well, what have we here? A pretty little urchin. Lost your way have you, lass?'

Keziah sprang to her feet. The rider was a cocksure youth dressed in a torn, muddy riding habit of fine quality. His high forehead and short hair reminded her of a Roman Caesar on an ancient coin. He had a sensual mouth in a dirty and bruised face.

She answered firmly. ‘Thank you, no! I know exactly where I am going. Liverpool. A ship bound for Botany Bay.'

‘You've many miles ahead of you, little one. Ride behind me to speed your journey.'

‘Thank you but I prefer to walk.' She shook the twigs from her skirt, turned her back on him and stepped out at a brisk pace.

The rider dismounted and led his horse at walking pace a few feet behind her.

‘I can take you as far as my master's house. The housekeeper will give you a good meal to see you on your way.'

Keziah felt her cheeks burn. Romani pride was quite beyond
gaujo
comprehension.

‘You mean it kindly, Sir, but I am no pauper in need of charity. I pay my way.'

‘Of course. I can recognise a lady when I see one,' the rider said politely. ‘Would you mind if I walk a little way with you? I am in need of a few kind words before I face my master's wrath. His favourite horse threw me.'

Keziah wasn't fooled by his pretence that he was a groom. His arrogant demeanour and educated speech clearly placed him as gentry. Did he think Romani girls were that gullible?

‘No doubt
your father
will forgive you, knowing the horse was in pain.'

The counterfeit groom gave a short laugh as if amused to be caught out in a lie.

Keziah knelt and gently stroked the horse's fetlock. ‘I thought so. A bee sting.'

Aware the young man was studying her intently she drew out the stinger then spat on the wound to cleanse it. She found a common comfrey plant growing wild on the verge and used her headscarf to bandage the leaves against the horse's fetlock.

‘By Jove, that was splendid. May I know your name? I am Caleb Morgan.' He inclined his head.