Published: 14 Jan 2021

The boy’s skill with sheep soon had the small flock moving along the dusty Ballarat track, finding them obliging in being driven although slow, therefore their arrival at Ballarat had to be recalculated, possibly adding a second or even a third day to their journey. Within a half mile and towards a small creek they discovered another animal and quickly added it to their flock.

As they reached the creek one more animal was sighted but this one appeared to be favouring a hind leg. On closer inspection it was discovered to be carrying a nasty wound on its rump and by design most likely a spear wound from the previous night attack by the blacks. It was decided the wound would eventually cause the leg to fail, so it would in the near future become a mutton meal.

The boys had hardly travelled two miles from the farm when they notice a number of mounted horsemen off in the distance. As the group neared it was apparent they were mounted police with two white police officers and two black troopers bring up the rear, the native’s riding skills most admirable for those who had only recently been introduced to horse riding and obviously without trepidation.

On approach the sergeant moved ahead of his charge, “morning,” he roughly greeted as he rode through the drove of sheep, moving them aside and giving them pause to sample the grass along the verge.

“Good morning sir,” Logan answered politely as not to show any sign of insurrection towards their authority or imply insolence.

“So who have we here?” The officer questioned; his eyes on the flock of sheep as he spoke.

Logan gave introduction.

“Where are you from?”

“Bridge Town in New South Wales,” Logan answered.

“I presume you have paid the duty to bring livestock into the colony of Victoria,” the sergeant enquired as his constable dismounted and inspected one of the sheep, he felt its belly, lifting his head he gave a nod.

“They were purchased locally sir.”

“Have you a bill of sale?” The officer held out his hand while clicking his fingers. Logan produced the rough document the woman had penned on a half page of text she had torn from an old children’s story book.

The officer scrutinised the document, “this is a little suspect besides it doesn’t bear the colonial duty stamp.”

“It was only drawn up a matter of hours previous, the woman’s husband was killed by the blacks and as she was to abandon her flock we offered to take them off her hands to on sell in Ballarat.”

“Where is this woman now?”

“She has gone sir, with her children back towards Geelong.”

“Tis’ the blacks we are hunting, there is a number playing havoc in this district and we about to put a stop to it. What about this family and the dead husband?”

“She was Edith Leet and her husband Frank Leet, we buried Frank close to their hut but a number of miles back. Their property is near a creek crossing, the hut is in a field to the right. You will find the area burned about by fire.”

While Logan was explaining the situation the constable continued his interest with the sheep, with the black troopers remaining on their mounts smiling superciliously, occasionally yabbering in language. Their blue uniforms, caps and bare chests appearing incongruous to their position of representatives and enforcers of her majesty’s law.

“Cut the yabber!” The sergeant growled rendering the black constables to silence but failing to remove their grinning as the natives found constant humour in most things performed by the white man.

“Now what am I to do about the duty on the bill of sale for the sheep?” The officer referred to his previous question while returning the suspect document to Logan.

“Possibly I could arrange payment when I reach Ballarat,” Logan hopefully suggested.

“Possibly,” the officer repeated while deviously thinking, “then again possibly I didn’t see the sheep and you wouldn’t remember one lost to the scrub on your journey.”

“Possibly,” Logan repeated the officer’s suggestion.

The sergeant remained stony faced on his mount as his constable cut a fine specimen from the flock dragging it to one side. “It’ll do,” he called as the sergeant lifted his eyes in agreement.

“Probably,” Logan wisely changed his answer.

“Righto then on your way,” the sergeant nodded into the distance along the Ballarat road as his constable controlled his selection and the flock continued the journey.

“That is what I call theft by officialdom,” Chance complained once the policemen were beyond hearing. Turning in his saddle he was in time to see the constable truss the sheep, placing it before him on the saddle.

“Better to lose one than the lot.”

“Should we report when we get to Ballarat?”

“That wouldn’t do any good, as I hear the whole police force is rotten to the bone, besides what proof do we have.”

“Oh well,” Chance mumbled as he headed off two animals as they made a dash for the greener pasture beyond the verge. He returned with the renegade sheep “what is the tariff between colonies he spoke of?” Chance enquired remembering the policeman’s words.

“In my opinion it was sour grapes from the New South Wales government when Victoria claimed independence and became a separate colony.”

“I haven’t heard of such a tariff.”

“I suppose there wouldn’t be reason to do so back up our way but if we rode here we would have to pay a duty even to bring our riding horses across the border.”

“That’s silly,” Chanced complained.

“That’s the law.”

“What I mean we are all British under the crown.”

“Under the crown yes but under reality no, each colony believes it to be a separate country and is working toward that, although there are a number of enlightened folk working towards joining to make one large British colony, maybe even with its own independence becoming a powerhouse of commerce in the Pacific area.”

“In my thoughts we are as one,” Chance conveyed.

“One in blood, one in colour, excluding of course the natives and the Chinks and one in language but you scratch the surface and you will find that isn’t so, pride runs deep in the minds of most and is stronger than creed or colour.”

“Where is the boarder anyway?” Chance asked finding little interest in the politics of so called elected men.

“These days it is the Murray River.”

“So I could swim halfway across that river and be home in New South Wales?” Chance made light of the idea although he was bemused where he would find such a river but assumed it would need to be somewhere to the north.

“No all of the river, except what is in the colony of South Australia, belongs to New South Wales up to the high tide mark on the south bank.”

“How do you know all this?” Chance appeared most impressed with his friend’s historical cognition.

“Ah not from father that is for certain, dad was a man for words, he loved to discover new words and work out ways to use them. It was Uncle Edward; he read it in the Sydney paper when Victoria separated.”

“Both you father and Edward were once convicts.”

“Yes but not criminals.”

“Father was a free man.” Chance commented towards Piers.

“True but his father and mother were bound over to a master.”

“Did Sam or Edward know my grandparents?” Chance asked.

“No, it was by their drowning in the big flood that your dad was taken in by Sam Wilcox, they found Piers wandering in a daze and unofficially Sam adopted him.”

“I should think that is how my brother was named.”

“I would think so.”

Chance gave a laugh of thought.

“What?”

“I was thinking; could you imagine Hamish and our Sam in the same bed?” Chance suggested.

“Where is that coming from?” Logan asked.

“No idea, it just came into my head.”

“Sam wouldn’t be able to find Hamish’s pizzle,” Logan crudely laughed while enjoying the making light at his brother’s expense.

“It’s strange that,” Chance said.

“What is?”

“You and your brothers; Hamish the oldest then Ned and then there is you.”

“How does strange come into that?”

“Well it should work in reverse, Sam should have the biggest pizzle, then Ned and you but it’s the other way around and you are as big down there as both your brothers together.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“It is said a man’s potency weakens through time.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Logan pondered.

“If so you should have the smallest pizzle.”

“Wouldn’t your hypothesis work on body side as well as pizzle?”

“I never thought of that, true you are taller than both Ned and Hamish.”

“I should think it is but the luck of the draw, with you and your brother Sam, he is larger than you in both aspects.”

Chance released a cackle.

“What’s got your funny?” Logan asked.

“He’d certainly know if Sam planted his in Hamish, Sam is as thick as my wrist.”

“No I can’t imagine so, as Hamish appears to have no interest in sex whatsoever, unless it is rams mounting ewes and producing lambs. As for your Sam, in my opinion he would root anything in a skirt,” Logan disclaimed.

“Then put Hamish in a skirt,” Chance continued on the theme of making mockery of their brothers.

“Hamish would make a very ugly woman,” Logan dryly assumed.

“And after all that, Hamish is to marry.”

“I think more to have someone to do the washing and cooking, he is always complaining about Ned’s cooking.”

“Audrey Pennyworth,” Chance said.

“Yes Audrey Pennyworth, why say so in such a tone,”

Chance commenced to giggle.

“What?”

“Sam’s had Audrey,”

“Had?”

“Yes had, you know in the biblical sense, it was some years back during a picnic down by the river.”

“What was she doing in town?” Logan asked.

“The Pennyworth’s lived in town back then; it was before her old man bought East Winds.”

“I don’t think Hamish knows that.”

“Probably not but knowing my brother he will soon say something, he likes to shock people.”

“Anyway how did you know?” Logan asked.

“I saw it with my own eyes, I was going to take a swim and stumbled upon them, Sam bare arsed high and pounding it into her. Audrey saw me and looked horrified,”

“What about Sam?”

“He simply said fuck off and didn’t miss a beat,” Chance continued finding humour with the image.

“Oh well, Hamish’s problem I guess.”

“Have you ever thought of marriage?” Chance asked.

“I could marry you.”

“Would you?”

“If it was legal and they didn’t string us to the closest tree and cut our balls off, then yes I would.”

“I like that,” Chance felt a warm flow within his chest, “Mr. and Mr. Wilcox.”

“More to point it would be Mr. and Mr. McGregor,” Logan quickly corrected, lowing his voice to suite his masculine purpose.

“How about Wilcox- McGregor?” Chance suggested.

“How about McGregor-Wilcox?” Logan again corrected.

“I could accept that.” Chance finally consented as they came upon a shallow stream without bridging, “best test the water; you know what sheep are like when it comes to being wet.

“It’s getting late maybe we should camp for the night. There appears to be a good spot off to the right.”

Chance agreed and directed the flock towards a small jutting of grassy land at the bend of the creek. “We should be able to keep a good eye on them here but will have to take it in turns to watch over.”

As the sheep were put upon the grass Chance took on a puzzle expression.

“Problem Chance,” Logan asked.

“I was thinking back a bit, our conversation on us marrying.”

“You don’t like the idea?”

“I much do much so but it was more why people like us are put to the rope,” Chance gave a shudder at the thought.

“People like us?” Logan queried.

“Yea you know.”

“I should think we don’t produce kids to become cannon fodder, and there is something in the bible about men lying with men,” Logan suggested.

“As simple as that?”

“I don’t rightly know but I haven’t heard of anyone being hanged in New South Wales to date. I guess it makes men shudder to think of being used as a woman.”

“As simple as that?” Chance repeated.

“I suppose so, also it is said that in some wars the victor sometimes rape their male prisoners to take away their masculinity.” Logan looked about, “yes this is as good a place as any to set up camp.”

Soon they had a fire going with the sheep between it and the creek and settling for the night. Their meal was light and talk of slaughtering the ewe with the wound was in the affirmative. During the day she began to fall behind and it was thought another day would have her completely immobile, but not wasted, as although the ewe had little condition would make a number of meals and a change from their dwindling supplies.

There was a chill in the air and uncommon for that time of the year even being so far south from what they were accustomed. With the sheep at rest they sat in conversation but were too exhausted from working them to enjoy much else.

“Do you think we well arrive tomorrow?” Chance asked as he rose from their rest to stoke the fire, in doing so a shower of sparks rose into the tree canopy above.

“You’ll start a bushfire if not careful,” Logan warned.

“Doubt it the scrub is too damp,”

“Most probably tomorrow or the next but I’m not sure of our position.”

“By the map we must be close and have passed that marked as Scrubby Creek and that double hillock to its south,” Chance gave reckoning.

“Ah the map,” Logan laughed.

“It’s been helpful so far,”

“Yet not it’s distancing,” Logan confessed.

“I need to piss,” Chance went towards the creek and relieved his bladder into the water, “he called back, “I love the sound of that.”

“What you pissing into the water and killing the fish?” Logan roughly answered.

“No the babbling of the water.”

“Funny you should say as Uncle Edward often said the same. There is a turn in the river back home with rocks and somewhat downstream from the native camp, Edward would often sit in the cool of night and enjoy the river’s passing.”

“I know the place, when we were kids we went fishing there and the native boys taught us how to use a spear.”

“I never mastered it,” Logan admitted.

“Nor did I but it was fun trying.”

“And you turned the native nawie in the rapids and almost drowned,

Edward rescued you but the nawie was lost to the river and the natives were really pissed-off with its loss.”

“Where was Edward from?” Chance asked as the last drops from his relief were lost in the water’s flow.

“England,”

“I know that but where in England?”

“Devon,”

“Oh,”

“Be truthful Chance you don’t know where Devon is.”

“I don’t really know where England is; only it’s a bloody long way and always cold and raining.”

“Same here really but I do know it is across from France and Devon is on something called the English Channel,” Logan admitted to his own shortcomings.

“Channel?” Chance questioned.

“Stretch of water I suppose something like Bass Strait. Edward said as a boy he would often climb a big tree on their farm and watch the English and French ships shooting at each other.”

“War?”

“I guess it wouldn’t be for sport.”

“Entertaining I suppose,”

“Edward said there was hardly the shortest time when England wasn’t at war with someone.”

“Angry lot we English.”

“I should think they didn’t always start the shooting.”

Chance returned and sat by the fire.

“Aren’t you ready for bed?” Logan asked.

“I’ll do the first watch but I have to warm up first.” Chance stoked the fire again sending more sparks and smoke high into the branches above, “bushfire.” he teased.

“I’ll soon warm you,” Logan laughed.

“What did Edward do in this Devon?” Chance asked.

“He said his family had a farm and James was on the adjoining farm.”

“What sort of farm?”

“He never said but I believe it was mixed. You know barley, sheep and cattle, that sort of thing; more than likely all in a couple of acres. He did say that the winters were so cold the animals lived inside.”

“What about Hamish, your dad?” Chance asked.

“Don’t rightly know he didn’t speak much about home and -,”

“Shh,” Chance cut Logan short, his attention concentrating on a thicket of scrub some distance towards the creek.

“What?”

“I heard something or someone.” Chance lifted and walked towards the sound, straining his eyes into the weak moonlight.

“It may be a stray dog.”

“Possibly,”

Logan came beside Chance, “where?”

“Over there,” Chance pointed along the creek as they moved away from the fire’s glare. He went for their gun and returned.

“Could be a wombat they barge through the scrub like an irate bull.” Logan suggested.

“Possibly,” Chance half agreed and moved cautiously towards the direction of the sound, he lifted the unloaded gun, “come on out or I’ll let you ‘ave it!” he shouted into the darkness. Moments later there was a rustling in the bushes and a silhouetted figure stumbled forward.

“Don’t shoot mister, don’t shoot please,” The voice appeared young maybe a lad amid his teens and by his statue limited.

Chance lowered the firearm.

“Don’t shoot,” the lad once again pleaded.

“What are you doing out here in the night on your own?” Chance asked as the lad paused but some steps away.

“Nothing,”

“What kinda’ answer is that?” Logan unsympathetically demanded.

The lad then came to the fire and warmed himself, he appeared wet as one who had misplaced his footing and had fallen into the creek.

“Where is you family;” Chance asked believing the lad to be a little young to be travelling alone, especially during such a dark night.

“Gone,”

“What does gone mean,” Logan continued with his abrupt interrogation.

“I was travelling with my da’ and last night he said seeing I am now sixteen I should be my own man, I awoke this morning to find him gone.”

“Where to?” Chance asked.

“Dunno’ just gone, took everything and went. I saw your fire from the road and fell into the creek on my way over.”

“You appear cold,” Logan suggested lowering his abrasive attitude to normal.

“A little,”

“Have you eaten?” Logan asked.

“Not since before da’ left.”

“What’s your name?” Logan asked.

“Tommy; it’s Tommy Burns,” the lad began to shiver from the cold.

“Then Tommy, seeing you are now sixteen and presumed to be a man it will be Tom, take those wet cloths off and get yourself warm.” Chance but demanded as he collected a blanket from their bedding.

The lad hesitated.

“What’s wrong kid are you shy?” Logan asked his tone somewhat condescending.

The lad lifted his arms to remove his shirt but again paused.

“If you remain in those wet clothes you will get a chill,” Logan directed as Chance offered up the blanket.

The lad slowly removed his shirt and as the fire danced shadows across his back it became apparent why he hesitated.

“Who did that to you?” Chance barked on noticing the fresh welts across the lad’s youthful back, the skin still weeping from maltreatment.

“No one,” the lad growled with embarrassment.

“Was that done by your father?” Chance demanded but the lad held his silence as the blanket covered his nakedness.

Logan returned with food, “it isn’t much but at least it will fill your belly.”

The lad quickly consumed the offered food, then seated huddled into the blanket while Chance put his wet clothing to dry by the fire.

With the blanket covering to his neck Tom quietly sat and commenced to rock back and forth, taking a deep breath he then curled his body to the ground and was asleep.

“What do you think?” Chance baffled.

“He’s taken a recent beating.”

“His father?”

“Who else,”

“So what should we do with him?” Chance appeared somewhat concerned towards the lad’s wellbeing.

“As his father said, he is old enough to fend for himself,” Logan answered without displaying confidence in his suggestion.

“He appears too fragile to do so,”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s up to you Logan I won’t push you into anything.”

“Yes I agree he does appear a little fragile, let’s sleep on it and see what the morning brings; maybe he can travel with us until we reach Ballarat.”

“We can’t leave him there beside the fire.”

“He looks comfortable enough, come on we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.” Logan tucked the blanket around the lad’s slender body and moved away, “he’ll be alright but I’ll stoke the fire.”

First light and Chance nudged Logan to wake, “look,” he said and pointed. The lad was awake and sitting upright beside the dead embers of the fire the blanket remained wrapped tightly around.

“I thought he was but a dream I had,” Logan growled his answer in hope.

“No dream,”

“Guess we better get moving, you stoke the fire and I’ll get some water from the creek – get the billy boiling.” Logan stood and stretched the night from his body, “hey kid,” he called. Tom turned and gave what could be considered to be a smile, “are you hungry?”

Tom nodded.

“Check your clothes, they should be dry.”

Chance took control of the situation and found the lad’s clothing to be a little moist but that would soon dry away with the first light. He passed them to Tom who quickly dropped the blanket and pulled on his trousers. Chance gave a private grin; yes the lad was definitely a man he thought. Tom quickly covered the welts across his back with his shirt.

Logan returned with the billy water, “So Tom what are your plans?” he asked and put the billy to the fire.

“Dunno’,”

“What about your father?” Logan asked.

Tom remained silent.

“It is decision time Tom and you will need to think of your future.” Logan suggested.

The lad remained silent.

“We all have a future and sometimes have to think about it.”

Chance believing Logan was being somewhat abrupt with the lad’s fragility cut in, “would you like to travel with us for a while?”

Logan gave Chance a disagreeing glance but refrained from comment.

“Yes,” Tom simply answered.

“If so you will need to be a little more open and pitch in. Do you know sheep?”

“Da’ was -,” the lad fell silent as the reality of his situation returned.

“Your father was a shepherd?” Chance completed the lad’s unfinished sentence.

“Yes, for a while.”

“So you know sheep,” Chance asked.

“A little,”

“Did your father belt you?” Logan asked directly.

“Yes,” Tom’s voice fell away, his eyes drawn towards the creek and beyond as far as he could cast his sight and thoughts from the pain and humility he was issued by someone who should have given love and protection.

“You’re gone from that now,” Logan said and forced an early morning smile, being somewhat rare from his character at that time of day, while giving an unspoken agreement for the lad to travel with them.

“Can you cook?” Logan asked as he shared out the morning’s rations.

“Most things, me da’ made me do for him.”

“Not much cooking at the moment but there will be when we put one of the sheep to slaughter.” Logan said.

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