CHAPTER 15
Billy, 1833

There was a boxing match now in the ring where the horses had been auctioned, ten pounds to any man who could knock down the champion. Already three men had been carried out, their faces bloody, their bodies limp or contorted. Behind them cheers and boos rang out, and men called odds for bets. Billy and Roman John hardly noticed them.

‘You haven’t even checked its teeth, boy! How do you think you’re going to get it home?’

‘I’ll lead him.’

‘It must have taken three men, maybe more, just to get it here. And you think you can lead a savage horse by yourself.’

Billy gazed at the horse. It was tethered to the fence—the man who’d been leading the stallion had refused to try to take him further. The horse gazed at him out of the edges of his eyes, and stamped his feet. He was a clear grey, almost pure white. He was the biggest horse Billy had ever seen.

That horse could crush him. Tear him apart.

‘If I can’t lead him I’ll let him go.’ He hadn’t known he was going to say that either. The words surged up inside him, like a bucket rising from a well. ‘You can’t keep a horse like that prisoner. If he doesn’t want to work with you, then he should be allowed to go.’

‘And be caught again by the first lot of passing trappers.’

Billy shook his head. ‘That horse won’t be caught again.’ He turned to Roman John. ‘Lend me sixpence. Please.’

‘What for?’

‘To buy an apple.’

‘You think you’ll win him with an apple?’

‘No. But an apple will show him I want to please him.’

Roman John sighed. ‘I’ll buy you a bag of apples, boy. I’ll even haul you to the surgeon when the horse tries to kick you to death. I’ll have him check your brain while he’s at it. Maybe you lost it along the track.’

He vanished into the crowd toward the pedlar carts with their rum and pies and fruit.

Billy stood by the horse, carefully out of range of his teeth and hoofs, trying to keep his voice as calm and soothing as he could. ‘You’re all right now, boy. You’re a fine one, ain’t you? You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now. Me and you, we’ve both had second chances, and this is yours, see?’

The horse stared at him, rolling his eyes, then glanced away, shifting restlessly at the noise of the crowds.

‘They beat me too, back at the workhouse. Got scars all down me back. It’ll be a fine life we have together.’ Billy paused, a memory seeping back. A short man with dark hair, holding the reins of a coach. His father? Had his father been a groom then, or a coach driver? Had he too loved and lived with horses?

‘Here you are.’ Roman John held out a small sack of apples. ‘Bruised. I got them cheap.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll notice.’

‘You’re going to get your fingers bitten off. Or yourself crippled when he kicks your knees.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You think? Well, aren’t you going to give him an apple?’

Billy shook his head. ‘Not till things are quieter. He can’t concentrate on me yet.’

Roman John stared at him, then at the horse. Finally he sighed. ‘I’ll set up camp for us again. Looks like we won’t be leaving here tonight.’

Billy nodded. ‘Could you bring me a bucket of water, first?’ The horse whinnied, and stamped his feet. The tether held him to the rail.

One by one the carts left, along with the men on horseback. A few fires blazed by tents beyond the paddock—men who, like them, had decided to stay another night. Most were drunk, lifting their stone jars and singing. Two were wrestling, rolling on the ground, while a small mob of onlookers cheered them on. A lone man sang to himself in a high, wordless voice—one of the freed lags so often seen, their minds and bodies rotted away by years of imprisonment, pain, bad food and loneliness.

Roman John would be by one of the fires, guarding their cart. Beside Billy the horse blew through his mouth, gazing at the bucket of water. He seemed steadier now without the noise and confusion.

‘Are you getting used to me, boy?’ He’d been talking like this all afternoon. He’d never talked as much before. Most times he knew the horse was too scared to hear his voice.

‘You want water, boy?’ He lifted the bucket up to the horse.

The horse stilled. Then as Billy drew closer his teeth flashed down at Billy’s arm.

‘No you don’t.’ He kept his voice even. ‘No biting. You don’t bite me and I won’t bite you. Here.’ He bent down, and grabbed a fallen branch beyond the rails, then used it to poke the bucket toward the horse. ‘Go on, boy. Have your drink.’

The horse rolled his eyes again, then bent down to the bucket.