Ironbark Read online

  Contents

  Part I: The Search

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part II: The Avenger

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Part III: The Trial

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Author’s Acknowledgements

  Author’s Notes

  To Brian, Nicholas, Niki, Eadie and Donna

  In memory of my parents, Fred and Dorothy Parsons, and my friend Anne Goldie Cousland

  Australian history is almost always picturesque. Australian history does not read like history – it is full of surprises and adventure, incongruities and incredibilities – but they are all true, they all happened.

  Mark Twain

  Part I

  The Search

  January 1837 – May 1838

  Attempt the end and never stand to doubt

  Nothing’s so hard but search will find it out.

  Robert Herrick

  CHAPTER 1

  Jakob Andersen’s eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun as he rode along the deserted road on the final leg of the journey home. The landscape around him was virtually all sky, a blue so dominant it drained what little colour the drought had left in the parched grassland.

  Home. Jenny. Hungry for the sight of her, Jake’s heart beat faster as haunting images played before his eyes … Jenny dancing towards him … the way she stood like a child on the footstool to tie his neckerchief … the glow of firelight rippling over her back as she bathed in the tub by the fire … her teasing smile when she blew out their bedside candle … her exquisite body like a naked goddess in the darkness …

  The memory of her was so alive Jake could smell her French perfume, a luxury that to Jenny was more important than daily bread.

  He counted off the months, weeks and days since his departure on the cattle drove south. Jenny never expected letters from him, aware that he shied off writing, embarrassed by his limited schooling. But Jenny knew he belonged to her body and soul. For Jake the longer the drove the more vivid his memories were. What a comfort it would be to carry a miniature portrait in his pocket. He promised himself that one day ‘when his boat came in’ he’d pay an artist to paint her.

  Jake felt a rush of pleasure as he relived the hour of his departure. Dawn. He had lingered at their bedroom door, his throat tight at the sight of Jenny, her arms above her head, the curve of her breasts pressing against the lacy film of her nightgown. Her golden hair was strewn across the pillow – like a mermaid floating under water.

  Through the veil of her hair Jenny had playfully uttered the words of their ritual farewell. ‘Will you love me forever and ever, Jakey?’

  His answer was always serious. Now as he rode he repeated it under his breath. ‘I’ll love you even longer, Jenny.’

  Jake knew if he had stopped long enough to kiss her he’d never have left. There was no choice. Ogden’s droving job was an opportunity he couldn’t afford to knock back. Jake had a flash of that moment before he left home.

  At the foot of the stairs he had spun around at the sound of a soft whisper.

  Little Pearl was standing barefoot in her nightgown at the top of the stairs, her short bandy legs planted wide. Fair hair framed a smile of pure sunshine as she stretched out her arms and took a step forward. Jake had bolted up the stairs just in time to prevent her falling.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until you’re a big girl before you take the stairs, Princess.’

  He had kissed the crown of her head as her puppy Flash licked her face. Pearl had reached up in the way she often did, gently tucking a lock of Jake’s long hair behind his ears. He had promised to bring her home a new dolly then he’d led her back to her attic bedroom …

  Jake glanced at his saddlebag, imagining the cries of delight that would greet his swag of presents for his girls. He even had one for Jenny’s mother.

  He frowned at the thought of Mrs Troy. It’d take more than a box of sugar plums to sweeten her. The old battleaxe never lets me forget Jenny married beneath her – because of my ‘double convict taint’ from Mam and Pa. But she’s done me a favour guarding my girls so butter won’t melt in my mouth.

  As Jake kept to the Sydney Road, he wondered how Jenny’s world would have blossomed during his absence. Her beloved cottage garden must now be alive with the beds of English flowers he’d planted to remind her of her childhood in Devon. He imagined how Pearl would be playing with Flash, her eye on the front gate waiting to catch sight of him.

  Throughout the drove Jake had battened down his anxiety, assuring himself he had done everything to ensure his girls’ safety. He had taught Jenny how to use the tiny muff pistol in an emergency. He could count on Wally, his Aboriginal mate since childhood, to work the farm. His mother-in-law would be Jenny’s shadow.

  Jake’s reward for the long, lonely months was the promissory note he had stashed inside the sole of his boot for safety. He patted his vest pocket to check that the handful of coins and old watch chain were ready to hand over to any bushranger who bailed him up.

  He ruffled the shaggy mane of the stallion he had named after his childhood hero Lord Nelson.

  ‘Money, Horatio. Makes the world go round, eh? We did it hard last year, but things are going to look up in 1837! This year we’ll make our fortune, just watch!’

  Spoken out loud the words sounded hollow. Although he was almost twenty-three Jake had not yet found the work he was best cut out to do. What excited him most was collecting the winner’s purse after a bare-knuckle fight, but between bouts he was forced to sustain his few-acres farm with whatever work was available.

  The bloody bank of New South Wales holds the mortgage on everything I own – except my horse. But what the hell. With Jenny beside me I’m ready to take on the world.

  He scratched at the rough ginger beard he had grown during the months of droving. He’d be sure to shave it off before he saw Jenny. On previous returns when he had been hungry to kiss her, she had shied away. Told him to clean himself up before he dared sit at her table. Jake gave a wry grin at the memory. Her table? Jesus, I’m always hoping to head her off to bed!

  Now, not for the first time, he cringed over his dilemma. He could tell Horatio the words no man would ever hear.

  ‘As a bachelor I could make t
he girls at the Red Brumby catch fire. Trouble is good women are different … I can go the distance with any man in a fight but with her I fizzle out like a damp squib on Guy Fawkes night.’

  He told himself Jenny knew he loved every god-damned inch of her, but the thought was rough comfort. His performance the night before he’d left still rankled. He’d wanted to leave her with a special memory that would sustain them both through the months apart; to give her that look of dreamy contentment he had given other women. He had never yet seen that look on Jenny’s face.

  Why was his love for Jenny such a problem when he had so much of it to give?

  Jake anchored his wide-awake hat, left the Sydney Road behind him and galloped Horatio in the direction of home. The wind whipped his red-gold hair. Long hair was the one thing he refused to change to please Jenny. It was the badge of identity flaunted by native-born lads in contrast with the shaven heads of the convict population and the short military cut favoured by the Sterling who boasted they were Englishmen. No man would ever take Jake Andersen for anything but a Currency Lad.

  As he rode through the bush Jake’s eyes read the landscape like a map.

  ‘Those bloody Whitehall blokes think they run the world from the other side of the globe, Horatio, but they can fly all the Union Jacks they like and claim New South Wales is British land. Not to me it ain’t. She’s my country.’

  At Feagan’s General Store in the seedy village of Bolthole Valley, Jake stopped to replenish his tobacco pouch. As usual the young storekeeper Matthew Feagan was busy spouting the latest news on the local grapevine. He seldom drew breath as he weighed dry goods on the scales and gave customers change.

  ‘That George Hobson’s stirred up a hornet’s nest with his plans for Ironbark Farm. It’s all the doing of his partner. That Hebrew lawyer is Bloom by name and blooming weird if you ask me. Full of foreign ideas – like his way to kill sheep quick smart so they don’t feel no pain! A schoolhouse for Ironbark farmers’ young ’uns. And would you believe it? Bloom wants to build new cabins to give Hobson’s assigned felons their privacy!’

  Feagan dropped his voice in confidence to Jake. ‘You know what them Germans are like. Think they can run the world better than us Brits.’

  ‘Hey! I’m Currency, mate,’ Jake said automatically.

  Feagan added tolerantly, ‘Well, that’s the next best thing.’ He handed the tobacco supplies to Jake and gave him an ingratiating smile. ‘Should I be putting my money on you again?’

  Jake halted in the doorway. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard? The biggest purse ever offered in the colony!’

  ‘A prize fight? Where?’

  Outside the store Jake mentally tossed a coin. He decided to take a quick detour to Tagalong to call in on his mate Mac Mackie. He couldn’t pass up the chance to make real money. Jake liked the sound of the odds. Winner take all.

  ‘You deserve a drink, Horatio. And I wouldn’t say no to an Albion Ale.’

  • • •

  Jake took the turn-off road through Ironbark to slice a few miles from the cross-country route. The small seasoned chapel on the hill overlooked a cluster of few-acres farms where the paddocks showed signs of the drought and the sheep looked in need of a good feed. These settlers’ huts had been standing long enough for their ironbark slabs to weather to a parched grey, but Jake knew the timber would be tough enough to outlive the owners.

  In the distance the original property, George Hobson’s Ironbark Farm, stretched out below the horizon. The homestead at its heart was shouldered by whitewashed farm buildings and convict cabins. To Jake the contrast between Ironbark Farm and the settlers’ farms was not surprising. Green and prosperous-looking, Hobson’s large estate was fed by a network of creeks. No evidence was in sight of Feagan’s predicted ‘weird changes’.

  Riding through the ironbark forest south of the village, Jake finally broke clear of it when Tagalong was in sight. He knew the rickety bush hamlet had been spawned almost overnight by a ragbag collection of Irish-Catholic ticket-of-leave men and emancipists. It was so new it wasn’t yet on any map but being sprawled around the junction of four tracks it was well positioned to draw a good crowd from all points of the compass. For mass or a prize fight.

  Jake was chuffed by the sight of a poster fixed to a tree. It showed a drawing of a beefy pugilist with a Union Jack tattooed on his chest. Slowly Jake managed to read it. An English bare-knuckle champion, Bulldog Kane, was touring the colony, offering a rich purse to the first man who could beat him. None had yet knocked him to the ground. The date for this Tagalong challenge match was set for the first Sunday in the coming month.

  Jake rode towards Tagalong’s half-built church – its stone walls open to the sky in a bare paddock, like a Catholic oasis in the surrounding Protestant landscape.

  He recognised the shaggy-bearded head peering through a space reserved for a future stained-glass window. Mac Mackie gave him a broad grin and slipped out of the church while the collection plate was doing the rounds.

  A Currency Lad, Mac also wore his hair long, but his beard was a permanent fixture. He beckoned Jake to follow him to The Australia Arms public house.

  ‘I thought it was closed on Sundays,’ said Jake.

  ‘Not to me it ain’t, mate.’

  Mac emerged with an armful of bottles and led Jake to his one-room timber hut. The floor was made of rammed earth, the interior walls papered with newspapers. In one corner was an unmade bunk bed. Unwashed tin plates littered the table. Mac’s hospitality was legendary. He swept the plates aside and they clattered across the floor. He then placed the bottles in pride of place beside two tin pannikins and drew a bench up to the table with a courteous wave of his hand.

  Jake downed the first ale for his thirst, the second for sheer pleasure.

  ‘Ah! Can’t beat Albion Ale. Cold as a creek in the Snowy.’ ‘Our publican is the sole Proddie in the village but he’s dead popular,’ said Mac.

  Jake wasn’t surprised. ‘No bloody wonder. I’ve discovered his secret. He keeps his grog cold by stashing it down a well he dug in his cellar.’

  ‘Trust you to ferret that out.’ Mac cast Jake a wise look. ‘Come on, out with it. What’s your problem?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Nothing money can’t fix. What’s the strength of this Bulldog Kane’s challenge? Last man standing – winner take all. What am I up against?’

  Mac’s raised eyebrows registered a close call. ‘Bulldog Kane’s a professional from the East End of London. Y’know what that means. A gutter fighter. Rough as guts and dead dirty.’

  There was a knock against the open door. Father Declan’s visit seemed to come as no surprise. Mac put a pannikin of whisky in the priest’s hands and introduced him to Jake.

  ‘I take it you’re not of the True Faith, Jakob lad?’ Father Declan seemed sure of the answer to his question before he asked it.

  ‘Mam thinks she is. She’s Irish-Catholic. Pa’s a Norwegian Lutheran. Me, I’m second cousin to an atheist. I only believe in three things. My wife’s good name, Albion Ale and my horse’s unfailing sense of direction. No disrespect intended, Father.’

  ‘None taken. And it’s Dennis.’ He sank the whisky. ‘I’m hearing from Mac that you’re a fine fighter.’

  Jake tried to sound modest. ‘On a good day I can hold my own.’

  Father Declan leaned forward. ‘Then you’ll be taking on the Bulldog when he comes to our neck of the woods?’

  Jake hesitated, aware that some religions got funny about work and sport performed on the Sabbath. ‘Yeah, Father. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Problem? I’m the referee! And we’re raising money for a roof on my church. There’s a tithe on all bets. And every man better dig deep when the hat is passed around. Will you be fighting, lad?’

  ‘Count me in,’ said Jake.

  Mac refilled Father Declan’s pannikin.

  ‘A fine drop it is, Mac. Traded on Sunday? See you mention that in confessio
n. Meantime let’s drink to next month’s challenge match. I’ll be putting my money on you, Jakob!’

  • • •

  When Jake drew up at the front gate of his farm it was at the eerie moment that heralds the pink trace of the piccaninny dawn; the bush’s rehearsal for sunrise. Currawongs and kookaburras had yet to greet the day. The garden he had left months earlier now sprouted some English autumn flowers but Jake noticed it needed weeding. And the bark slab of Wally’s gunyah lay on the ground as if flattened by a recent storm.

  Jake unsaddled Horatio, led him to the water trough then let himself in the front door. He placed his swag of presents on the kitchen table, ready to give to his girls at breakfast.

  He lathered his face with soap and went to work on his beard with the cut-throat razor, checking his reflection in the mirror.

  Feeling the urge to kiss Jenny awake, he crept upstairs and past the nursery where Mrs Troy would be sleeping with Pearl.

  The marital bedroom was as neat as a pin. The curtains were drawn but a chink of sunlight fell across the lace bedspread. An envelope lay on his pillow. The words of the letter scattered through his brain.

  Dear Jakey,

  I have gone away to begin a new life. I know how hard you tried to make me happy, but I can’t pretend anymore to love you as you deserve. This is the best solution for both of us. Don’t worry about Pearl. I am travelling with someone who’ll protect us always.

  Your Jenny

  P.S. I sent Wally back to his people – and made him take Flash with him.

  The letter was dated only two days earlier.

  Jake rocked on his feet. The legs that were capable of keeping him dancing around the boxing ring were now unable to carry him a step further. He sank down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. His brain exploded with questions. Do I know the bastard? Where’s he taken them? They’re only two days ahead of me but which bloody direction?

  He ran to the nursery in the hope he would find his little princess asleep. Pearl’s cot was neatly made up as though it had never been slept in. Mrs Troy’s palliasse was stripped of its covers.

  He rummaged through every closet for some clue that would prove Jenny had been forced to write the letter under duress, abducted by some bushranger. Only a single valise was missing. Three empty coat-hangers hung in mute testimony that Jenny had taken nothing but her own Sunday best dress and a few of Pearl’s garments.