Do You Dare? Fighting Bones Page 7

  At that moment, Mr Fitzpatrick turned around and placed his hand firmly over Declan’s arm. ‘Don’t even think about it, Sheehan. I got you on the condition that if you caused me any trouble, or tried to run away, you’d serve the rest of your sentence at the men’s gaol at Port Arthur. That place makes Point Puer look like a holiday.’

  How could this be happening?

  Declan knew he had to speak. ‘Sir? My brothers . . . my brothers . . .’ he stammered. ‘I can’t leave my brothers.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Declan,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick, not unkindly. ‘I only need one new worker. I hope you will come to see that this is an opportunity for you.’ He turned to Sean. ‘Now let’s get some good miles behind us.’

  Just like every other maggot in this place, thought Declan, bitterly. He doesn’t care.

  Declan rode all day in the back of the cart, through bush and then cleared land, along a road that ran beside the sea. But he barely noticed the wide open land around him, or the clear, clean winter skies overhead. All he knew was that with every minute he was further from his gang. Declan’s thoughts tortured him. Is Striker still at Point Puer? If only I’d had the chance to find out . . .

  As it grew dark they came to a farmhouse where the men were greeted by a couple, who waved at them as they approached.

  ‘Your lad will be warm and comfortable here in the stables,’ said the man.

  ‘We’ll have him brought a good dinner,’ his wife added, smiling at Declan. ‘He looks like he might need it.’

  ‘Aye, skinny as a rake,’ said Sean.

  The stables suited Declan perfectly; all he wanted was to be alone. He desperately needed to collect his thoughts. ‘They can’t take me from my gang,’ he said to the horse that had helped tow him away. Point Puer was hell, but it was a hell he shared with Danny and Seamus. Declan climbed out of the wagon and tried the stable doors, but they were locked. Declan wondered about Mr Fitzpatrick’s words. Even if he did escape and return to Point Puer, he’d be thrown into the gaol at Port Arthur, and he’d be no use to Danny there. Or was Fitzpatrick bluffing? The man didn’t strike Declan as a liar, but it was a risk Declan would have to take.

  When Declan was woken early the next morning, he didn’t know where he was. The sweet scent of horses and hay made him feel calm and soothed. But as Mr Fitzpatrick and Sean pulled open stable doors, letting in the daylight, everything came back to him and his heart sank.

  ‘Hope you got some rest, Declan,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Only another twenty miles or so,’ said Sean, rigging the horse to the cart once more.

  Declan sat silently in the back of the wagon as it travelled through rolling fields of creamy-coloured wheat.

  ‘Feels good to be coming home,’ said Fitzpatrick. He turned around to Declan. ‘Your backside must be bruised,’ he smiled.

  At least he’s friendlier than the guards, thought Declan. But if he thinks I’ll be staying where he’s taking me, he’s got another thing coming.

  ‘My backside’s bruised,’ said Sean, stretching out his legs.

  Soon they came to a broad stream that reminded Declan of the Liffey. How he wished Declan and Danny were back there, muddling about on its banks together.

  ‘Good to see old Iron Creek again – always tells me how close I am to home,’ commented Mr Fitzpatrick.

  ‘I’ll agree with you there,’ said Sean. ‘Oh my love, pretty Iron Creek, how could I leave you? Your waters so sweet?’ he sang loudly. ‘So close to home!’

  Mr Fitzpatrick laughed, and for just a second, Declan felt like laughing too.

  Declan dozed on and off all day. As evening approached, Sean directed the horse off the main road onto a narrower track that led up a long gentle slope. Declan saw a large brick farmhouse, a chimney at either end, on the top of the hill. A sign on the fence read Kilcullen Park in large painted letters.

  The horse pulled the cart through the gateway and to the stables. From the top of the hill Declan saw fields of wheat on all sides, golden in the dusk light. Shame I won’t be staying, he thought. It’s nice.

  Mr Fitzpatrick climbed down from the cart and unhitched the horse from the wagon. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night and leave in the morning?’ Declan heard him ask his friend.

  ‘No, Michael, I won’t. If I am one more night away from Sarah, she won’t let me back in the house,’ he laughed, throwing a saddle over the horse. ‘I’ll see you soon, no doubt.’

  ‘As you wish, Sean. But you had better ride that good horse like the wind if you want to get home before night falls.’

  ‘That I will,’ said Sean, bringing the reins down on the horse’s back. ‘Get up there, girl! Get up there!’

  Declan watched jealously as he cantered down the path that led back to the road. How I wish I could take that road back myself, he thought.

  As Declan followed Mr Fitzpatrick towards the house, he saw a young servant woman coming towards them carrying a lamp. ‘Welcome home, sir,’ she said.

  She was Irish, like Mr Fitzpatrick. At least I’m among my own people, Declan thought.

  ‘Ah, May, this is Declan Sheehan,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick. ‘He will be working in the gardens. Can you show him his quarters and bring him his dinner?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ May curtsied. ‘The children are excited to see you, sir.’

  ‘Good. Thank you, May.’

  Declan watched as Mr Fitzpatrick disappeared inside the house. Even the servant seems to like him, he thought.

  May took Declan to a timber shed beside the stables. ‘Nothing fancy but it’ll keep out the cold,’ she said, opening the door. Declan noticed that the shed was newly built; there were no cracks between the beams to let in the wind. At the far end of the shed was a small iron stove. Bags of wheat were piled high against three of the walls, and bales of hay against the fourth. But Declan didn’t see anywhere for him to sleep. Perhaps I’m supposed to climb on the bags of wheat, and make myself a bed between them, he thought.

  ‘You’ll be sleeping up there,’ May said. She pointed to a wooden platform beneath the peaked roof. She dragged out a small ladder from against the wall and leaned it against the platform. ‘You can’t tell from here, but there’s plenty of room up there. I’d show you myself but I’m scared of heights,’ she said, winking at him.

  Was she once a convict like me? Declan wondered. Many of the women prisoners ended up as servants in the new colony.

  May led him back outside and down a path through empty garden beds. ‘I’ll show you the fresh-water tanks.’

  The house, now with light shining through every window, looked warm and inviting. ‘So Mr Fitzpatrick is rich,’ said Declan, half to himself.

  ‘Mr Fitzpatrick works harder than any of us, don’t you be fooled,’ May said protectively. ‘He sold everything he had back in Ireland seven years ago and came out here of his own free will – unlike us thieves. I been with him since I was fifteen and now I’m twenty-one. He’s a good master. You try anything and I’ll flog you as hard as any of them soldiers back at the gaol, I don’t care how hungry and starved you look.’ She glared at him fiercely. ‘The master gives people a chance.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ said Declan. He preferred May when she was friendly! But it was interesting to learn that she had once been a convict girl. ‘Who was the other man?’ Declan asked. ‘The one who came with Fitzpatrick.’

  ‘Sean Doherty? They came out together from Kilcullen, back home.’ She knocked her fist against a large water tank behind the shed. ‘You can wash here in the morning. You’ll find soap and a clean towel in the loft.’ May led him back towards the shed. ‘Sean and Mr Fitzpatrick’s wives used to be companions. Sean is a good friend to Fitzpatrick. They’ve both done well with the wheat. They call this part of Van Diemen’s Land The Granary of Australia,’ she said as proudly as if she had grown the wheat herself. ‘Sean owns the neighbouring property. Now, make sure to get your fire started,’ she said, pushing open the shed doors. ‘I’
ll bring you some dinner in an hour.’ May turned to go back to the house. ‘We’ll need to get you some clothes. Can’t have you in prison threads – brings back bad memories. I’ll see what I can find. I know there are some extra boots lying about.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with these boots,’ snapped Declan.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said May. ‘Keep your bleedin’ boots, but I’ll see what else I can find.’

  Declan heard the key click in the door after May left. He liked May well enough, she was warm and friendly, but she treated him like a prisoner, just like everybody else.

  That night, as he lay on his pallet in the loft, he looked through the small round window high in the shed wall at the stars like silver dust across the black sky. He thought of Danny’s swollen eye and bleeding lip. ‘Stars,’ he said. ‘Help me find a way back to him.’

  Declan had no idea what time it was when he next woke, but moonlight was streaming through his window. He felt as if he was in cold water; it was entering his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. ‘Danny!’ he called out. He could feel Col’s weight heavy in his arms. Declan stumbled down the ladder and leaned against the doors as if his weight might open them and set him free.

  Suddenly he felt someone leaping on his back, locking their arms around his neck, and placing a hand over his eyes. ‘Get off me!’ Declan swung around as hard as he could but whoever it was held tight. Declan swiped at his attacker over and over, stumbling across the ground, finally throwing him. When Declan turned he saw a girl in a white nightdress facing him, two long braids hanging over her shoulders. He had been fighting a girl. Declan felt ashamed.

  ‘Who are you hiding from?’ she demanded, breathing hard.

  ‘I’m not hiding from anybody!’

  ‘Oh, yes you are! Is it the police? Are you a bushranger on the run?’

  ‘I’m not hiding from anybody. This is where they locked me.’

  ‘Who locked you?’ the girl frowned.

  ‘May,’ Declan answered. ‘I’ve come here to work in the garden.’

  ‘Then I’m your new mistress,’ the girl said haughtily, hands on her hips. ‘And this is my place to come when I need somewhere to hide.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Declan asked.

  ‘Never mind my name – you must call me Mistress.’ The girl dangled a large set of keys in front of her face. ‘And these belong to me.’ Before Declan could grab the keys from her hand, the girl slipped through the doors. Declan could hear her turning the key in the lock.

  ‘Trollop!’ cursed Declan, kicking at the doors.

  ‘I’ll be keeping my eyes on you!’ the girl hissed at the crack between the doors.

  He went to punch at it in fury, but at the last minute he stopped himself and took a deep breath. I have to calm down, he thought. Who the hell knows who that stupid girl is? And who cares? If I want to get out of here and not end up at Port Arthur, I have to wait for my moment.

  The next morning, during a breakfast of warm porridge and fresh milk, Declan was tempted to ask May who the girl was who had come to his quarters, but he decided against it. He wanted to avoid trouble at all costs, and that girl seemed like trouble. After breakfast May took Declan on a tour of the gardens. Declan saw fruit trees that needed pruning, flowerbeds overrun with weeds and empty vegetable plots.

  ‘Used to grow potatoes,’ said May, pointing at the stony earth. ‘You can still find one or two, if you dig deep. Used to have ’em growing out our ears. Tomatoes and cabbages, too. And over there,’ she pointed to more rows of empty garden beds covered in weeds, ‘rhubarb and strawberries.’

  Declan didn’t understand; the wheat fields seemed to be flourishing. ‘Why has Mr Fitzpatrick let the gardens go?’ he asked.

  ‘Ever since his wife died he’s shown no interest. It was her that used to oversee the gardens. But now that we’re not even getting potatoes, I suppose he thinks he’d better do something about it. That’s why he got you.’ May looked around and sighed. ‘It’s a big job,’ she said. ‘And you is a small lad. You better get started.’

  So Mr Fitzpatrick knows what it’s like to lose family, yet he took me from my brothers. It felt confusing to like someone but be angry with them, too.

  May brought Declan tools – a hoe and shovel and digging fork.

  ‘First I’ll have to prepare the soil.’ Declan spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘Things don’t grow unless they have something good to grow in.’ He pulled the stubborn weeds from the beds and picked out the stones, then he began to bash at the earth until it started to fall easily through the prongs of his fork. Working in the garden was the one thing that could take his mind off how he was going to get back to Point Puer.

  As he worked, he saw Mr Fitzpatrick crossing the grounds. I’ll have to choose my time carefully, he thought. When there’s no chance of the master tracking me down.

  Just before his midday break, Declan recognised the girl from last night playing on the grass at the front of the house with a young boy. She held a long stick in her hand. ‘Do as I say, Harry. Pick up your sword or I’ll tell Papa you’re a coward.’

  ‘You can tell Papa what you like – I don’t want to sword fight. I’m going to play soldiers by the stream.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to go down to the water by yourself. Pick up your sword and fight!’ The girl waved her stick around Harry’s face.

  Just then a servant woman, older than May, ran out of the house, red-faced and out of breath. ‘Hilda, leave your brother alone!’ she called. ‘You are supposed to be doing your lessons indoors. You too, Harry.’

  She’d better stay out of my way, thought Declan. I can think of a lot of other names for her besides Mistress.

  Later, when he was eating his lunch in the kitchen, he heard Hilda shouting and laughing somewhere inside the house.

  ‘Since their ma died they run wild,’ said May, ladling chicken soup into Declan’s bowl. ‘Hilda is as bad as any convict girl. The new servant, Violet, was brought here to teach ’em lessons but she can’t keep up with ’em.’

  Declan ate a spoonful of the thick, tasty soup. If all this belonged to me, he thought, I’d have no cause to run wild. Danny and me would be happy as kings.

  After lunch May took Declan to the pigpen at the bottom of the garden. A large pink sow stood at her trough, piglets playing happily at her side. ‘It’s your job to feed and water Mrs Mud,’ said May, holding her nose, ‘so I never have to do it again.’

  Declan didn’t mind; the sow reminded him of home. Every plot of land in Ireland had a pig. His mother used to jokingly call their pig ‘the gentleman boarder’. Declan leaned over the fence and ran his hand over the sow’s back, listening to her comforting snuffle as she nosed through the contents of her trough.

  At that moment, Declan saw Hilda’s young brother, Harry, crossing the yard. Here goes, thought Declan, more trouble.

  ‘Hello,’ said the boy, leaning against the railings of Mrs Mud’s pen. ‘I’m Harry.’

  ‘Declan,’ grunted Declan.

  ‘I’m hiding,’ said Harry, looking around him.

  Declan stayed silent.

  ‘Don’t you want to know who from?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Who from?’ asked Declan.

  ‘My sister.’

  Declan looked up and saw Harry roll his eyes. ‘She is a wild one,’ he agreed.

  ‘She didn’t use to be,’ said Harry. ‘It was when our mum died she went like that.’

  Declan felt a pang of sympathy. Even rich boys can lose their mothers, he thought.

  ‘What was it like when you were on the run?’ Harry asked, his eyes wide.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ Declan asked, surprised.

  ‘I heard May and Violet talking. Was it like you thought it would be?’

  Declan paused a moment to consider the question. ‘It was more frightening,’ he said eventually, deciding he didn’t mind Harry. ‘It was better and more frightening.’

  Harry seemed to think about Declan
’s answer for a while before saying, ‘If you ever need someone to play soldiers, you can play with me.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ said Declan, though he knew it wasn’t true. He would be long gone before there was time for games. The question was: how?

  Declan worked hard in the garden for the rest of the afternoon. When he looked up, he was struck by the beauty of the sky overhead, as if he was seeing it for the first time – so blue and wide and clean. A flock of white birds, each with a yellow crest on its head, dipped and circled, screeching loudly, as if they found it all very funny.

  At dusk, he took a bucket of kitchen scraps down to the pig. ‘Hey, Mrs Mud, I have something for you,’ he said, tipping the slops into her trough. ‘How does that taste? Bet that tastes good, hey, Mrs Mud? Bet that tastes as sweet as plum pudding.’

  Mrs Mud came hungrily out from under her shelter.

  ‘Hey there, pig boy, who took all your hair and left your freckles behind?’ Hilda appeared on the other side of the yard. ‘Like talking to pigs, do you?’ she called out, turning her nose up at him.

  Declan said nothing. If Hilda was his sister he would have lost his temper and made her share the slops with Mrs Mud. But Hilda was the master’s daughter.

  ‘Barely a hair on his head and talks to animals – you must be mad, pig boy!’ she shouted.

  Violet appeared behind her. ‘Now, Hilda, that’s no way for a young lady to speak. You should know better!’

  ‘Ever better, Violetta!’ Hilda sang back at the servant.

  ‘I’ll be telling your father if you don’t stop!’ Violet called back.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Hilda, pulling a face at Declan and following Violet back inside.

  At Kilcullen Park there were no prison guards shouting orders at Declan, no bell calling him to the quarry, no Mr Prideham telling him he was disobedient and useless, no solitary confinement or fights in the muster-ground. And yet still Declan felt afraid. What if Striker has already struck? Was Danny all right? Or was he lying dead in the water at the base of the cliff. Declan shuddered.