In Lonnie's Shadow (17 page)

SCRAP OF HESSIAN SACK

Item No. 5786

Probably used for hard wheat.

At this late stroke of the hour, Little Lon was a place of shadows. It was not for the nervous or faint- hearted to be out and about.

George Swiggins had done his surveillance well; he and six of his gang were watching and waiting from every possible dark and secluded spot in the alleyway. When Slasher Jack came prowling – with a belly full of grog and in a frame of mind to slip a knife between a set of ribs faster and with no more sentiment than a butcher would have carved boiled ham – they struck. Appearing from nowhere like a lightning strike, six of the strongest with muscle and fist, their intention to kidnap him – one to wrestle each of his arms and legs, another to whip a hessian sack over his head, the last to bind him.

Not one to be subdued without a fight, Slasher thrashed like a wild animal. One mighty swipe from a loose right arm sent a luckless Push unconscious to the ground. Jack fought hard and dirty, gouging at eyes and biting anything unfortunate enough to get close to his head. Blood mixed with spittle and dribbled from his mouth.

The weight of numbers finally knocked the fight out of him. Jack cursed blue murder as the mob held him down. They tied his arms behind his back then dropped down the rope to secure his feet. When he was firmly hogtied they tossed him onto the hard boards of an open-backed wagon and covered him with old sacks.

George took the reins and guided the horse down the hill towards the wharf. The rest of the Push piled heavily on top of the bundle, which reeled up each time Jack tossed his head around and tried to roll off the rattling cart.

All seemed to be going as planned until the figure of a white-helmeted constable slowly formed, busy on his lone night rounds. He walked towards them from out of the darkness.

There was a lively commotion on the cart. The gang threw themselves forward and packed close together over their hapless victim. They launched into a bawdy song to drown out the muffled oaths coming from beneath them, trying to ward off any chance of the law recognising the deed for what it was.

‘What you got there hiding under them sacks?’ the constable inquired, gingerly pushing his baton towards the writhing mass. He was new to the beat and an unsettling meeting so close to the dark waters of the bay with a group of youths nearly his own age made him jittery. ‘Some poor devil’s pig, no doubt.’

George’s laughter exploded out of him as if someone had lit a fuse in his belly. He uncovered the toe of Jack’s boot to prove he was indeed no stolen pig. ‘Wish him well, he’s due to be wed in the morning,’ he gave by way of explanation. ‘We’re making his last night of freedom one to remember.’

His light-hearted tone was convincing enough for the youthful constable, who was more than relieved to send them on their way with a piece of advice.

‘Don’t take your pranks too far and land yourselves in trouble. I don’t want to find no poor lad tarred and feathered or tied naked to a pole on my beat, do you understand?’ As he watched George suck in his cheeks to stop himself laughing and then drive off, he put it down to bachelor-night palaver. Keeping to his duties, he pencilled a few words about the incident in his pocket book.

The wagon came to a stop at a gloomy row of warehouses, dimly lit from the moonlight. The dockside air smelt of tanned hides and offal, and was damp and cold on the skin. Out on the bay a mist was sluggishly rising from the sea.

George jumped down from the wagon and nodded towards the waiting boat. ‘Toss him in there.’

As the group manhandled Jack off the wagon, the sack ripped away from his blood-soaked head.

Realising where he was and what they were about to do to him, he filled his lungs and let out a murderous shriek. With every wild movement he used to try and free himself, the well-tied ropes cut deeper into him.

On George’s order, one of the Push rammed a chunk of dirty hessian into Jack’s open mouth and tied it fast with string. He was lucky not to lose a finger. The remainder of the gang set about removing the iron weights from the wagon. They bundled Jack onto the small boat, away from where the clippers on the tea run were moored and out of sight of prying eyes.

George Swiggins left himself the duty of relieving Jack of the purse from his pocket and the knife stashed in his boot. ‘You won’t need this anymore, not where you’re going.’ He held the knife close to Jack’s throat.

‘Nice one. Ivory handled. “Jack Smith”. Don’t tell me you had a sweetheart once?’ He gave a hoarse and throaty laugh at Jack’s muffled growl.

Slasher Jack acted like a man who knew his fate and was helpless to change it, but there were no prayers, no requests for forgiveness, no begging for mercy. He could only try to suck in some desperate, ferocious breaths of air past the suffocating gag, before George flung the sack back over his head, making his breathing even harder.

The water slurped around the side of the boat. Each stroke of the oars pulled them further from shore. A gruff voice broke through the misting air.

‘Think we’re out in deep enough water yet?’

‘It’s not the depth that concerns me,’ replied George indifferently. ‘I don’t want him washing up on the morning tide. Take us out a little further.’

They continued to row out on the bay to a place where the mist was thickening into a heavy fog. One of the Push secured the iron weights to the ropes that bound their captive.

For the last time, George ripped away the sack covering Slasher’s face. Two of the gang helped to manhandle him over the side. The weighted man pulled down heavily against their strong young arms. It was a merciless conclusion, but the Push leader wanted Slasher Jack to have a final view of his vanishing world.

‘A favour well paid, I’d say. See ya later, Jack. With compliments of Pearl.’

BLADE

Item No. 1338

Handle missing. Double-edged, long, thin blade. Dagger type.

The night of the street race celebrated the event with one of those moonlit skies well suited to late- hour pursuits. By the time George Swiggins was making his way to watch the race, after leaving the billiard hall with two of his Push, the streets had all but emptied, leaving only a few night owls from the skittle saloon and the odd oyster bar patron who lingered on a street corner.

George was not intent on causing trouble. Indeed, he had left most of the gang still enjoying themselves at the tables. The Push had placed good bets on Lonnie and were looking forward to peacefully watching the race and collecting some quick money.

Billy and his gang had other ideas. They swanked their way along the street, looking for trouble, and nothing could have made them happier than when their full contingent of thirteen met up with the three Push.

‘Good night for a blue, George,’ challenged Billy, as he and the rest of his gang began their ritual smashing of bottles against the stonework, keeping the razor-edged necks in their gloved hands.

George drew the ivory-handled knife he had wrested from Slasher Jack and held it towards his attackers. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit unfair; three Push onto a dozen or so of you?’

Billy’s laugh came out as a whistle. A gaping black hole in his mouth exposed the result of a smacked- out tooth. ‘Your tough luck.’

‘Wrong, you great galah.’ George smiled mockingly. ‘It’s your safety I’m concerned for. You won’t stand a chance in hell against the three of us.’ At the jibe the Glass and Bottle Gang charged towards the Push.

‘Run, split up, meet back at the billiard hall,’ George commanded. A bottle thrown from one of the mob stung his hand and he dropped his weapon.

‘You’ll keep,’ he yelled back over his shoulder, as he shot off to avoid further injury.

Billy picked up the knife that lay discarded on the ground. Having a scuffle, short-lived though it was, always gave him a thrill, especially when the Push ran away and he scored a trophy. He checked out the ivory handle and wondered who Jack Smith could be.

RIDING WHIP

Item No. 956

Flat paddle type, used for spurring on horses.

Over in the gardens the more cautious of a party of gentlemen were trying to conceal themselves in those same elms where, on that day several months earlier, Lonnie had tried to outwit the pursuing dog. The ghostly shadows of the trees blackened the gents’ faces, but silver moonlight flashed over an occasional top hat, cane or beard to reveal some aspect of their identity.

A private carriage stood silent on the roadway. From inside the cabin, two dark curtains twitched open. Crick senior peered out from behind one of them to inspect the line up, while Henry Payne spied from the window opposite. On his good friend’s advice, Payne had a lot riding on a favourable outcome.

For an illegal race, the line-up was impressive. Seven riders with their seven strappers and seven of the best horses in Melbourne, as good as any Saturday race could draw, had assembled on the lawn beside the white stone fountain and were waiting for the starter’s orders. The horses were lean and muscular, ranging in colour from chestnut to grey, their ribs showing under shiny, well-groomed coats. Some wore blinkers and sheepskin nosebands. Without exception, they were at peak fitness, proud, showy and strong, their nostrils flaring in anticipation of the workout to come.

Like everyone here, Lonnie kept an eye open for a potential police raid. The law had been trying to clamp down on reckless riding though the streets. Only last year there’d been an outcry when a speeding street racer ran down Harold, a young night-raker. Poor boy had been cleaning the horse muck off the streets ready for the morning traffic, but for all his trouble had become a cripple. Not long afterwards, a pollie was trampled. What a big hullabaloo! ’Course, the scandal was fuzzed over by the Argus when they found out he’d left the Big House in the early hours and staggered across the road blind drunk straight into the path of the rider, with no one to blame but himself. Lonnie tried to put the risk out of his mind and concentrate. No good scaring himself over knocking someone flying. He’d be extra careful.

Lonnie drew the outside and carried the number seven saddlecloth. He was not in the least surprised to see Crick had the most favourable inside draw, number one. He stroked his horse’s mane and spoke quietly in its ear. This may well be an illegal race, outside the bounds of officialdom, and in reality, the Cricks had done their best to fix it, but he was set on being the first across the line. At last, he had a chance to match his skills equally against six jockeys. Most of all he intended to settle once and for all who was the best rider.

As arranged, Carlo was here as Lonnie’s strapper. They didn’t have much time. Carlo quickly checked the reins, saddles and foot irons, going about his duties as if he was a second in a duelling match; the pistols ready, the powder dry. ‘We’re not the amateurs around here, mate,’ he joked, enjoying his new role. ‘Now all you’ve gotta do is prove it to them by winning.’

The other riders seemed in high spirits. Only Thomas Crick was out of sorts. When he grudgingly caught Lonnie’s glance, he glared across and waved his whip arrogantly. Lonnie felt his mount tense noticeably beneath him at the mere sight of it. ‘Easy, boy.’ He leaned forward, once more stroking the horse’s neck and shoulders.

Carlo had also sensed the horse’s fear. He too began soothingly stroking its neck. His hand moved across scar tissue from an old wound and he gave a startled look up at Lonnie. But the time for explanation was lost to the sound of Bookie Win bringing the riders under starter’s orders. Along with all the other strappers, Carlo hastily retreated out of harm’s way. Lonnie knew his friend needed an explanation, but whatever had to be said would have to wait until the race was over.

Bookie Win hurriedly outlined the rules in his compact accent. As well as being the bookmaker, he was also the official starter. The race was to be run the distance of the Melbourne Cup, only tonight there were no handicaps or set weights. The fountain marked the start and finish of the race. All decisions would be final. The riders had to follow three main rules – all horses had a fair and even start, riders must follow the designated course through the town’s streets and the race was to be run in a gentlemanly fashion. ‘Plea, no short cut, gent-men.’ When Bookie finished, there was a definite hum of excitement from the small crowd.

‘Simple enough rules to follow,’ scoffed Lonnie, irritated by the idea of what a gentlemanly race meant to the Cricks. For them the words gentleman and fair play were a contradiction.

Lonnie settled his feet firmly into the irons. He shuffled his backside into the saddle, making sure the straps were tight. He clutched the whip in his right hand. Satisfied all was well, he slackened the reins ready for the off.

The starting pistol cracked. Horses were off and running. Lonnie’s mount began roughly, rearing at the start and almost throwing him from the saddle. He struggled with the loose reins, and then grabbed with both hands at the horse’s neck, somehow managing to hang on. His whip fell to the ground. By the time he had recovered and settled the horse

into an even gallop, he found himself trailing the rest of the field by a good eight lengths.

In stark contrast and much to the delight of the Crick dynasty, Thomas had begun the race well. Past Parliament House he was leading the field, his horse travelling magnificently.

There was a thundering of hooves as the seven horses swept around the first corner. Lumps of dirt went flying from the roadway. Lonnie was still the widest of all the runners. He knew he was riding a particularly timid animal; staying out wide and away from the others would give it a little more galloping room.

Riding hands and heels, he constantly whispered,

‘Come on boy, you can do it.’ As he did, the horse grew in confidence and he gently eased it forward, making up a little ground. Although still too far behind, he was unruffled, deciding it would be wise to remain out wide for the time being.

Still running last, but going much smoother, he rounded the next corner. Lonnie found time to have a quick look around the street. He spotted Billy Bottle and his mob beneath a sign on a wall. No Nuisance. What a laugh. They hooted and bawled at the riders, but when Billy saw Lonnie bringing up the rear, his larrikin shouts turned downright nasty, ‘Move up, yer little runt.’ He waved a knife menacingly. So Billy Bottle had backed him, great!

Tails swished. Manes flew. The nostrils of the horses flared open, dragging in more oxygen. Their used breath blew out like hot steam. All seven riders were racing to win and soon Lonnie was travelling as well as anyone.

As his horse cruised past the second-last runner, his thoughts drifted back to the track work at the Golden Acres and the number of times he had secretly ridden this horse, always believing it was exceptional. He had been longing for the day when he could actually race, have the chance to prove himself.

As Lonnie moved up into fifth place, he thought about all his friends who had bet on him. Carlo would be nervous. His glance at Lonnie as the race began was a telltale one. More than likely, he would be pushing his way through the spectators to find the best place to witness the finish. He would be wondering what game Lonnie was playing. He’d been a little upset all along over this race. Say they did lose, Carlo would be heavily out of pocket. It would set him back a considerable way in his business ventures. There would be no ice works built for a long time.

Lonnie crept into fourth place and thought about Pearl. What a big mistake there, thinking she really wanted him as a husband. How wrong could he have been? They were an unlikely match. Not a mistake he’d make again in his life. For the time being he was going to stick to his vow of no ladies. But Pearl had been a mate a lot longer than she had been his girl. She was counting on him to win this race. He couldn’t let her down.

He stole a look away to his left. The Push had regathered and was gleefully cheering him on. Was there anyone in Little Lon who hadn’t backed him? He nearly dropped the reins at the sudden mental picture of Slasher laid under a layer of turf. Had George already made his move?

‘Steady, boy.’ Lonnie was not only talking to the horse. Beads of sweat formed like raindrops on his neck. He tried to readjust his thinking. All this extra weight on his shoulders mustn’t get him down. He gained more ground and eased up into third place.

By the time they rounded the final corner and were heading up the straight in sight of the fountain, there was only one horse in front of him, ridden by Thomas Crick two lengths to the good. Crick belted his whip against the horse’s hindquarters.

Lonnie recalled dropping his whip at the beginning of the race. He had no need, nor wish, to hit his horse. He could feel the power of the magnificent creature going along effortlessly beneath him. The horse’s stride lengthened, reaching out, gobbling up the ground with each pace.

Crick turned his head. Lonnie reined in a little, allowing him to maintain his lead. He hoped above all he was not leaving his run too late.

Standing close by the winning line, watching the two riders engaged in their final run, it was more obvious to Carlo viewing the race from a distance, than it was to Crick on top of the leader, that Lonnie wasn’t riding his horse flat chat. He seemed to be deliberately holding it back, leaving Crick in front.

‘Come on, mate, come on,’ he yelled, going hoarse with the effort. This wasn’t the time to ease off. ‘Ride hard, come on.’

With only fifty metres left to go, Crick again turned to check his lead. The smirk on his face hardly had time to fade, his whip scarcely time to be raised, before Lonnie’s horse swept past and crossed the winning line, to win by almost a length. The third horse finished a good three lengths from the winner. The also-rans never got into the race and came in many lengths further back.

Never in his life had Carlo seen such acceleration from a horse at the end of a race, after running that distance. As soon as the track was clear he bolted over and threw both arms around the horse’s neck.

‘You beaut, you did it,’ he gasped, looking up at

Lonnie. ‘We’re set. We’re fixed.’ Lonnie gave him a breathless grin.

‘You nearly stopped my heart, mate. I’m beside myself. But you conned me, didn’t you? You were on Trident, weren’t you?’ Carlo’s excitement bordered on reproach. ‘I felt the scar on his neck. You didn’t switch horses back. You knew all along you were riding Trident and not Lightning, didn’t you?’

‘I won, didn’t I?’

‘How, I don’t know, when Lightning is supposed to outclass every bloody horse in Melbourne. My heart’s barely pumping. You’re a dark horse. I thought I knew all there was to know about you. I may be your best mate, yet you’re still keeping secrets from me.’

Lonnie laughed away his friend’s ticking off.

‘You’re right, there’s something I never came clean about. But I reckon you’ll understand. I’ll save it for later while we’re doing a bit of celebrating.’

They were interrupted as some of the spectators milled around, slapping the horse and winning jockey in congratulations, before they hurried off to collect their winnings from Bookie Win.

Lonnie shook his head in amazement, now intent on sharing a rundown of the race with Carlo. ‘What about when I missed the start? Bet you thought I was a goner.’

‘When you dropped your whip!’ Carlo gave a crow of indignation. ‘Did the jitters get you or what?’

Before he could answer, Bookie Win approached them and stuffed a purse into Lonnie’s hand. ‘You save Bookie. I take big bet on Crick before race start. If he win, I broke.’ Bookie Win had a puzzled look on his face, but he managed a secret smile. ‘You very luckee to get ride. Best horse win.’

With a sly grin and a wink at Carlo, Lonnie answered, ‘Yes, the best horse won. And as far as being lucky, I sure am.’ His fingers gripped the bulging purse, Bookie Win’s gift, which, on top of the winning bets and the prize money he still had to collect, added up to a handsome sum.

‘Keep quiet about the money,’ he muttered to Carlo as the beaten riders began to circle around on their horses, handing over their ten-pound bets and congratulating him. Thomas Crick, true to his colours, remained sulking in the background, a pur- plish blot of humiliation spreading across his face.

Spotting him, Lonnie couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘Aren’t you going to shake my hand like a gentleman, Mr Crick?’

‘Come on over and congratulate our new cham- pion jockey,’ Carlo called out.

With all the others observing, Crick had little choice but to ride forward and reluctantly shake the hand of the stable boy who had beaten him fair and square. Only Lonnie heard him say, ‘You’re finished at Golden Acres. I never forgive and I never forget.’ He flung the ten pounds at Lonnie. Throwing his horse around, he nearly knocked Carlo to the ground as he rode off in a mad gallop.

‘You can keep it if you let me see Rose again,’ Lonnie called with relish, knowing his proposition had the desired effect of making Crick even angrier. As if Lonnie planned ever to cross Rose Payne’s path again. Not in this lifetime.

‘He’s just riffraff,’ Carlo said furiously.

‘The likes of Thomas Crick don’t bother me.’ Lonnie slipped Carlo the purse to which he had added the winner’s stake. ‘This’ll perk us up.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Carlo gave a snort of admiration, forgetting in the rush of excitement that he had faith- fully promised his mamma never to take the name of the Lord in vain. He swiftly stashed the money into his pockets. ‘We’re loaded.’

‘We’ve got more winnings coming.’

‘More?’

‘Yep, but it’s your turn to collect. Reckon I’ve done most of the work up till now.’

The worry of picking up more money overtook Carlo’s mood. There was no sign of his usual sharp efficiency as he floundered about like a landed fish.

‘Where’s Bookie? I better catch him while he’s still got our money. Hey, d’ya think I need Bella and the cart to carry home all our cash?’

Lonnie smirked. ‘I’d like to think so. Uh-oh, more trouble.’

Crick’s strapper came striding towards Lonnie.