The Roving Party Read Free

that money yet?
    Now I told you about that, said Bickle and laughed. A short tight cough. It wasnt no fairly drawn hand.
    Batman moved closer. So you’re callin me a swindler?
    I’m callin you a swindler. A chiseller. A bilker. You choose whichever suits you best. Pleased with himself, the overseer looked around at his mate and at the black men arranged upon Batman’s verandah.
    There was a little swell about Batman’s throat where he swallowed the word he’d almost used. Remember where you are, he said.
    All I know is you turned a knave when it was needed. And knaves dont come up too often.
    Well it come up. Now you owe me.
    I owe you? Christ. Let a man be, would you. That canny luck of yours will show next time we front up to the table. By God it will. You might just have your money then.
    Batman nodded, a slow and measured rocking of the head, but he showed no satisfaction. The horse huffed and shied in her harness. Behind the farmhouse the gum trees lashed in the winds. Batman walked before the line of men who stood with their heads bowed, shivering in their rough hessians. You have been told no doubt what I mean to see through, he said. What that means for youse fellows is this: if you’ve no stomach for killin, say so now.
    The four men looked about but each kept quiet.
    Then you are with me, he said. Batman’s shirt and coat sleeves were rolled back showing his forearms pasted with a slick of lamb’s blood. He wiped his arms with a rag, returned itto his pocket and unfurled his sleeves. Staring at the men, he continued: Now I’ve as much regard for peace as anyone but I’ve been given a contract by the Governor and I intend to collect on it.
    The men shifted nervously.
    How many ayou had seen a black before today? He indicated with a nod of his head the two men of the Parramatta where they leaned their long bodies against the uprights of his verandah. The new men seemed unsure of what he expected. He came around to where he might better catch their eyes or look down into their grubby weathered faces. You boy?
    No sir.
    No?
    No sir, not a one.
    Well take a look. Go on. They’re tamed.
    The boy raised his eyes, as did the rest, to study the three black men, and in turn they regarded the prisoners across that open space of rutted grass and mud which served as a turning circle for carts. The black men were alike in bearing and build, tall and well shaped for bush life, properly clothed but for their bare feet. Pigeon kept himself shaved and tended and made a fine figure in his calico jacket but his mate, John Crook, wore on his head a red wool cap marred with filth and holes. It was Crook who leaned forward and addressed the new men in his own language, his hand waving in anger.
    Thinks it’s white dont it, said the old cur. Dressed up like that.
    A cold silence followed. Pigeon came down off the verandah and stepped forward. For a moment he put out his hand to the men as any gentleman might but withdrew it when they plainly ignored him. Maybe they did not know what to make of him, a free man in the employ of Batman, or perhaps they saw in him something of their own failings. Only the boy put out his hand for Pigeon.
    Good evenin, said Pigeon.
    They shook hands.
    Here John Batman interrupted the niceties. He addressed the prisoners. These fellows are of a different turn, he said, and as he motioned towards the black men the folds of his greatcoat flapped like canvas sails. They’ve had something of the wildness beaten out of them. Something, I say; not everything. Now the sort you shall encounter in the scrub hereabouts will not shake yer hand. My word. They are a people …
    He looked along the row of faces all fixed upon him and the wind blew as cold as river water funnelled through the foothills below the white cotton crown of Ben Lomond, and it set his eyes glistening. Here was a man speaking in deep passion, fullhearted, enjoining them to rise up in common cause. The lags watched him, trying to still