Jackaroo

Jackaroo

by Raymond Boyd Dunn

© Raymond Dunn 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

Smashwords Edition

Because this book is classified as Australiana genre, the author has checked all spelling with the Heinemann Australian Dictionary.

Chapter 1

Is he dead?

Captain Llewellyn Chiverton-Jones III, of the 4th King's Own Regiment of Foot, stood waiting anxiously beside the prone figure of his fellow officer, Captain Ivan Francis, whom he had just shot.

The doctor, who was on the scene for just such a predicament, continued with his examination for almost a minute before acknowledging he heard the question.

He'll live, he said, if I can stop this bleeding. I think you are lucky in one respect, Captain ─ you could have killed him. You, of all people, should know that duelling is illegal. You are going to be in enough trouble, as it is, without having a murder charge to contend with.

It was a cold wintery morning in January of 1879 in Hyde Park in Central London. It was very early. The darkness of the night was just beginning to retreat before the coming of the dawn when the two coaches passed through the Grand Entrance. The duel had to be fought when there were no other people around; apart from their seconds and the doctor. There was a coating of snow on the ground, and the warm breath of each person was evidenced by the fog of white which issued with each exhalation; the horses' snorting created veritable clouds of steam. As they prepared to face each other with firearms at the ready, there was a deathly silence. Twenty yards apart, they stood side on to each other, and levelled their pistols. There was not a sound to be heard, apart from the restless shifting of the harnessed horses. Then came the commands, clear in the still morning air,

"Are you ready?

Fire!

The twin explosions merged into one as the two officers fired in unison. The sudden discharge of the duelling pistols destroyed the peacefulness, and caused a flurry of frantically beating wings as birds took off from their overnight roosts to seek safety elsewhere. It frightened the horses, and caused them to skitter and jerk in their harness as they pulled at the stationary coaches.

Captain Francis collapsed with a bullet wound to the upper right side of his chest, and Chiverton-Jones felt the heat of a bullet which plucked at his collar as it passed perilously close to hitting his jugular vein, and left a burn mark on the side of his neck.

What caused such a drastic action which saw two former friends facing each other over the sights of their pistols, intent on seeing honour preserved?

It was a woman!

Catherine Carmichael was her name. Catherine was a truly beautiful English Rose. Her golden honey locks hung in delightful curls to her shoulders, framing a face of peaches and cream complexion, featuring rose-coloured lips which had never been touched by make-up colouring, and smiling eyes of azure blue. It was no wonder she attracted the attention of the two brother officers at the Annual Officers' Ball. The two competed for her attention throughout the entire evening, and she shamelessly played one against the other. What started as friendly competition between them gradually escalated into a serious rankling conflict by the end of the evening.

Chiverton-Jones was the first to have the opportunity to advance his case when, the very next morning, his leave allowed him to ride to her home in the inner suburb of Greenwich. He was shown in to the drawing room by an aged gentleman, whom he took to be the butler.

I'll tell Miss Catherine that you are waiting, Captain, he said. Please be seated.

Chiverton-Jones sat on one of the plush chairs, and waited; and waited; and waited! Evidently Miss Catherine was not yet up and dressed. He pulled out his fob watch and looked at the time. It was nearly ten o'clock.

At precisely ten-thirty she appeared, and walked up to him with hand outstretched, as he arose from the chair. He was expected to take her hand in his, and he did so, raising it to brush it with his lips.

Lew, she said. How kind it is of you to call on me! Please forgive my tardiness. You are to blame, you know, keeping me up until all hours. I must have my beauty sleep.

Not at all, Catherine; you don't need beauty sleep. You're already beautiful.

Why, thank you, Sir. Would you like a cup of tea? Of course, you would. I've already told Alfred to bring us some.

They spent the next couple of hours enjoying each other's company, until he excused himself, and left feeling that he had gained a march on Ivan.

But two days later, he was dismayed to see his friend happily returning to his quarters in a joyful mood after his day's leave, which he spent in the company of the young lady. Words were spoken, for which they were regretful later on, but for which neither was prepared to apologise.

For the next couple of weeks they tried to out-do each other in the bid to become the sole beneficiary of Catherine's affections. The initial friendly sparring they indulged in at the Ball gradually developed into straight-out deadly rivalry.

One thing led to another until one of them went too far, and threw down the gauntlet, in the form of his white glove, at the feet of the other, who picked it up and slapped his friend in the face with it ─ thereby accepting the challenge to fight until one or the other was unable to continue. It was a shock to Chiverton-Jones when his colleague, whose right it was, selected pistols at twenty paces to be the weapons of choice.

The repercussions caused by the incident were severe and immediate. Because of his family's long and distinguished career with the British Army, Chiverton-Jones was given the option of resigning his commission, rather than face a court-martial. It was an option he had no choice but to accept, and he emigrated to escape the shame.

His friend recovered from the serious wound, but by this time Chiverton-Jones was on the high seas en route to Australia.

He had in his possession a letter, written by his father, to be delivered to a Claude Perkins, who was the owner of three prosperous properties in Queensland. In the letter his father had requested a favour from Perkins, who was an old friend from his schooldays. The two men were from totally different backgrounds, but had remained friends after leaving school. Chiverton-Jones II had pursued a military career, with great success, rising to the rank of Colonel, whereas Perkins, from more humble stock, was bonded into the service of a Bank. Newly married, Perkins migrated to Australia with his English bride, and became a very successful land owner, trading as The Perkins Pastoral Company.

The favour he asked was that Perkins should give his son a position at one of his properties. Although he was inexperienced in pastoral affairs, Llewellyn was given a position as jackaroo on Perkins's property, Perpasco, near Jimbour Station on the Darling Downs.

....................

Chapter 2

Hmmm. You haven't had much experience with cattle, have you? said Claude Perkins, as he leaned over to scan the letter lying on his large mahogany desk.

None at all, Sir!

What about horses?

I've had plenty of experience with them. At the risk of seeming to boast, I'd say I am a very good horseman.

Your father has asked if I could give you a position on one of my properties. We were good friends in our youth, you know.

Yes, Sir, I know. He has spoken of you many times.

Has he, now? How is he keeping? I haven't been in contact with him for many, many months, and only a few times since leaving England many years ago.

He is well. He is still in the Army. He has only a few years before he retires.

You were in the Army yourself, weren't you? What made you retire your commission?

I was more or less forced out.

What? Were you court marshalled?

No, Sir. I was involved in a duel over a young lady, and was given the option to resign.

You couldn't have killed your opponent, or they wouldn't have let you off so easily.

No, Sir. He was recovering from a bullet wound when I left to come over here.

You were lucky, by the sound of it.

Yes, very lucky! He was my best friend.

You fought with guns with your best friend! She must be a very beautiful woman!

Yes, Sir, she is!

"Well, let's get down to the business of this letter. Two of my properties are agricultural, and there is really no call for extra hands to staff them. The other one is running short-staffed at the moment, so I could give you a trial out there. Perpasco is a cattle property way out in the foothills of the Bunya Mountains. Coming from England, you might think it is at the end of the earth. It's not far from Jimbour Station, a very large holding on the northern end of the Darling Downs. You might have heard of it? No? Well, Perpasco is 30,000 acres, and was once part of Jimbour. That should give you an idea of how large Jimbour used to be! It used to measure over 300,000 acres!"

I find it hard to visualise such a large area of land.

I can understand that. Our 30,000 acres seems large to me, but ten times that size ─ the mind boggles!

Are you willing to let me try my hand at being a cowboy?

They're called 'ringers' out here, but first of all you'll be a jackeroo. I can see you have a lot to learn.

"I'll do my very best, and I guarantee you