The Horse Thief (25 page)

Bushy heaved to his feet with a resigned sigh. ‘You've got a choice. We leave you chained and go about our business or you take your chances with us.'

A chance at what?

‘He'll have to come with us otherwise they'll have us pegged.' Stubby hauled the chain upwards, wrenching Jim's arms above his head.

‘Jesus, you can be fucking dense sometimes. They're going to know who's shot through the minute they open the cells up.'

Swimming through the impenetrable fog that had clouded his mind since the constable had bundled him into the cart, Jim sifted through the garbled words. The only conclusion he could draw was the turnkey had thrown him into a cell where he'd interrupted an escape attempt.

‘Are you in or not?' Bushy's remark confirmed his suspicions.

What had he to lose? Stay and he'd have a long wait for the magistrate and then no chance in hell if Kilhampton pulled the full force of the legislature down on his head. Run and maybe, just maybe he'd have the chance of clearing his name, prove to Kilhampton his intentions were honourable. And India. He still owed her an explanation. Had she known? Had she watched from the security of an upstairs window while they bundled him away? Relieved to be free of the man who'd lied to her.

He pushed the thought away and held his wrists higher, his mind made up. ‘If you're getting out of here, I'm in.'

‘No guarantees.'

‘No guarantees.'

‘We'll get rid of these chains then you can make yourself useful.' Bushy wiped the back of his hand over his hairy lips and stepped back. ‘You got something there to do the trick?'

The fourth man, a giant, produced a heavy metal chisel and hammer.

‘Blacksmith reckons he's the best in the colony at removing irons. Put your wrists down on the ground.'

Jim lowered his arms and looked away. One slip of either of the two lethal tools the blacksmith brandished and he'd be minus a few fingers or have his wrists slashed. He tensed as the giant raised the mallet above the chisel then held his breath. The force of the blow ricocheted up his arms making his teeth rattle. Two more swipes and the chains were gone. Meaty fingers clasped his wrists and the bow saw bit into his flesh as it ground across the rusty metal of the cuff.

‘What's the go?' he choked out in an attempt to draw his attention away from the stench of mangled flesh, his flesh.

‘Just do what you're told. And keep your mouth shut.'

In response he offered his other wrist and watched as the saw bit through the metal.

‘Want these for a souvenir?' the blacksmith asked as he lifted off his second cuff.

Jim shook his head. ‘You can have them and thanks. Thanks a lot.'

With the chains and cuffs gathered in one hand, the blacksmith loosened a sandstone block from the wall and slipped the chains and one chisel onto a pile in the cavity. ‘Leave no trace. Might do some other poor bugger some good.' He replaced the block and ran his large hand over the wall, checking the alignment.

Jim twisted his wrists and flexed his fingers. The sudden lack of weight seemed odd. He'd worn the cuffs for less than twelve hours and already he'd become accustomed to their presence. The thought made him shudder. What would it be like to be sentenced to work in chains, wrists and ankles restrained, for years? Would the chains become an accepted item, like shoes or a hat? He wasn't about to find out. He was well out of the place.

‘I owe you. All of you.' He squinted at the mismatched assortment of men crammed in the small space then settled back against the wall to wait, his head propped against his knees. Soon enough dawn would come and his fate would be set. Given his time again would he have played it the same way? Had he not travelled to Morpeth a couple of months back and picked up his repaired boots wrapped in a single sheet of
The Maitland Mercury
he wouldn't be sitting in a cell contemplating the prospect of escape with a motley crew of gaolbirds.

Boots or no boots, gaol or not gaol, he wouldn't have given away the opportunity to return to Helligen, to lay the old ghosts to rest. His father could rest easy now. Goodfellow was back where he belonged. Alive, very much alive, not buried under some granite slab along with a thousand heartbreaks and half-truths.

His only regret was India. For a short time he believed they were destined to be together—separate souls swirling aimlessly in the heavens, finally drawn into each other's sphere by some unknown force.

Lost in thought the weight of Bushy's hand on his shoulder almost sent him through the roof. A dirty and rather smelly hand covered his mouth. ‘Ssh!' He shrugged it off.

Through the barred windows high above his head the sky lightened to that peculiar lilac grey that heralded the first spark of dawn. Around the cell the blanketed forms unravelled, grasping saws, chisels and random tools, now weapons, in their hands. Jim forced one foot in front of the other, trying to ease his muscles and restore the blood flow to his cramped limbs.

Bushy stretched to his feet, reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He slid his hand through the metal bars on the first door and lifted the padlock. With a twist and a jiggle the lock snapped open and the door swung free. The door the turnkey had locked. He moved to the second door and sank to his knees, ran his fingers below the metal reinforcing bar and pulled the hefty chain and padlock aside. He lifted the chisel and inserted it into a hole and proceeded to work his way along the timber, until he lifted free a panel to reveal a gaping hole about eighteen by fifteen inches, open to the corridor.

Jim stared. He'd walked through that door only hours before and it had appeared solid. No wonder the strange breathing pattern he'd heard and the tense sense of hostility as he'd entered the cell. His arrival had interrupted their preparations. ‘How?' He clamped his mouth shut.

‘Five o'clock turnkey'll get the boys up on cook's duty. Makin' the hominy for breakfast. We'll spring him before he unlocks their cells. Tie him up and make our way outside. Rest of the place'll be quiet as a grave. There's a ladder waiting by the cookhouse. Over the wall, down the other side and God willing, we're out.'

Jim massaged the throbbing flesh on his wrists. Over the walls, the sandstone walls.

‘Main thing is to move as fast as we can.'

The words swarmed in his head. Out. Out of this godforsaken hole.

‘Sure you're in? Makes no difference. Leave you here trussed up with the turnkey and you can deny all knowledge. Or come with us.'

His heart lifted for a moment and then sank. All well and good if they were successful. What if they failed? Did he really want to be clobbered with escape as well as horse theft?

‘You're the last one up the ladder but it'll give you the chance to make a bolt for it.'

He hesitated too long.

‘Make up your mind. Otherwise you'll be sitting festering here until they decide to pull you up in front of the magistrate. Ten years. No less. Stud stock, branded. Not a hope in hell.'

‘I'm in.' What had he to lose? Nothing. If he was going down for ten years then an attempted escape would make little or no difference, and there was always the possibility they may succeed. ‘And once we're on the outside?'

‘Got horses lined up. You'll be on your own then. Only got four sorted. Weren't expecting an extra.'

Not so good. The gaol sat in the midst of East Maitland surrounded by houses and businesses. The sun would be as good as up by the time they cleared the wall.

‘Double with me,' Bushy said over his shoulder. ‘I'll see you to the outskirts of town then you're on your own.'

The outskirts would suit him well enough. If he cut across country he'd be back close to Helligen by sunset.
Then what?
He'd get Jefferson, leave Goodfellow and think about the rest. Kilhampton could lay no claim to Jefferson. There was no proof Goodfellow had sired him other than their uncanny similarity and there were no papers to prove it. Maybe it was a good thing.

The men stood and Jim followed suit then turned to his hairy-faced companion. ‘Now?'

‘Yep. It's time for a bit of fresh air.'

Keys rattled in the thick air. They stood by the outer door, tense and silent, ears straining for any unexpected sound. Bushy bent down and one by one they crept through the hole in the door out of the cell.

At the far end of the corridor a light flashed behind the barred window as the turnkey fumbled with a firestick. The bolt grated and the door groaned and swung open. The turnkey stepped inside.

Bushy and the sinewy bloke grabbed him by the arms. He had time to utter one mangled cry before Bushy stuffed a handful of rags into his gaping mouth.

‘Stay still and you'll come to no harm.' Bushy nodded and the blacksmith tied the turnkey's hands behind his back with twisted strips of blanket, then his legs before knotting the whole lot together. Rummaging around his waistline Bushy produced the turnkey's set of keys then dumped him, trussed like a chicken, in the corner.

He peered through the door and then raised his hand, beckoning them to follow into a small walled yard.

The moon rode high in the predawn sky, casting an iridescent glow across the compound. Nothing moved. Last through the door, Jim closed it and shot the bolt home then followed the four men along the walls and around the back of the cookhouse. Chained against the wall stood two ladders. His heart sank—neither appeared long enough to allow access to the top of the walls. So much for the great escape plan: thwarted before they'd even started. His confidence was restored as Bushy produced the turnkey's bundle of keys and inserted one into the lock. The padlock sprung open and the blacksmith interlocked the two ladders, one atop the other against the wall.

In an instant the shadowy forms scooted up the ladder. Bushy sat astride the high compound wall and unwrapped a strip of blanket rope from around his waist. One by one the three men lowered themselves over the wall and disappeared from sight.

‘Too bloody late to change your mind now. Come on.'

Without a second thought he scaled the ladder and sat astride the wall facing Bushy.

‘Grab the rope and down you go.'

‘What about you?'

‘Got it covered. Yes or no?' Without waiting for an answer he pushed his hand hard against Jim's shoulder. ‘Last chance. Go!'

Jim clamped his hands tightly around the blanket rope and pushed his feet back from the wall. His arms all but wrenched from his sockets as he scrambled against the wall. A hand clasped his ankle, pulling him down. He kicked out and heard a muttered curse then his hands slipped from the rope and he hit the ground with a thud. The air whooshed from his lungs and he lay curled in a heap in the dust, his hands covering his head as one of the horses pranced aside.

Looking back up the wall he saw Bushy lower himself, feet pressed against the wall. There was a groan and a clatter, the rope dropped five feet and Bushy landed on the ground agile as a cat, followed by the makeshift rope.

‘No time,' Bushy hissed, brushing his arse and clambering astride one of the horses. ‘Haven't got all day.'

Jim struggled to his feet. The four mounted men stared down at him. What now? On horseback they'd have half a chance, on foot he'd be back inside in minutes. Was Bushy good to his word?

He leant down and offered a hand. ‘Up behind me. I presume a bloody horse thief can manage.' Grabbing the proffered hand with both of his he swung up onto the horse and they clattered down the empty street.

Jim flashed a look back over his shoulder. Light blazed above the main gates, illuminating a group of men spilling helter-skelter out of the gaol. They set a thundering pace, heedless of the noise of the horses' hooves. In a matter of moments they had left the town behind.

The countryside surrounding Maitland was a bushranger's dream. Jim ducked his head as they passed beneath low hanging branches following the twists and turns of a wallaby track.

A few isolated farmhouses lay scattered on the surrounding hills. After an hour of hard riding the raggle-taggle group slowed and made their way to the creek, the horses' foaming breath making large white clouds in the early morning air.

Jim slid from the back of the horse. It was a mottled badly conformed animal with a broad deep chest and spindly legs, but it had done sterling duty carrying two men at such a pace.

‘Thanks.' He held up his hand to Bushy.

‘Think nothing of it. What are your plans?'

Jim shrugged his shoulders; he hadn't had time to think further than this moment. The escape had come as such a shock and simply hanging on behind Bushy for the madcap ride had left him little time to dwell on the future. One thing was certain. He needed a horse. Travelling with these men would slow them down and put them in unnecessary danger, besides, they owed him nothing. They'd done more for him than they needed. ‘I'll leave you here. I know the area so I'll cover it on foot until I find a horse and then decide where to from there.'

Bushy leant down and clapped him on the back. ‘Once a horse thief … You're welcome to tag along a bit longer, though it'll slow us down.'

‘You've done enough. I'm fine from here.'

‘Then in that case we'll be making a move. If you come unstuck make for St Albans and ask for Molly's daughter.'

He lifted his hand in farewell as the four men disappeared around a bend in the track and vanished from sight. Only a random bird call and the rush of the creek over the stones broke the silence of the bush. He sucked in a lungful of freedom and let out a sigh, then found a fallen tree trunk and settled behind it in the sunshine.

Helligen lay about ten miles to the west. If he followed the creek it would lead to the river and thence to the back paddocks of the property. In four hours he could reach the lagoon. He'd wait for sunset and make his way to the barn; Goodfellow wouldn't like being left behind, but he had no other option. All he needed was his saddle, bridle and Jefferson. His saddlebags and belongings he would forgo. Helligen would be the constabulary's first call.