Taylors River flowed with steady vigour over the moss-encrusted rocks that made up the ford. It ran tan brown and full. Water, soft, subtle and deceptive in nature. Over-head the steaming brilliant white storm clouds had begun rolling and tumbling upwards bringing a strong hint of thunder and heavy rain. Every now and then a few large warm droplets fell from the sky bringing the inevitable cleansing and relief filled deluge ever closer.

Sleeping on the riverbank next to the rope that secured the crossing boat lay an aboriginal man. He remained motionless with an old hat covering his sleeping face as our three horses approached slowly. With every step the sound of our jangling harness merged ever stronger with the roll of the river and the rising hot north wind. It wasn’t until Roberts slid from his horse within a few feet of the man and kicked at the dirt near his stomach that he moved. Sitting upright and adjusting his hat with a slight grin I realised he was not much older than me. He showed not a skerrick of intimidation, which only served to agitate Roberts further .

“You want cross river?” He said still sitting with the broad smile.

“ What do you think? “  Roberts snorted back.

The aboriginal looked us up and down. After a minute or two he said languidly.“ Two trips”.

Roberts didn’t grace him with an answer. He turned his back on him and started loading the boat with whatever he could easily grab from the horses. He then unsaddled his horse and threw the saddle in the boat.  Anthony Roberts was a man of little patience with an overblown view of his own importance. We had been riding for three days and he was determined to get to Warrnambool as quickly as possible, especially with the real threat of rain in the air. It was Roberts who had twice got us lost, and it was Roberts who forced the wiry black man to load up the boat beyond what it was designed to carry.  

“You know better.” The aboriginal man said shaking his head and untying the boat.

Tying the lead ropes to our three horses to the back of the boat he started them towards the river.  At first it seemed possible. After all it was barely 20 yards to the other side and while the water was flowing reasonably fast it had no sense of danger - especially with a long rope from our boat sitting slack in the water tied to a bullock on the other side.

“Told you so”, said Roberts with a harsh forced smile on his face set against the darkening gloom of the storm clouds.

The black man turned back towards him and was about to say something when the first sudden surge hit the boat and with it one of the saddles and a food sack were knocked into the river. A flash of lightening lit up the darkening sky as we scrambled to right the boat. It was the burst of thunder a few seconds later that really seat the horses off. All three swam hard in different directions simultaneously and in a matter of seconds the calm of the river had turned into a swirling pandemonium. I can’t remember who was first into the water it happened so quickly. The lightening, the thunder and the heavy burst of rain and the black man motioning us to sit down and Roberts standing up and pointing and yelling obscenities.

I do remember giving in to the warm embrace of the currents. I couldn’t swim much on a good day and I couldn’t reach the surface with the bullocks lead rope holding both John Maddingley and me down.  I can even remember thinking that this was it. I had come 97 days on a ship from Liverpool across wild and dangerous oceans to drown in this nondescript stretch of water that could barely be called a creek let alone a river.

I felt myself falling limp and drifting toward a light.  My first sighting of an angel was a frightening shock of black hair matted and dripping water. The black angel was smiling at me and then I felt the pain. It was like a brick hitting my chest, not once, not twice but at several times at one-second intervals. When I screamed I heard silence until a seemingly endless torrent of river water mixed with blood. What was left of breakfast convulsed up my throat and out my mouth.  I slowly gathered my senses after a second heave followed by a searing dry wretch, and helped into a sitting position by the angel who I now recognised as the wiry aboriginal from the boat I saw John Maddingley a few yards away on his haunches throwing up. 

Taking stock of the scene around me I realised that the lead rope that had entangled John and myself with our horses and the bullock pulling the boat across the river had been cut in at least two places. A remnant of the lead rope was attached to John and me. It was then when I looked at the wiry aboriginal and noticed a knife by his side that I then realised that he truly was an angel. He had cut the rope and saved both John and I from drowning.

Roberts sat motionless not far from the bullock who was now sitting quietly under the shade of a tall gum. Just as quickly as the storm had come it had now passed and as the sun took hold of the landscape again steam slowly rose from the ground.

John gathered himself and walked towards Roberts. It was then that I realised that it was not Roberts at fault but John and I. We had let him take control and he was no more than a fool, a con artist full of wind and promise. On the “Agnes” he had talked his way into John’s plans. I always thought he was untrustworthy but I made the error of staying silent. This we were beginning to learn was a land where caution and silence didn’t meet. His stories never seemed to ring quite true and I noticed his clothes didn’t quite fit. He had the sad look of someone wearing dead man's trousers.

“ When we get to Warrnambool “ he said coolly and calmly holding the anger within. “ I never want to see you again.”