“Come along,” Morris ordered, and the group set off around the side of the house to a small shack set behind it, with broken windowpanes and a door that hung by one hinge. The three were led inside, and there stood three bunks, no more than hardwood boards on frames with thin, moth-eaten horsehair mattresses covering them. A torn and filthy blanket lay across the foot of each bunk.
Morris led the taller of the prisoners to the first bunk, bent down and retrieved a long length of chain from the floor. One end of it was fastened around a vertical beam, the other end passed around the manacles and again locked with a padlock.
When all three had been made secure, each to a separate bunk, Morris stood back, hands on hips, and said: “Tha cook’ll bring yer summat ta eat shortly. Then yer c’n git some rest til mornin’,” and left them.
Half an hour later, a small, thin woman appeared carrying a blackened iron cauldron. She dumped it on the floor in the middle of the room, and as she turned to leave, one of the prisoners called: “Don’ we git no bowls or spoons?”
“What fer?’ the middle-aged woman asked; “dig it outa tha pot with yer fingers.” and they were left alone for the night.
CHAPTER SIX
August 24th; 1822: Dawn had not yet risen when the prisoners were awakened by the sound of someone banging on the iron pot in the centre of the floor.
As they sat up, grumbling and swearing, the sheep-herder straightened up, and handed the two tallest prisoners a shepherd’s crook each.
“Yer’ll find tha sheep in tha paddock be’ind tha ‘ouse,” he growled; “I want ‘em taken down ta tha pasture in tha lower paddick.”
“Don’ we git no breakfast?” one of the prisoners asked, and Morris glared at him: “Yer’ll eat when I say yer’ll eat. Now git down there.”
“’Ow can we ‘erd sheep with ankle-irons on?’ the second prisoner asked; “we can’t run arter ‘em.”
“Well, yer’ll jes’ afta do it tha ‘ard way. I ain’t takin no anklets orf yez…jes’ ta see yez runnin’ off over tha nearest hill,” Morris snarled; “now git down there.” And he aimed a kick at the backside of the nearest man.
As the two men disappeared out of the doorway, the remaining prisoner asked: “What about me? I can’t chase no sheep, with a wooden leg.”
Morris turned to him: “Yer’ll be workin’ in tha garden. Me missus wants roses trimmed, an’ weeds dug. An’ then there’s tha vegetable garden ta be planted.” And he led the way out of the hut and around to the front of the house, where a narrow strip of dirt had been cleared and rosebushes planted. Weeds grew thickly, almost choking the life from the rosebushes, while here and there, a daisy poked its head up towards the still-rising sun.
Morris pointed to a collection of gardening tools lying on the ground: “There’s yer tools. Git ta work…if ya wanna eat terday, that is. I don’ feed no slackers ‘ere.”
As Morris disappeared inside the house, the prisoner dropped to his knees in the flower-bed. Taking up a small hand-fork, he began levering weeds from the garden and tossing them behind him. As he worked, he could smell the aroma of bacon and eggs coming from within the house, followed by the scent of brewed coffee. His mouth began to water.
A short time later, footsteps echoed from within the house, drawing closer. The old woman appeared on the verandah, a bottle of water in one hand. She tossed it so that it landed just in front of the prisoner’s knees.
“In case yer git thirsty,” she mumbled, and disappeared inside the house again.
The prisoner worked his way along the row, and when fully half the bed had been weeded, stopped, took out his pipe and tobacco, and filled the bowl. Then he took out a Congreve, scratched it down the side of his worn trousers, and lit the pipe. As he took his first breath of tobacco, the man appeared on the verandah.
“Did I tell yer ye c’d smoke?” he asked, and the prisoner, surprised, looked at him and shook his head.
“Ask nex’ time,” Morris said, stood watching him work for several minutes, then walked around the side of the house. A few seconds later, he could hear the property-owner yelling at the two men caring for the sheep.
That first day was long and tedious. The prisoner weeded the flowerbeds to either side of the steps leading up to the porch, then trimmed back the rosebushes, most of which showed signs of aphids and weed-rot, and when he had finished, was escorted down the back of the house to where a hundred-yard square vegetable garden awaited digging.
He took up a garden fork and tried to dig the first row, but after falling several times because he could not balance on the stump whilst pushing down on the fork with his foot, he switched to a hoe, and drove it into each clod, breaking the soil and lumps of mud with difficulty. Twice, Morris came out and stood watching him, and once he even came forward and chastised him for not using the fork. When the prisoner told Morris he could not use the fork because of the stump, he was berated and cursed. Then Morris turned and stomped back into the house. He did not see his master again all that long afternoon.
Darkness was falling as the three men were fetched back to the little shack where they had slept that first night. On the floor was a leaking pail of water, a cake of lye soap, and a torn shred of towel on which to dry themselves. They had barely finished a rough cleanup of their faces and hands before the middle-aged cook reappeared, carrying the old blackened pot, in which floated fatty lamb chops in a sea of warm greasy gravy. Peas and sliced potatoes drifted in the mess.
They ate, using their fingers, chewing the meat off the chops and tossing the bones back into the pot, then scooping the peas and potatoes out by hand. The meat was so tough, it was barely chewable, and the potatoes had a strange smell to them, but all were so hungry, they ate without complaining.
Sometime later, Morris walked into the shack, tossed two broken-stemmed pipes on the floor and a half-packet of tobacco, together with a box of Congreves, and walked out again without saying a word.
They smoked a pipe-full of tobacco each, then stretched out on their bunks, and were asleep within minutes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
August 25th; 1822: The prisoner was working his way along the second row in the vegetable garden when he heard a shout from down in the lower paddock. One of the sheep had found a hole in the fence-line and escaped, and Simpson, the smaller of the two shepherds, gave chase. He had only gone two paces when the chain linking his ankles pulled him up short, and he tumbled face-down in the mud.
Cursing and swearing, he rose, and set off again, taking short, limping steps in an effort to stay on his feet. But the animal was too fast, and had made it halfway across the paddock leading down to the river before he had even climbed the fence.
Hearing the din, Morris appeared from within the house, and set off in pursuit of the sheep. He caught it as it neared the river, brought it down by grabbing its leg as he hurled his body forward at it, and then heaved it over one shoulder and carried it back to the paddock.
As he passed the beast across to Simpson, his fist lashed out and caught the man a solid blow on the chin, knocking him backwards.
“Yer damn fool!” he shouted at Simpson; “yer shoulda been watchin’ ‘em more closely!”
“I couldn’ run arter ‘em because of tha chains on me feet!” Simpson complained, and again Morris’ fist lashed out.
“Well, I ain’t takin’ them chains orf!” he roared; “I seen me last pris’ners run orf inta tha bush, an’ I’m blowed if I’ll give yer tha same chance! Now keep yer eyes open!”
Simpson climbed back to his feet, and backed away, as Morris pulled the fencing wire taut and tried to repair the hole in the fence. Then, cursing and grumbling to himself, he stomped back up the yard and stopped in front of the prisoner working in the garden.
“Go down ta tha shed!” he snarled; “git some fencin’ wire an’ fix that ‘ole in tha fence, before them idiots let all me sheep out!”
The prisoner limped away down the yard and into the shed. He found a roll of eight-guage heavy fe
ncing wire and a wire-strainer in a corner, hefted both over one shoulder, and made his slow way down to the fence. As he worked, Simpson walked over to him, one hand rubbing his bruised jaw.
“What’d ‘e say ter ya?” he asked.
“Told me to fix the fence before yer let all ‘is sheep out,” the prisoner said, and went on working.
“Oi’ll do fer ‘im some dark night! Oi swear Oi will!” Simpson said, and turned to walk away. as he did so, a loud hissing sounded from near his feet, and a thin black shape reared out of the grass, its spade-head lashed forward, and Simpson screamed.
“Tha snake! Tha snake! It bit me!” he cried as the long black serpent slithered away into the grass. In a moment, it was gone from sight.
Simpson sat down heavily on the ground, holding his leg where the snake had bitten him, and as he moved his fingers, the prisoner could see two tiny puncture-marks in the flesh.
“What sort of snake was it?” he asked, standing over Simpson.
“Dunno, all black with a red belly. Some o’ tha snakes in this bloody country is deadly. Christ!” and he limped away up to the shack where they spent their nights, and disappeared through the doorway.
A moment later, Morris appeared at the back door of the house. he walked down to the shack, peered inside at Simpson, who was lying on his bunk, rubbing his leg where the serpent had bitten him.
Morris reappeared, walked down to where the prisoner was working on the fence, and said to the two: “Simpson’ll be daid afore nightfall. ‘E said ‘e was bit by a black. They kill.” Then he shrugged, and walked away again. Then he stopped.
“Wallis…” he said, turning around; “…that means yer’ll afta do ‘is work as well as yer own. Can’t ‘ave tha gimp ‘ere runnin’ arter sheep with a wooden laig.” A few moments, he was gone, back inside the house.
“Ain’t yer gonna do nuthin’ fer ‘im?” Wallis called after him, and Morris turned: “Like what? There ain’t nuthin’ I can do fer ‘im. ‘E’s as good as daid now.” And he continued back up the yard and disappeared inside the house again. As his broad back disappeared through the doorway, Wallis yelled after him: “Cold-hearted bastard!”
Morris turned. He glared down the yard at Wallis, standing with both fists on his hips, then strode down the yard, seized Wallis by the shirt-front, and struck him full in the mouth with his fist. As Wallis stumbled backwards, Morris followed, landing blow after blow on the man’s unprotected face, then struck him hard in the stomach. As Wallis doubled over, Morris hit him again, and blood began to pour from the man’s split lips.
“Yer ever curse at me again, an’ I swear I’ll kill yer!” Morris shouted, standing over Wallis, who was cringing on the ground, his hands up before his damaged face; “now git back ta work!” and he disappeared inside the house again.
The prisoner held out a hand to Wallis, who took it and hauled himself back to his feet, one hand rubbing at the blood still pouring from his lips. A tooth was broken off, and his nose lay almost flat against one cheek where one of Morris’ blows had struck it.
“’E ain’t nuthin’ but a animal!” Wallis mumbled, turning away; “’e’s a dead man! A dead man!”
Wallis stumbled up the yard, doused his face and head in a barrel of rainwater, then returned to guarding the sheep.
The prisoner finished repairing the fence, disconnected the wire-strainer, threw it over one shoulder, and returned to the shed.
Morris proved to be right about Simpson: as they returned to the shed at the end of the day’s work, the little man gave a long, gasping sigh, and expired on his bed.
The prisoner walked up to the house and knocked on the back door. When the woman appeared, he said: “Tell Mr Morris Simpson is dead. Jus’ now, he died.”
Morris came down to the shed, stood beside the bed and gazed dispassionately at the dead body, then ordered Wallis to fetch a shovel and dig a grave. As he left the shed, he turned to the prisoner and Wallis, and said: “Let this be a lesson ter tha both of yer: keep away from snakes,” and walked out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
August 26th; 1822: Work began again, as usual, just before the dawn had properly broken on the horizon.
Wallis got the sheep from their paddock and moved them down to grazing, but found himself hard-put to keep them in one area of the large paddock where the grasses grew long and sweet. But no matter how much he pleaded, Morris would not remove his ankle-chains.
Finally, after a particularly long and pointless argument, Morris shouted at Wallis to shut up and keep silent, and walked away to the barn. He reappeared several minutes later leading a big bay stallion by the halter, mounted up, and rode away through the gate.
The prisoner laboured over the vegetable garden, wondering how long it would be before Morris turned on him for some reason. He was a hard man, not given to sympathy, and more than willing to use his fists, it seemed. He had shown no pity at Simpson’s death, and could see that Wallis had no chance of keeping up with all the sheep, hampered as he was by a short chain and manacles about both ankles, yet would not consider removing them.
Foot after foot, the prisoner dug all that day, turning over clods and breaking them, and moving on to the next row, sweating in the hot sun, and ever-mindful of the sudden appearance of the snake that had killed Simpson.
The property-owner’s wife appeared near midday with a pannikin of water for him, and he sat in the shade of a tree and drank half the contents, then lit his pipe, and had just settled back to enjoy his smoke before continuing with the garden, when Morris came through the gate. He was obviously drunk.
Dismounting from his horse, he took it inside the barn, and the prisoner heard the door of a stable close, then Morris came out, looked about, stared at the vegetable garden, and walked over to where the prisoner sat.
“Ain’t yer got eyes in yer ‘ead?” he asked angrily, and the prisoner stared at him, then looked at the vegetable garden, but could see nothing wrong.
Before he could react, a hand closed about the front of his torn shirt and hauled him to his feet. A fist slammed into his face, and he fell backwards, striking his head on the bole of the eucalypt against which he had been sitting.
“Damned fool!” Morris shouted at him; “that last row is crooked! Now git an’ fix it!” and an open palm landed against his cheek.
He stooped, picked up his pipe from where it had landed on the ground, and made his way back to the garden. When he stood at the end of the last row he had hoed, he could see it was not as straight as it should have been.
Wearily, he took up his hoe, and set about correcting the row, Morris standing over him all the while, weaving drunkenly on his feet. When he had finished, Morris glared at him again, and stumbled back into the house. A few moments later, the prisoner heard the old woman cry out, and Morris’ voice raised, then the sound of a slap, and then silence.
It seemed not even Mrs Morris herself was safe from her husband’s violent temper.
Down in the pasture Wallis, bare-headed and out in the hot sun all day, had had nothing to drink. Dehydration set in, and he became dizzy, and the prisoner watched as the man collapsed on the ground and lay unmoving.
Tossing aside his hoe, the prisoner moved as quickly as he could over the rough ground, but he was not fast enough: the sheep, with nobody to watch over them, had found another hole in the aged fence, and one by one were escaping into an unfenced area down near the river. Within a few minutes, white fluffy balls dotted the lower pasture.
Unable to give chase because of his artificial leg, the prisoner could only yell to the house for assistance.
A moment later, Morris appeared, stormed out of the house, and set off through the lower gate in pursuit of his sheep, Mrs Morris running after him and doing all she could to help. The two figures managed to get ahead of the sheep and cut them off from the river, but even so, half an hour had passed before all the sheep were back in the pasture. In that time, Wallis had awakened again, and was sitting up, holding his head, and
vomiting.
As the last of the sheep was forced through the gate, Morris walked over to Wallis, sitting at his feet, and stood glaring down at him. Then, without a word, he walked away into the shed, returning a moment later with two short lengths of rope and a stockwhip in his hand.
“Git over ‘ere!” he ordered Wallis, and led the way to a fencepost sunk into the muddy soil. When Wallis stood in front of him, he tied a length of rope tightly about Wallis’ wrists and the other end to the post, then reached out with one hand and tore Wallis’ shirt open down the back.
As the prisoner watched, shocked, Morris laid into Wallis’ bare back with the stockwhip, landing heavy blows again and again, while blood ran freely from the man’s back and shoulders. Blow after blow landed, until Wallis slumped to his knees in the mud, his head hanging down between his shoulders. And still the whip continued to land.
Finally, gasping loudly, Morris had had enough. He untied Wallis, and walked away. As he passed the prisoner, he glared into his eyes and said: “Make sure you ain’t tha next!” then returned the whip to the shed, and disappeared inside the house once more.
CHAPTER NINE
Wallis lay on his bunk, face-down, his back a raw, open wound from shoulder to waist.
Every now and then, he groaned, tried to brush away the flies that landed on the skin and began feeding off the dried blood and the crimson dribble that still seeped from his flesh, but the slightest movement of his arms or shoulders brought with it a fresh onslaught of agony, and after a while, he lay still.
Half an hour later, near suppertime, Morris appeared. He had brought the blackened cauldron in which their supper was normally served, and a small calico bag hung from his fingers.