Thunderbolt

By Mark Morey

Thunderbolt covers many years of Fred Ward or Captain Thunderbolt's life, and much of his outlaw life, making for a sweeping and exhilarating story the likes of which I've never come across before. You must read this story - five stars. Alice Pickard – author.

Read Thunderbolt for action, adventure, excitement, love and romance, it has it all. Chloe Newman – author.

Once I started reading Thunderbolt, I couldn't put it down. Cody White - author

Australia's Wild West, wilder than anywhere in the world. Amidst thousands of outlaws over many decades, one stands proud: Fred Ward or Captain Thunderbolt, the gentleman bushranger. Forced into a life of crime by circumstances, Thunderbolt had a code of honour: be courteous, use minimal violence, only steal from the rich and never steal from ladies. For seven years Thunderbolt evaded the authorities, helped by the ordinary people of western New South Wales who saw him as one of their own. Just as remarkable is Thunderbolt's girlfriend Mary. Raising his children, scouting hold-up locations and even riding with Fred as his lookout. The police, unable to apprehend Thunderbolt, targeted Mary instead, but always she went back to her man. The story of Fred and Mary Ward even though outlaws, is a story of love, honour and decency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Morey
• Release date: Nov 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645180435

Mark Morey

Writing a novel didn't cross my mind until relatively recently, when I went to the local library and couldn't find a book that interested me. That led me consider a new pastime. Write a book. That book may never be published, but I felt my follow-up cross-cultural crime with romance hybrid set in Russia had more potential. So much so that I wrote a sequel that took those characters on a journey to a very dark place.Once those books were published and garnered good reviews I wrote in a very different place and time, and my two novels set in Victorian Britain and published in July and August of 2014. I followed those up with various novels set in various places at various times, with the most recent being a story set in the Syrian Civil War.

Book preview

Prologue

Fred woke, belched, and rubbed his forehead from throbbing pain. He reached for his canteen while knocking over an empty gin bottle, pulled the cork and put the canteen to his mouth, but it was empty. Groaning, Fred went to the river where he scooped handfuls of water to drink. That felt better. Fred splashed his face with more handfuls of water and that felt better still. As Fred dressed, short shadows showed the sun was well up while his pocket watch showed a little after 11. Nearby, last night's fire still smouldered. Fred placed dry leaves on that fire while blowing and soon it was burning again. Then he stacked twigs on his fire to make a decent blaze. He filled his battered billycan with water and put it on the fire to boil, before mixing flour, water and a good pinch of salt on a flat rock nearby. A fistful of tea leaves and a couple of gum tree leaves went into his billy before letting it brew. With two sticks under the handle, Fred lifted the billy to put it to one side before spreading the fire with his boot, in order to cook the damper in those ashes. Fred stirred the billy and then tapped the side to settle the leaves. Using his handkerchief, Fred poured tea into his battered, tin pannikin, added sugar and sipped. Beautiful. Beautiful but lonely. Once Fred longed for the solace of the bush but that was long ago.

The damper was ready. Fred carefully lifted the damper from the fire, brushed ashes from the bottom, and ate. Tea and damper: a bush breakfast at almost time for lunch. After, Fred rolled his swag and stowed it on his horse Combo, before stowing his tea, flour, sugar, salt, soap, billy and pannikin on his packhorse, which was still tender on its right front leg as Fred unhobbled it. He needed a fresh packhorse before he could travel any distance. He needed money, but first a smoke. He took his pipe from a pocket, a pouch of tobacco from another pocket, filled, tamped, and lit with matches from yet another pocket. Sitting on a rock while smoking, Fred looked around his camp in the forested hills to the west of Uralla, with memories of when he started bushranging. October 1863 or six years and seven months ago; who would have guessed?

Fred checked his three revolvers before placing them in the belt at his waist, then unhobbled and saddled Combo. With his packhorse in tow, Fred crossed the Namoi River before picking up the trail that led towards the main road to Uralla. Fred smiled to himself, he came to Uralla for the race meeting yesterday, mixed with locals and bet on three races, and nobody guessed who he was. He made some money, bought a pint of gin and other supplies, and now he needed cash and a fresh horse for the next leg of his journey. Fred rode past paddocks of merino sheep; on to Big Rock on the crest of a rise overlooking the main road, a few miles to the south of Uralla, with the Royal Oak Inn about 200 yards further south. Those large rocks were an ideal place to hide while observing. As his horses grazed, Fred watched.

Fred heard them before he saw them, a man and a woman on a spring cart. He mounted Combo, and with his packhorse in tow, rode to approach John and Liza Blanch, proprietors of the Royal Oak Inn. Fred closed on their cart as John Blanch pulled the reins of his horse.

Good morning, this is a bail-up, Fred said.

Blanch looked to Fred and laughed.

No humbugging, Fred said. I'm a robber, as Fred drew a revolver. I'll have all of your valuables.

Blanch reached into his pocket for four shillings and some pennies.

I'm not interested in small change like that.

We went to town on a quiet morning, Liza Blanch said, as she reached into a leather purse at the waist of her dress to rummage through it.

Give me the leather bag.

She did which Fred pocketed.

I know you've got money on you. You refused my five-pound order on a pint of gin last night. Fred thought. We'll go to your inn.

John Blanch called his horses to drive his cart with Fred following, while a traveller rode north on his old horse.

You stay here, Fred told Blanch. Good morning, this is a bail-up, Fred then said as he aimed his revolver, for the traveller to stop in front of the inn. I'll have all of your valuables, Fred ordered.

I've not got much, as he fumbled through his pockets. Here.

Fred took two pounds and ten shillings as yet another traveller, an old man, approached.

Good morning, this is a bail-up, Fred said while aiming his revolver at this man. I'll have all of your valuables.

You can have this, as he handed across a few shillings and a pouch of tobacco. Fred handed that back. What's your name? he asked.

My name's Mike Williamson.

We'll go inside your inn, Fred said to John Blanch. Your shout, Mike, gin all 'round.

Horses were tied to the rail at the front of the inn while Fred followed his guests inside. There, Mike put two shillings on the bar counter as Liza poured four glasses of gin with water.

You too, Liza, Fred said.

She poured for herself before sipping. The traps will be after you soon enough, she said.

Fred laughed at that before emptying his glass and placing another two shillings. My shout! he announced.

Liza poured another glass which Fred drank.

Come on, drink up! Fred offered as a buzz of conversation started. This is a fine day, a fine inn and a fine time to have a party. Do any of you know any songs?

My voice aint much good, Mike said.

At least you're honest, unlike me! I'll sing my favourite song, taught to me by someone I'll never forget. I warn you my voice isn't much good.

At least you're honest, Mike said, and laughed. Fred laughed too, before singing:

"It's been a year since last we met,

We may never meet again.

I have struggled to forget

But the struggle was in vain.

For her voice lives on the breeze,

And her spirit comes at will,

In the midnight on the seas,

Her bright smile haunts me still.

"At the first sweet dawn of light,

When I gaze upon the deep,

Her form still greets my sight

While the stars their vigils keep.

When I close my aching eyes,

Sweet dreams my senses fill,

And from sleep when I arise

Her bright smile haunts me still.

"I have sailed 'neath alien skies,

I have trod the desert path,

I have seen the storm arise

Like a giant in his wrath.

Every danger I have known

That a reckless life can fill,

Yet her presence is not flown,

Her bright smile haunts me still."

Fred felt moistness in his eyes from memories of happier times, before turning to face John Blanch beside Liza at the bar. Do you remember an encounter between the police and Captain Thunderbolt, almost seven years ago near here?

I remember that, John said.

I'm Captain Thunderbolt! Fred exclaimed to gasps. The crushers shot me in the leg, the only time they've gotten close enough.

Fred heard a cart approaching. He placed another two shillings on the counter.

Drinks for everyone while I check this out.

Fred stood on the road, revolver aimed, as a spring cart approached from Uralla.

Good morning, this is a bail-up, Fred said as a middle-aged hawker stopped a well-laden cart. What small items of value do you have?

You can have this, as he took a purse from his pocket. Fred took the purse holding three pounds, 13 shillings and sixpence, and a small gold nugget. He pocketed all of that before handing the purse back. Fred looked over the cart where he saw a jewellery box. Do you have the key for this jewellery box?

The hawker gave Fred the key where he opened each drawer and pocketed several valuable items.

Who are you and where have you come from? Fred asked.

I'm Giovanni Capasotti and I've come from the Uralla Races. I'm on my way to Tamworth.

Do you have a revolver?

I have no revolver.

Are you sure? Fred asked. I'll burn your cart to the ground if I find money or a revolver.

I assure you I have neither. Can I go?

Alright, you can go. Make sure you steer clear of Uralla.

Yes, I'll do that.

The hawker left just as a young rider on a grey horse, leading another grey horse, approached.

Good morning, this is a bail-up, Fred told the young man. Who are you and what do you have of value?

I'm Michael Coghlan and I don't have anything of value 'cept these two horses.

Are you sure? Fred asked as he held his revolver steady.

I'm sure.

Tie your horses up, and come into the inn to join our party.

Fred followed Michael Coghlan inside, who was given a glass of gin and water by Liza. Fred grabbed a fresh glass and while he drank, he thought.

I could do with a fresh horse, he said to Coghlan. Your horses look decent enough.

Please, they're valuable.

You can have my packhorse. It'll be fine once it's recovered from a little lameness. How are your horses?

They're fine but they're tired.

Let's try them out.

Fred followed Coghlan outside where Fred unsaddled Combo to saddle the horse Coghlan previously led. Fred ran his hands over it, fine animal; fine enough to be his packhorse. He climbed into the saddle as Coghlan mounted his other horse. Fred heard a horse approaching from the north, to turn and see a rider in a blue uniform! Bastard! Fred took a revolver and aimed to miss, and hopefully scare away that constable. Instead the constable pulled out his revolver to aim and fire, except his horse bolted!

Fred watched as another crusher closed to pull out his revolver, only to discharge it into the road! More hopeless than his mate but a danger nonetheless.

Let's go Michael! Fred shouted as he dug spurs into that grey mare. The horse pulled away sluggishly, not like Combo, and then Fred remembered this horse was tired. A long time ago he'd not had a better horse than the crushers, his last time at Big Rock; the one time he'd been shot. As Fred rode south along the brush fence adjacent to the main road, he thought he might be in trouble.

Other Works by Mark Morey

The Red Sun will Come - June 2012

Souls in Darkness - August 2012

The Governess and the Stalker - July 2014

Maidens in the Night - September 2014

One Hundred Days - September 2015

The Last Great Race – April 2016

The Adulterous Bride – October 2016

No Darkness – March 2017

In Our Memories – November 2017

Blood Never Sleeps – March 2018

Ketsumeidan – October 2018

Yuejin – Aim High! – July 2019

Wenge – Destroy The Old! – July 2019

Ice – February 2020

Across the Border – July 2020

Burrangong Creek – January 2021

Overreach – May 2021

Acre – one acre is 0.404686 of a hectare

Billabong – a small lake

Cabbage-Tree Hat – a broad-brimmed hat woven from the leaves of the cabbage tree palm

Cooee – a call made with cupped hands (cooee) which carries across the Australian bush remarkably well

Crimean Shirt – a coloured, flannel shirt

Crusher – slang for police

Degree Fahrenheit. 1.0 degree Fahrenheit is -17.2222 degrees Celsius. 1.0 degrees Celsius is 33.8 degrees Fahrenheit.

Flash – fashionable and smartly-dressed

Foot – one foot is 30.48 centimetres

Mile – one mile is 1.60934 kilometres

Monkey Jacket – a tight, waist-length jacket

New South Wales. The colony of New South Wales was first settled in 1788 as a convict settlement on Sydney Cove, with responsible self-government commencing on June 6, 1856. On January 1, 1901, the colony of New South Wales became a state within the self-governing Commonwealth of Australia. New South Wales extends from a relatively narrow strip of fertile and well-watered land on the coastal side of the Great Dividing Range, to fertile but less well-watered agricultural land west of this mountain range. Further west in New South Wales the quality of soil deteriorates to semi-desert, and to desert in the far west. Rainfall is variable in inland New South Wales with drought never far away. At the time this story is set, artesian water hadn't been discovered with the result that stocking rates were quite low. Later in the 19th Century, underground water supplies were tapped and water was extracted using wind-driven pumps, transforming inland New South Wales. By this time wire and barbed wire was sufficiently affordable to fence stations, doing away with the need for shepherds to tend flocks of cattle and sheep.

Selector – selection was intended to break the squatters domination of land tenure, by allowing those of limited means to purchase lots of unsurveyed land in areas declared as agricultural reserves.

Squatter – originally, squatters illegally occupied Aboriginal land beyond the Limits of Location that initially defined the boundary of the colony of New South Wales. The majority of massacres and other atrocities against the Aboriginal people of New South Wales, and in other colonies of Australia, were done so by squatters and their employees.

Pound – one pound is 0.453592 kilograms

Pound, Shillings and Pence – 12 pennies in a shilling, 20 shillings in a pound. Typical male wages at the time of this story was about two pounds a week (£2).

Station – large farm used for livestock production (equivalent to an American Ranch)

Swag – a bedroll

Trap – slang for police

Yard – one yard is 0.9144 metres

April, 1856

Chapter One

The sky darkened as clouds drifted across from the west. Thunder rolled while Fred glanced out the window at lightning flashing across the sky. Usually April, autumn in Australia, was mild but not that afternoon. Then rain hammered on the roof of their hut, and dripped onto the slab floor too.

You might as well sit down, Fred, Mum said.

Fred sat at the table opposite his father.

It's unusual to have thunderstorms this time of year, Dad said. I arrived in April, the 29th of April, 1815. The thing that struck me was the light, so bright compared to home. The blue of the sky; deep blue. The blue haze over hills and mountains in the distance; I remember that too. I'm used to these things now.

The things what struck me were the decent buildings close to the port, but beyond there was a town of log huts and dusty tracks instead of proper roads, Mum said. "Aint much better out here in the west, although Sydney Town's fair enough these days.

This is our home now, Dad said. No need to think about London.

Least I got you a Ticket of Leave when I got here.

Working on the roads was real hard.

That was one part of their story Fred hadn't heard before. How long did you work on the roads? he asked Dad.

I got 'ere in June, 1815 as a free settler, Mum said. It took a month or two after that. It was a real shock when I got 'ere, I can tell you. I understood why they weren't locked in and guarded. The forest we called it, what we now call bush, seemed deadly dangerous. I know the truth of it now.

The endless Australian bush, gum trees and wattles, marshes close to rivers and creeks, was harmless, while the wildlife, from big kangaroos to little possums, was mostly harmless except for snakes. You had to be careful of snakes. Aboriginals were harmless too. Not just harmless; really cheerful and friendly. Knocking on their door.

Who'd be out in this weather? Mum asked as she opened the door to John Garbutt. Although Fred's nephew, John was four years younger than Fred. John took off his wet hat and hung his wet jacket on the stand.

I was halfway here when the storm broke, he said.

Might as well stay 'till it passes, Mum said.

That storm, suddenly arrived, would depart just as suddenly. Indeed, the noise of rain eased.

What you doin' 'ere? Mum asked John.

Came here to talk with Fred.

We'll go outside, Fred said.

Fred and John went to the balcony, both protected from rain just drizzling. Fred sat on the wooden bench with John alongside.

You rescued me from another retelling of their first days in the colony.

Mum don't remember London, John said, but it must have been hard for your parents when they came here.

It must have been hard at first, but it wasn't hard for long. Mum petitioned the Governor for a Ticket of Leave for Dad to support his family. The Governor gave Dad his freedom, two acres of land, convicts to clear that land; build stone walls and build a hut too, and a trooper to guard those convicts. They never looked back.

They raised ten children.

They bought more land, Fred said.

They did, but it won't be the same for us. All government land's been sold or granted, while beyond the limits of location, squatters have taken the best of what's out there. There aint nothing for you and me 'cept working for small farmers like your Mum and Dad, who can only pay what they can afford to pay, or we could lease land like Harry, but by the time we pay the lease there won't be nothing left.

That was true as Fred gazed at his father's cattle. He remembered why they were out there. I heard you liberated some cattle and then some horses, he said.

Either we work for a pittance, or we steal in order to buy our own land. That's why I want to talk with you. Cattle aint worth much but horses....

Who's helping you with this? Fred asked.

James and Harry helped, but next time I need an expert on horses.

Fred knew horses better than any of them. How does this work? he asked.

You've been droving. Do you know anyone with decent draught horses?

Fred did. There are good draught horses near Maitland, not far from Harry's farm.

So it's you and me and Harry, and maybe James, and we split the takings even. It's decent money, Fred.

Fred knew it would be decent money with the horses he had in mind, but there was a risk if they were caught. He wondered. Let me think about it.

John stood. I'll call 'round tomorrow.

Do that and I'll let you know.

John went inside to grab his coat and hat, bid farewell to Mum and Dad too, before Fred watched John walk across sodden paddocks, drizzle stopped now, to his parent's home not far away. While Fred watched he wondered. John was right; unless they had their own land they'd be struggling for the rest of their lives. A scheme like John's would give them the capital they needed, except for that risk. Fred decided that if he did it, he would get Billy to help. With that thought in mind he went inside the house, where Mum was at the fireplace cooking.

Chapter Two

Late in the afternoon, Fred and Billy rode into Harry's leased farm at Lamb's Valley, some three day's ride north of Windsor. There Fred saw the horses John and James stole at Fred's recommendation. The homestead on Harry's farm was similar to Fred's parents home, the home Fred grew up in, being a slab hut where broad slabs of timber had been cut from iron bark or stringy bark trees and set into the ground, above which saplings were pitched for the thatched roof which extended out to form front and rear balconies. Gaps between the bark slabs were filled with clay, while windows and the front doorway were fashioned from lengths of dressed timber. At one end a chimney was formed from stones and dried clay. After greeting John and Harry and stowing his gear in a slab shed, they went inside a house similar to thousands in the New South Wales bush. A bark slab floor lay directly on the ground, one big room serving as kitchen, dining and living room, while two bedrooms were formed from slabs of bark reaching to the roof frame. Mum often complained that New South Wales wasn't any better than when she arrived more than 40 years ago, and having seen pictures and drawings of London in books and journals, Fred understood her feelings. A slab hut in the bush was a poor substitute to sandstone or brick homes and other buildings, lining the paved streets and roads of the greatest city in the world.

You seem far away, Harry said.

I'm thinking, Fred admitted.

You think too much.

That was true. Fred thought. What's there to do in Branxton? he asked.

The Huntlee does a decent meal, but it aint flash.

Fred looked forward to a decent meal but unfortunately an Aboriginal wouldn't be welcome. Billy, you should stay here, he suggested.

Yes Fred, Billy agreed.

In late evening's light, Fred, John and Harry walked across the paddock, climbed the stone wall, and crossed more paddocks to reach the small settlement of Branxton, just a few miles from the bigger town of Maitland. Mum would have been horrified by the bustling Huntlee Tavern, given it was a slab hut though much larger than your average homestead, and much busier with the sound of many voices echoing through open windows and open doorways. As rough as it was, it looked inviting as Fred followed Harry and John into the crowded dining room. Bare timber walls, rectangular tables with benches either side, a bar on the left packed with noisy, mostly drunken farmers and stockmen, and one middle-aged woman carrying four plates on a tray. The publican's wife, of course.

What'd you two want? Harry asked as they sat at a table. My treat.

That was decent. What's your recommendation? Fred asked.

They do a good mutton pie.

That'll be fine.

Me too, John said.

Harry headed off while Fred pushed his way through the crowd to reach the bar. There the bar keeper, tanned with greasy black hair and a greasy black beard, struggled to keep up with the demand for his services. Looking exhausted he reached Fred.

I'll have a gin and water, please, Fred asked as he put down sixpence.

The Barkeeper placed a tuppence coin and a glass on the bar counter before pouring from a bottle and a jug. Fred took the coin and his drink.

A shillin' and I'm yours, a woman's voice said as Fred sipped. He glanced out the corner of his eyes at a middle-aged woman who'd seen better days: aged and lined with a sallow complexion, lanky and tangled red hair too, but her grubby, tight dress highlighted a figure that was fair enough. But no, not really.

Sorry, some other time, Fred said.

I'll be here 'till late.

Of that Fred had no doubt as he took his glass to the table. There were three classes of women in the colony of New South Wales: wives, whores, and wives not legally married. Fred sat next to John and opposite Harry to sip more of his gin and water.

Mary interested in you? Harry asked.

She was, Fred said. He guessed his next oldest brother had past enjoyed Mary's company. The publican's wife brought their meals along with knives and forks. The pie was decent, and better than damper and gin with water under the stars the previous night, although the surroundings, unwashed bodies and noisy conversations, wasn't as pleasant as the peace of the bush. Fred felt at home in the bush of New South Wales, especially at evening time when birds called the loudest. After another gin they all walked home, for what Fred knew would be a good sleep after three day's riding.

* * *

Late April surely was the best time of the year as they rode almost due south along a road lined by fields with stands of gum trees here and there. Sheep and cattle grazed; not paying the slightest attention to three riders driving 33 horses. After three days of driving this mob of horses, Fred felt relaxed and comfortable amongst the noise of hooves on a hard dirt road. So comfortable he didn't notice the police constable on an old brown mare until he pulled alongside!

Hello there, the constable greeted. Nice animals.

Fred wondered what to say until he realised John was more experienced at this. I'm just helping, Fred said. You'll have to talk to my master, as he nodded his head towards John.

The constable rode to John, where Fred overheard the constable tell John there was a paddock they could use about five miles ahead. Fred was so relieved! He knew he had to do this two or even three times to get enough capital to make a difference, but at the same time he was pushing his luck. On and on they plodded as shadows lengthened and the mild day cooled. Just short of Pitt Town, John led the horses into a well-grassed paddock bordered by stone walls, even better that it had a couple of logs which could be slid in place as a gate. They watered their horses just a few hours ago after crossing the Hawkesbury River. Fred kicked long, lush grass with his boot. Those horses wouldn't need watering until they reached Windsor tomorrow.

Fred went to his gelding to unpack the saddlebags before removing the saddle, halter and bridle as Billy did the same to his mare, to let them join the others to graze. As for the humans as shadows got ever-longer, once more it would be it would be a meal in an inn for Fred and John, this time in Pitt Town, while Billy cared for their horses, before an early night's sleep for all. After mustering those horses and driving them all day, including the challenge of swimming them across the broad Hawkesbury River at Wiseman's Ferry, Fred knew he would sleep well in that paddock about a day to the north of Windsor.

* * *

John led their horses into the paddock he previously arranged, while Fred and Billy rounded up the stragglers to get them all in place. Like most of Windsor, the paddock was bordered by a low, stone wall with a few timber beams as a gate. Fred was glad to dismount after seemingly being on horseback for weeks. He rode north to work for a few weeks; he then rode south to home, he rode north again, and now he'd driven those horses south. He liked horses and he liked riding but that was a lot of riding. Fred felt a few days break were in order, but only after their stock was auctioned, as arranged by John before they rode to Lamb's Valley. Fred stomach grumbled. He strolled to John slipping the timber beams in place.

John, he said. I'm sure a table at The Macquarie Arms has our names on it.

You're right with that Fred.

I'm going there now.

I'll join you.

Billy, Fred said. You should stay here and look after our horses.

Billy smiled brightly. You never know who might want to steal them!

Fred laughed loudly at that.

The Macquarie Arms was a sizeable, two-storey sandstone inn with a slate roof, which wouldn't have looked out of place on one of the thoroughfares of London. As befitted the biggest and best hotel in the district, food and drink were better than the usual. Together, John and Fred walked towards the Parramatta River and the busy, bustling township of Windsor. Fred looked forward to a few drinks to slake his thirst, and later something to eat. The auctioneer was due the day after tomorrow, and once that was sorted it was up to John to decide what came next.

Chapter Three

Fred heard hammering on the door. Mum opened it to James, John's older brother.

Fred in? James asked without even greeting Mum.

Fred went outside to sit on the bench while James paced back and forwards.

John made a confession, James blurted out. He named you as his accomplice.

Fred felt his heart skip a beat. Bastard! he snarled.

He aint my brother no more.

Fred rubbed his forehead while thinking; one priority more than all others. I need to get away from here, he said.

You 'n me both. John didn't shop me but they'll connect me soon enough.

We'll travel together, Fred said.

Good idea.

Fred thought. We'll ride to Lamb's Valley, pick up Harry, and head north from there.

I'm packed and ready to go.

Fred glanced at bulging saddlebags on James' horse. I'll get my things and say 'bye to Mum and Dad. I won't tell them what's going on.

They'll hear about it bye 'n bye.

That was true. Fred went inside to pack his spare trousers, shirts, underwear, and everything he normally carried, but to be safe he left the bulk of his share of the 215 pounds and five shillings behind; less the five pounds he gave Billy for his help. On the way out Fred put on his jacket and broad-brim hat, said goodbye to Mum and Dad, and simply that he'd be away for a while. Mum frowned while Fred wished this hadn't turned bad. In no time they were riding along the track heading north away from the farm with Fred wondering where life would take him.

* * *

There was no time to waste as they rode into the farm at Lamb's Valley. Fred dismounted just as Harry emerged through the doorway. They met.

John's been arrested and he shopped me, Fred blurted.

That don't seem right, Harry replied. Are you sure?

James appeared alongside. I heard it at The Macquarie Arms, he said.

That's reliable.

Fred heard horses closing. He turned to see three mounted police.

James reached for the rifle in the scabbard attached to his saddle. Fred put his hand on James' hand.

No killing, he said quietly.

It's too late, Harry said.

They're after me, not you two, Fred said, although your time will come.

Fred walked towards three crushers now entering Harry's farm.

August, 1860

Chapter Four

John woke, to roll out of the narrow, hard bed in his hotel room. He poured water from the jug, washed thoroughly, dried, and pulled on his vest, shirt, trousers, boots, a brown jacket and his bowler hat. Thus presentable he went downstairs to the dining room of the Tattersalls Hotel where, as always, a simple breakfast of porridge with tea was on offer. Once satiated, John headed outside to Church Street, the main street of Mudgee, where many were on their way to work, some of whom greeted John and John greeted back, and some who nodded and John responded. It wasn't far to his work, The Mudgee Liberal, where he entered the shopfront and climbed the steps two at a time to the offices upstairs. Editor Mike Andrews and fellow journalist Thomas Day were engaged in conversation.

Ah John, good morning, Mike greeted.