Jake Andersen felt the sweat rolling down his back. His shirt clung to his body, his long hair stuck to his cheeks and his breathing came in short, laboured bursts but he refused to pause for breath on the landing of the staircase. He had already run up and down it forty-eight times in succession, determined to reach today’s self-imposed goal of fifty. Far more than the number the Doc had recommended he attempt at slow walking pace.
Jake did not doubt that Horatio had sensed the coming breakthrough and would be as eager as he was to take their first ride together since his release from hospital. Despite weeks of being under Doc Ross’s bluntly delivered orders at the Haunted Farm, he had been treated more like an honoured guest than a patient.
Sinking down in relief at the foot of the stairs, Jake was reminded of that bleak day when Leslie Ross had cut free Jake’s spongy white leg from the plaster cast and fixed Jake with a baleful stare.
‘There’s no getting around it, lad. The odds were against ye. Your leg has healed as well as can be expected but it’s so weak you’ll be forced to favour it, transferring your weight to your good leg. The best ye can hope for is a limp for the rest of your life.’
‘You want to bet on that, Doc?’ Jake had said at the time.
Now as he entered the sitting room Jake tried to prepare himself for an even more crucial verdict. He gritted his teeth, determined to distribute his weight evenly to avoid showing the Doc that he was limping.
Leslie Ross had just returned from a call to Gunning to deliver twins. He looked up from the chair in front of the fireplace and watched Jake’s swaggering entrance with narrowed eyes.
Jake nonchalantly seated himself in the opposite chair and swung his left leg up onto the footstool.
‘You still reckon I’m a cripple for life, Doc?’
He tried to stay his anxiety as Leslie re-examined the leg muscles.
‘Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve not taken a word of my advice afore this but from the looks of ye, you’ve been in training like an ancient Greek for the Olympic Games.’
Jake gave a snort of relief and didn’t protest too strongly when he was rewarded with a tumbler full of whisky. The doctor waved aside their usual toast to the death of transportation.
‘Nay, lad. This is a toast to your bloody-minded determination. You Currency Lads must have bones of iron. I was all prepared to give you a cautionary lecture about how to go through life as a cripple. But if I hadna re-set that leg myself I’d be hard pressed to recognise it had been shattered. I canna take all the credit. Your willpower is nothing short of miraculous – even if you did curse like the devil on the operating table.’
Jake grinned, reminded of the heady fusion of whisky and laudanum the Doc had forced down his throat when he lay strapped to the table before the operation.
‘Nothing to it, Doc. I was buggered if I was gunna let a broken leg stop me riding Horatio, winning prize fights and throwing my leg over a girl who likes to be paid for the pleasure of her company.’
‘I dinna doubt nothing short of your death would prevent that, lad.’
To celebrate Jake’s remarkable recovery Leslie insisted his assigned housekeeper set a place for herself at the dining table.
Jake felt a bit in awe of Janet Macgregor, clearly a good woman gone wrong. Not yet thirty, she was stout but shapely and wore her housekeeper’s uniform like a battledress.
‘How come she got transported, Doc?’ Jake asked after Janet hurried back to the cookhouse to bring the platters of food to the table.
‘I dinna dare ask,’ Leslie confessed. ‘To quote Alexander Marjoribanks, “A man is banished from Scotland for a great crime, from England for a small one and from Ireland, morally speaking, for nay crime at all”.’
Jake was openly encouraging. ‘She’s a fine figure of a woman, Doc.’
‘Aye. Janet runs such a taut ship, I’d hate to lose her services but I dinna like the chances of any man trying to worm his way into her bed. She’s a strict Wesleyan.’ Leslie Ross ruefully rubbed his beard. ‘Janet deserves to have a good man make an honest woman of her but as you well know divorce requires an act of parliament, an option only open to the rich and powerful. And what wife wants to suffer the disgrace of being a divorced woman?’
Jake knew this was an oblique reference to the English wife the Doc kept in style at Home because she refused to join him in ‘that barbaric colony’.
‘I’m in the same boat as you. Tied to Jenny till death do us part.’
‘But I trust this will nay prevent you cutting your Gordian knot.’ At Jake’s blank look, the Doc explained. ‘Removing a difficulty by means of bold measures.’
Jake was evasive. ‘Stuck in hospital counting flies on the flypaper got me thinking. My job with Rolly Brothers is a dead loss as they won’t have a bar of me now. Mac Mackie’s lined me up to fight Pete the Hammer, a Pommy pugilist in Sydney Town, it’ll be winner take all.’
Leslie looked dubious. ‘You’re pushing your luck, lad. I much doubt your leg’s ready to see the distance over a bare-knuckle fight.’
‘Don’t worry yourself. The Hammer’s past his prime. He won’t last long against me. The prize money will buy me my own wagon. Be my own master. Free to hunt down that flash foreign bugger.’
‘Is murder your only solution, lad?’
Jake just stared straight ahead and allowed his silence to speak for him.
Leslie sighed. ‘It’d be a right pity to send that healed leg to the gallows. But first things first. How do you plan to celebrate your return to life as a man of action?’
‘At the Four Sisters, Doc. Where else?’
• • •
Freedom! Jake sensed Horatio felt as liberated as he did as he galloped him down the road.
Thanks to Mac Mackie, he had just enough cash to cover his expenses at the Four Sisters but Mac knew Jake was good for this loan and fully expected him to beat Pete the Hammer. Jake was even more conscious that he had a debt of honour to repay. The Widow Smith had saved his life. He would front Saranna Plews at Ironbark village to get the story straight. Was the Gypsy really dead and buried in Bolthole cemetery? Jake didn’t want to believe it. He had a vivid flash of memory of her leading the chestnut stallion into the bush.
Tonight his most urgent priority was to exercise his leg in Lily Pompadour’s bed.
En route to the House of the Four Sisters he drew rein before a remote derelict property. He was pleased to see the weathered ‘For Sale’ sign remained tied to the trunk of a giant ironbark tree. Even though he didn’t have a brass razoo to buy this place, he would need land as good as this to make his dream a reality. To breed the greatest racehorse the colony had ever seen.
The thought of buying Wiradjuri land brought a complex reaction. Anger, respect, sadness – and a sense of guilt not of his making, yet somehow in his blood. Emotions that were linked to that unforgettable day, Christmas Eve 1824, when he was ten years old, standing beside Pa in the market place at Parramatta, peering over the heads of the crowd.
The air was electric with anticipation. Jake sensed this was a moment in history. The planned meeting for an extraordinary event, the result of an invitation from Governor Brisbane to the rebel Wiradjuri leader who the whites called ‘Saturday’ but was known as Windradyne to his own people. After years of bloodshed and guerrilla warfare against the military and settlers, Windradyne was coming in peace.
The noise of the crowd suddenly grew hushed. Jake felt a thrill of excitement the moment he saw the legendary Windradyne. The word passed through the crowd that he had walked across the mountains for seventeen days at the head of two hundred and sixty Wiradjuri men, women and children to be joined today by his tribal allies. Jake was in awe – there must have been about four hundred of them, far stronger and prouder looking than most of the displaced blacks he’d seen around Parramatta and the Nepean. Governor Brisbane’s official party was impressive enough. Red and blue-coated soldiers with lace and polished brass, who waved their cockades and were flanked by the elite landowners of the colony, women dressed in finery fit to greet Brit royalty, and journalists from newspapers like The Sydney Gazette.
Jake nudged his pa. He reckoned he knew what this public display was really about.
‘I’ll bet the gov gave up trying to capture Windradyne, Pa. ’Cos he was making the police look silly. Now the gov’s trying to make us look noble. Offering him “a peace treaty with honour”.’
Isaac Andersen looked rueful. ‘You just might have a point, Jake.’
‘How much tribal land was taken off the Wiradjuri, eh Pa?’
His father shrugged. ‘More land than would fit inside England, son. But if we didn’t settle here some other blokes would have.’
Grand speeches were made by Governor Brisbane and Saxe Bannister, the attorney-general who had brokered the treaty. But Jake had eyes for no one but Windradyne, the tall, majestic figure wearing a great cloak made from scores of possum skins. The man outshone them all. Jake felt shamed when Governor Brisbane handed the leader a small branch as a symbol of an olive branch and a straw hat with ‘Peace’ on the hatband. At that moment Windradyne turned his head and Jake felt sure he was looking directly at him.
Jake knew that most people now thought of Windradyne as nothing but a memory, a blackfella villain brought to heel in the interests of colonial progress. To Jake he was the only real hero he had ever known.
• • •
Lily gave a shriek of pleasure when Jake issued a warning as he climbed into her bed that night.
‘Been flat on my back for weeks for all the wrong reasons. I’m as rusty as hell, Lily. So I’ll need to give you a fair bit of exercise to make up for lost time.’
By the early hours of the morning Jake was finally content to hold her in his arms but he played with Lily to arouse himself again, this time working for the pleasure of hearing her involuntary cries of delight he had learned to distinguish from her professional repertoire.
Completely spent, Lily patted Jake’s body. ‘The girls are jealous of me. You’re the only client who pays to give me a good time.’
Jake felt pleased. ‘It’s to my advantage. You never short-change me.’
He kissed her wrists to disguise the fact he was checking for bruises. He wasn’t going to allow the Devil Himself to leave his sadistic marks on Lily.
‘You’ll tell me if any man hurts you? I’ll take care of him for you. Permanently.’
‘You’d kill a man to protect a woman – even a whore like me?’
‘Especially you,’ he said, and meant it.
Lily turned his chin to face her. ‘I really like you, Jake. Not just the colour of your money. You have a lovely way of doing business. Since Uncle Charlie put me on the game and sold me to Madam Fleur, I’ve never gone with a man except for the money. Till you.’
When Jake woke at dawn Lily was still asleep. He lay there thinking of the Widow Smith. He felt sure she was alive. Of course he wasn’t remotely interested in her as a woman. But you’ve got to admire a girl who chucks modesty to the winds to save a bloke’s life. I reckon her problem is she’s a good woman trapped in a body that attracts trouble!
He felt Lily’s hand moving down his chest towards his groin.
‘Like me to wake you up, Jake?’ she purred.
‘Only if you want me to get you into a heap of trouble, Lil,’ he said gently as he rolled her over on top of him. Thank God for whores.
• • •
Jake decided to stop off at Gideon Park on his way to Sydney Town. Julian Jonstone was known throughout the county for his lavish hospitality when he was in residence. Jake knew it was a long shot, but there was a chance Jenny might have been his guest at some banquet or ball.
As he rode Horatio towards the impressive Georgian sandstone mansion Jake was aware his approach was being observed by the only person in sight, a young convict working in the rose garden. Despite the occasional sounds of male voices coming from the farm buildings at the rear, the Jonstones’ house appeared to be deserted. The shutters of the French windows bordering the terrace were all closed. The assigned housekeeper told him the reason – the Jonstones were away in Sydney Town to attend the governor’s Foundation Day banquet.
As Jake turned away in disappointment he noticed the same young assigned gardener was now watching him intently, although half hidden by the shrubbery. He looked nervous. Had this bloke overheard him asking about Jenny? Jake’s heart leapt. Did he know something?
He crossed over to him and coolly announced, ‘I’m Jake Andersen.’
The young man hesitated as if surprised, even suspicious of Jake’s outstretched hand but he finally accepted his handshake.
‘Browne,’ he mumbled warily. ‘What do you want?’
Jake filled his pipe and proffered his tobacco pouch, but the convict declined.
‘You might have seen my wife, Jenny. She disappeared some time back with my little girl, Pearl. Maybe Jenny was one of the Jonstones’ guests. You wouldn’t be likely to forget her.’
Jake described Jenny in detail, her blonde-haired beauty. Browne shook his head but Jake saw he looked confused, anxious. Or is he lying?
‘Are you sure?’ Jake pointed to his own chest. ‘She has a black beauty spot just here.’
Jake thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the young convict’s eyes. He drew on his pipe and waited, trying not to rush him. This bloke was no run-of-the-mill felon. Despite his dirty slop clothing and gaunt face his features were fine enough to pass for Quality given the right circumstances.
Browne seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Jake felt as though he was being studied in great detail, like a butterfly under a microscope.
Finally the convict nodded with a show of reluctance. ‘I don’t know for sure. Wait here.’
Jake was left standing near Horatio. He tried not to allow his hopes to be raised only to have them dashed yet again.
When the man returned a few minutes later he carried a scroll of paper which he unfurled and handed to him.
The moment Jake saw the portrait he was angry to feel his hands shaking.
‘This is my Jenny, all right – except for the dark hair.’ He looked up sharply. ‘Was she with a bloke? A little girl?’
‘Only a gentleman, but I never saw his face. They arrived in a flash carriage with a coat of arms on the door.’
‘How long ago?’ Jake asked quickly.
Browne pointed at the portrait. ‘The date I finished it is written on the back. So she would have been here a few days earlier.’
Jake checked the date. He was hungry for every detail of the young artist’s memory of that night, despite the pain the answers gave him.
‘How did Jenny look to you? Well? Happy or sad?’
‘She smiled like she knew she could twist men around her little finger. Except me. I just wanted to paint the flirt.’ Browne turned away, unable to meet his eyes. ‘Sorry. Forgot she was your wife.’
‘Is my wife,’ Jake corrected.
‘I heard her tell my master she was afraid of me – she wasn’t! But next day I copped hard labour on Jonstone’s orders – thanks to her!’
Jake nodded. ‘Would you sell me this picture? Keep it for me? I’ll pay whatever you ask. But the truth is I can’t give you the money till I get back from Sydney Town. I’m fixed up for a fight.’ Jake emphasised the words. ‘A fight I have to win.’
Browne hesitated for a minute that seemed to Jake more like an hour. ‘I don’t want to profit from your troubles. If you want it, it’s yours.’
‘Thanks. But I can’t accept your work for nothing. It ain’t right. I’m pretty broke right now. But you can count on me to come through with the cash.’
‘Take it. Money here only gets stolen.’ He paused. ‘But you could do something else for me.’
‘Name it,’ said Jake.
‘Next time you’re passing, bring me some tubes of oil paint and a fine paintbrush.’
‘Right. I’ll not forget you for this—’ Jake studied the signature, ‘Daniel Browne.’
Jake rolled up the portrait then offered his hand to seal the bargain. Daniel Browne kept his eyes fixed on him as they shook hands. Jake felt oddly unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. He’d never met an artist before. Were they all a bit weird like this one?
‘You don’t believe I’m gunna come back, do you? Look, I just gave you my hand on it. Everyone knows Jake Andersen is as good as his word.’
Daniel Browne jerked his head in the direction of the convict quarters. ‘A man’s word counts for nowt around here. But if – when you come back, I’d like to paint you.’
Jake gave a short laugh. ‘You must be joking. Me? What the hell for?’
Daniel Browne took a deep breath as if to summon the courage to find the right words.
‘You’re a Currency Lad. There’s something about you that’s – different. You’re not like other men. Every bloke around here is ugly, evil – or dead inside. You have a special quality. Vitality. You walk with pride – like you know who you are. Don’t laugh – but I can see inside a man’s soul. You love this land. You judge people as you find them – fair and square. This shows in your face. That’s why I want to paint you. Now do you understand?’
Daniel Browne looked flushed from the effort of speaking. He kept his eyes fixed on Jake as if hanging on his answer.
Jake tried to cover his embarrassment. ‘Look, I’m grateful for Jenny’s portrait. I’ll bring you the art stuff as promised. What you do with it after that is your business, mate.’
Jake quickly swung up into the saddle and rode away. On the crest of the hill he looked back over his shoulder, feeling slightly uneasy. Daniel Browne was still standing in the same place watching him intently.
‘Jesus wept, Horatio. That proves it. Artists are a bit barmy.’
• • •
Riding towards the Shamrock and Thistle Inn, Jake realised the importance of Jenny’s portrait to identify her in his search but its unexpected discovery came with a full measure of pain.
He said the words out loud. ‘If Jenny thinks she can hide from me by wearing a black wig, it’ll take a bloody sight more than that to stop me tracking her down, Horatio.’
The memory of her was so sharp Jake shifted his thoughts to the Widow Smith. Her joy when she stuck the lorikeet feather in her hat, those disturbing blue eyes that seemed to read his thoughts, how he’d been half crazy with pain until she held him against her breast to give him her body heat.
He dismounted at the Shamrock and Thistle Inn where Mac had said Saranna raised the alarm after the coach accident. The publican might know something.
After leading Horatio to the water trough Jake headed for the bar, drawn by the sound of raised voices. Standing beneath the framed portrait of the pretty young Queen Victoria, a young man was arguing loudly with the publican, Fingal Mulley.
The stranger had ‘made in England’ stamped all over his aristocratic features and the cut of his modish grey dress jacket declared its London tailoring. His short military haircut and arrogant bearing embodied everything Jake held in contempt.
‘My lawyer has evidence that Keziah Stanley, alias Mrs Smith, travelled to this county. She is wanted for theft and kidnapping my child.’
Jake was thrown by that news. Jesus wept. How did a kid get mixed up in all this?
‘We Morgans will not be hoodwinked by a thieving, vagabond Gypsy. I warn you, Mulley, if you are party to this woman’s skulduggery you will pay dearly for it. I’ll see you’re stripped of your hotel licence!’
Mulley almost crumpled in fear at the Englishman’s feet.
Jake’s lazy drawl cut across them. ‘Hey, Fingal, what does a bloke have to do around here to get an Albion Ale?’
Mulley took one step towards Jake then a step backwards, unsure where his best interests lay.
Jake prompted him. ‘Give the New Chum a drink on me. Poor bugger’s on a wild-goose chase.’
Jake’s barb hit its target. The Englishman drew himself up to his full height.
‘And why is this Gypsy wench any concern of yours?’ ‘I’m the driver who drove her coach over the bloody cliff. That’s why!’
The Englishman eyed Jake’s muddy boots with disdain and then demanded his name.
Jake flexed his fists, ready to take him on. ‘I’m Jake Andersen. Who wants to know?’
The reply was icy. ‘Caleb Morgan of Morgan Park, Lancashire.’
‘I don’t give a damn who you are or what crackpot theory you have about the lady. I was there. I saw her die.’ Jake’s voice was dangerously quiet. ‘You want to call me a liar?’
Caleb Morgan returned Jake’s hostile stare. Although he seemed somewhat shaken by Jake’s revelation, he quickly recovered his superior air. He made a sweeping gesture that took in Jake, Mulley and every man in the bar.
‘An Englishman’s word is his bond. I shall now return to Sydney Town to post a reward of two hundred guineas for Keziah Stanley’s arrest. The choice is yours. Deliver her up or be transported to Norfolk Island!’
Tossing his cloak over one shoulder Caleb Morgan stalked out of the bar.
Jake pushed his hat back on his head and turned to the publican. ‘Make mine a double whisky, mate, and have one yourself!’
Jake knew he’d been guilty of many things, even gaoled for one of them, but never in his life had he turned his back on a woman in distress. He owed this Keziah Smith his life. I’ve got to warn her about Caleb bloody Morgan before I go to Sydney Town but where the hell is she?
As Jake downed his whisky he was hit by a series of wild thoughts. Maybe there was no need to search for the Widow Smith. If his memory was correct and Saranna Plews really had died she might be the girl buried in Bolthole cemetery. If that was the case the Ironbark schoolteacher who told Joseph Bloom that she is Saranna Plews, might really be – Keziah Smith in hiding!
Jake reached Ironbark village in the middle of the night. The far-off howl of dingoes was answered by the bark of cattle dogs. As Jake slipped two notes under Joseph Bloom’s front door, he was aware his spelling was pretty crook, but he hoped it would get his message across. He addressed the accompanying note to The Schoolmistress, Ironbark School, to avoid alerting the lawyer to her possible true identity.
I am sending this message to you care of Joseph Bloom. I reckon you saved my life, so I owe you. This is a warning to be dead careful. Caleb Morgan is offering a big reward for Keziah Smith on his return to Sydney Town as he reckons she kidnapped his child. I reckon any good woman would bolt from that mongrel. I’ve got to fight a bloke in Sydney Town but I’ll return soon to sort things out for you. Jake
It was a Saturday afternoon. The crowd milling on the footpath outside the Bald-Faced Stag Inn spilled across the Parramatta Road outside of Sydney Town.
Jake was pleased his fight with Pete the Hammer had drawn a large crowd – drunks, ticket-of-leave men, bond or free, a large percentage were Irish. He knew most men in the underbelly of the colony’s class system were united by a common religion. Gambling. This crowd was bound to bet heavily on a prize fight. No doubt they’d favour their local fighter against Jake.
Jake sprang about on the balls of his feet and swung his arms like a windmill, warming up his body as if he didn’t have a care in the world. In fact he was covertly sizing up the Hammer’s muscularity compared with his own. His opponent was of similar height but had a very different body. Wide shopfront belly, thighs like tree trunks, arms covered with sentimental tattoos vowing eternal love for his mother and assorted females. The Hammer’s face was not his finest feature – a puffy map with a nose that looked like a potato dumpling.
Jake knew his own body and what he could make it do when he was in top form. He had strenuously exercised his leg since it was free of the cast. How many rounds could he count on to see the distance? He was confident he would be faster on his feet than the Hammer, had a longer reach and his southpaw stance was awkward but delivered a wicked left hook – if he could land it. At rock bottom he had youth on his side – and desperation.
Pete the Hammer was surrounded by supporters who roared approval when a weedy hanger-on bought him a giant jug of ale. The Hammer derisively waved away the accompanying pannikin, opened his bear-trap of a mouth and poured the jug’s contents down his throat, spluttering and gargling to the delight of the crowd.
Jake wryly noted the contrast. Right now he didn’t have two coins to rub together for the price of an Albion Ale. Last night he had slept in the bush in order to buy a bread loaf for breakfast and drank water from the fountain, but he consoled himself he would have money aplenty to knock back a few ales after he collected the winner’s purse.
Losing didn’t bear thinking about.
During the opening round the partisan crowd was clearly rooting for the Hammer. But Jake felt gratified his assessment was accurate. He danced around his heavier, slower opponent to aggravate him and gain his measure. Jake’s weaving caused the older fighter’s most damaging blows to glance off Jake’s shoulder and the side of his head. In contrast, Jake managed to return a barrage of telling jabs.
Although Jake slipped and was forced to take the thirty-second count that ended the first round, from there on his confidence steadily rose. He kept reminding himself that the Hammer was past his prime while he hadn’t yet reached his.
Jake never took his eyes from that podgy face for a second. He read the message in the bleary eyes that signalled the throwing of the man’s next punch seconds before he delivered it. Jake inwardly crowed. I’m going to win, you bastard. Watch me!
At the end of the next round Jake coldly eyed his opponent’s bewilderment when the moment dawned on the man he was outclassed.
It was when the Hammer was down for the count for the second consecutive time that Jake saw it. A landau carriage that drew up on the edge of the crowd. The driver climbed down to gain a closer view of the fight. Two ladies were seated in the open carriage. Both faces were focused on him. Only one of them mattered. Jenny.
A parasol framed her head. No black wig. Her long blonde hair waved in the wind. Her pouting lips curved in a teasing smile of recognition.
Their eyes met and the blood rush of battle drained out of Jake. He looked into those dark eyes and his memories of their life together came rushing back with love that overwhelmed him.
Jenny gave him her secret smile. They both knew the truth. Jake felt an acute flash of pain that was not caused by the blow from Pete the Hammer that caught him off guard. It was the pain that proved his wife still held him in thrall.
Jake had a sliver of memory of that first ever time she watched him fight but now Jenny was dressed like a lady of Quality – kept by another man!
Consumed by a burst of rage that almost blinded him, Jake lost control and delivered a bombardment of killer blows.
Desperate to end this fight, to be free to grab hold of her, he lost concentration for a split second – a mistake that gave the Hammer the opportunity to knock Jake to his knees. As the referee began the count Jake knew he could easily fight on to win, but he couldn’t lose Jenny again. He remained on his knees, and waited out the count.
At the sound of victorious cheers for the Hammer, Jake jumped to his feet and pushed his way through the throng towards her carriage.
He felt as if he would choke with rage when she tapped her driver on the shoulder with her fan and ordered him to drive off at full speed.
Jake desperately broke free of the crowd. Standing alone in the middle of the open road, he stretched his arms towards the disappearing carriage and called out her name.
Jenny gave him a backward glance. He saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes.
He had lost her again.