The Roving Party (13 page)

T
HEY BARELY SLEPT AND WHEN MORNING
came it broke so dim and grey that the sun was full up before they woke. They set out along the road and ate and drank as they walked, strips of cold fried mutton and a canteen of tea passing between them.

At St. Paul’s Plains they found a scene that sank their spirits further. Pools of standing water as vast and metallic as lakes covered the grassland. Adrift on the ponds like sodden pillows were small lambs and Jimmy Gumm waded in and caught one up but found the meat bloated beyond use. He threw the pitiful carcass back into the water where it sank in a stream of bubbles.

A corridor of drooping oak followed the South Esk River across the width of the plains and the company reached those few trees alongside the riverbanks and there they were brought to a stop. The river had swollen into a broad barricade and each man looked at the others and they all looked at John Batman for his say-so. He surveyed that sliding wall east to west but there was no way across.

Well I’ll be meanly buggered, he said.

They walked downstream a few hundred yards for want of anything better to do and John Batman bade them to watch for a narrowing where they might cross. Little scrub wrens hopped along the ground after insects but took wing as the men neared. They had covered not more than a quarter-mile when Bill suddenly yanked off his knapsack and tossed it across the flow. As one the men stopped walking and watched him. He unlaced his boots and lobbed them onto the far bank and then he dived headlong into the rapids and came up bearing his hat in one hand as he powered for the bank. He found a handhold in the drowned brush of the riverbank and dragged himself ashore. Batman chuckled at first and looked around at the other men and soon he was laughing fullchested at the display Bill had made.

You want to learn a thing or two boys, he said, just watch how old Billy does it. He unwound a hemp rope and cast it over to Bill and Bill tied it off. One after another the men shimmied across, trailing their legs in the flow. On the far bank Bill caught their wrists and raised them up, each likewise until only Horsehead stood on the north bank. He had a sickly air about him and would not approach the water.

Take good grip of that, called Batman. Or you’ll be lost.

Horsehead’s look of distress was comic. That he was a man divided against himself was plain to see. He tried to approach the river by inching forward holding his bundled effects yet he
could move no closer. He stared at the slack line drawn above the torrent and shook his head.

A steady drizzle fell upon Batman’s hat and the kangaroo fur of his bag. He gazed up at the sky as if asking what new hardship would befall him next. Then he seized his weapon and started off along the southern plain and his men followed him.

Here, said Horsehead. Where youse goin?

No one answered.

Here now.

The men kept walking. Horsehead stepped a little closer to the river and when he spoke the rushing of the floodwater filled the hollows between his words. I cant swim, he called. Hold on. Darnt leave me.

Horsehead picked up a rock and threw it and it clattered in the brush beside Bill. On the far bank the Vandemonian swung about. Water ran off the brim of his hat as he stared across the deluge.

You’ll help a man in need wont you, Bill?

Bill was silent.

You done me a good turn back on that mountain. You saved me from them cannibals. Do us one more wont you?

I ought to have left you up there.

No sense in havin that on yer conscience. You have an honest heart. Such things weigh heavy on a chap.

I aint that honest.

No, course you aint.

Bill unshouldered his piece and dropped it in the undergrowth. Make that rope fast around your waist, he said. I can haul you across.

Haul you across he says.

Then rot there.

No no no.

Bill stared at him.

All right, I’ll do it. Just dont go drownin me.

Horsehead untied the rope from the branch upon which it was strung. He fastened it around his waist and made at the front a little figure-eight bend, his fingers working as slow and precise as spider legs in the cold. He waited there, arms upheld as if to ask what came next, until Bill took up the rope and yanked on it.

Horsehead stumbled forward. Bill repeated the measure and the old lag was dragged headlong into the flood. He flailed on the end of his tether, mouth agape at the sky and churning up the brown water with his panic. Bill reeled him in, hand over hand, and the river crashed over him and he was carried some way downstream. Whenever his head broke the surface a stifled cry sounded around the riverbanks like the bleatings of a newborn foal. As he drew within reach Bill released the rope and caught him up by the collar and heaved him ashore.

Horsehead coughed and gagged. He looked up. I oughta cut yer bleedin neck, you animal fucker.

But Bill was coiling the rope between his thumb and his
elbow and he neither turned nor did he hurry as he hung the rope over his arm. He found his piece in the brush and cut out for the rainsoaked plain. Horsehead watched Bill pull away as the river growled behind him and the rain fell ever more solidly and soon he stood up and followed.

A sky the colour of chiselled stone weighed down and rain pelted down on them. It was country marked out by the derelict huts of assigned shepherds long driven off by the clans. They passed one large homestead built on the labour of the same assignees, a structure incongruous with the landscape, formed out of bluestone and discordant angles. A three-legged dog hobbled out to meet them in the paddocks and Black Bill whistled to it but the beast flattened its ears and bared its teeth and the bald pink scar at its shoulder quivered. They studied that house and the ink stain of smoke above it for a time before moving on, following the river where it cut across the plain. The same river that would take them clean through to Swanport. Everywhere on the plain signs of the clans were present. Burned into the face of the country as surely as shapes were branded onto animal stock.

You’ve lost them.

Bill pushed back his hat. He looked around at Horsehead. You are a piece of work, he said.

Havent you?

No I have not.

I’m claimin it as fact.

Their tracks run up this way. We’ll find them.

Christ but it’s cold.

Just keep moving.

The sun had a few hours left to run and the rain had eased off. For a good long while Horsehead said nothing at all but he shivered and hacked like a consumptive and they walked for some miles more through the afternoon shadows before he spoke again.

What a pitiful place to be buried at.

Black Bill spat on the grass.

Here in the wilds. Buried and unmourned.

Aye. Who would mourn a thief?

Me boys. They would mourn their father if they was given to know the place of his grave. But they will never know it.

They continued along the river. In some parts it spilled free of its banks and spread dull brown tendrils out across the plain and they waded through these offshoots up to their thighs with the current eddying around them. Swimming in one of these spills was a sleek black snake the length and breadth of a leather belt and Bill caught hold of Horsehead to stop him as it wound past, a spread of ripples clearing in its wake.

You have boys? said Bill.

Wet clothes sucked at their skin as they walked in the tracks of the roving party.

Four. The eldest bein nineteen years.

Some minutes of quiet passed between them. Then Horsehead raised his eyes. Yerself?

I’ve a boy comin along.

But you know it’s a boy?

I know it is.

How’s that then?

How’s what?

How do you know it’s a boy?

Bill eyed him through the drizzle. I was told so.

They climbed a low grassed hill and stood on top leaning into the wind. In the near distance a huge signal fire burned and men could be seen moving across the blaze in peaceful silhouette. Bill and Horsehead stood beside each other, their shadows lengthening in the twilight as they silently assessed the final country left for them to cover. Upon dusk they walked into Batman’s camp. The rovers were sat at rest on a thinly scrubbed hill near the river and they watched the latecomers drop their drums and warm themselves at the blaze. They stood backed to that fire dunking damper into fresh tea and eating it still dripping. John Batman had for himself a jar of pickled onions which he popped one after another into his mouth and crunched along with his damper while the last of the daylight died along the horizon. He looked at Horsehead as he popped another onion.

Decent debt you have buildin up with Bill there.

Horsehead licked crumbs from his whiskers. He’s a good sort. For a darkie.

He’s worth ten ayou. Batman rolled the onion in his cheek.

They all watched Horsehead. His clothes steamed with the fire’s heat.

It’s the last time I aid his sorry deeds, said Bill.

You hear that? Even the black’s turned on you.

Horsehead gazed around the faces shining in the fire glow. They’ll bury us all out here anyways, said Horsehead. The lot of us.

Your chance might come sooner than you reckon, said Batman and he crunched another onion.

T
HE RIVER WENT EVER ONWARDS AND
the company with it. In all directions the grasslands spread green and glistening and the prints of wallabies and native badgers were tracked plainly in the wet. Every dozen yards or so along the flanks of the river they scared up teams of emus that bolted away on their long horse’s legs. Crook found duck nests hidden in the thickets and the men drank down the eggs as they walked the sparsely wooded country. The rain was gone away to the west and although no sun shone the air was warmer for the change. They walked strung out in a line beside the river, each with his head down watching the ground for snakes.

But some time before noon they found themselves no longer among living gum trees but instead passing stands of mighty deadwoods bearing the deep wounds of ringbarking. Overhead the churning charcoal sky was visible where the foliage ought to have spread and in the birdless silence those bones creaked and scraped. At length they happened upon a farmhouse, a
rude construction of split logs roofed with bark weighed down by spars. There were wooden buckets of water stood every place around the house, likely as proof against the tossing of firesticks by the blacks, for this was well known as hostile country. John Batman stood off eyeing the hut and looking sour.

There’s a fire at least, said Gould, pointing at the chimney and the white smoke spewing from it.

They crossed a hundred yards of limp potato plants chipped in among the dead gums and when they came close enough Batman called out to the shack. Three lean dogs staked by the door set to whining. A flap of bark swung outwards and a fellow appeared on the door stone. He was garbed in brown-grey pelts and he wore on his feet hide moccasins like oversized socks. The piece hanging on rope over his shoulder had had its stock remade in some rawcut native timber. He studied the strangers, keeping the muzzle levelled upon them.

You come to kill me? he said.

We dont mean to kill no bastard.

Bushrangers most probably. Aint youse?

Well we aint, said Batman.

No concern of mine what you are. The fellow looked from man to man then back to Batman. None at all, he said. He gripped his rifle, taking stock of their weaponry and gazing long at the black men.

Might we make use of yer fire?

What’s yer business here?

John Batman spat to the side. We’re out for some blackbirding, he said.

On the straight?

Batman just looked at him.

I tell you now, there’s nothing here worth the taking. If you mean to rob me.

Batman slung his shotgun, signalled his party men to do likewise. We’ve been a good while on these plains, he said. His dry throat bore more of a husk than ever. We’d appreciate the use of your fire. To warm up.

Them blacks tame?

Not as much as you would hope.

Wouldnt have a tot of rum about your person I spose?

No rum but tobacco and sugar and tea, said Batman.

The fellow cursed at the dogs to be quiet. He waited in his doorway as the party approached. Batman put out his hand.

John Batman, he said over the dogs.

Henry Ridewood, said the man.

They shook.

Ridewood looked again at the Vandemonian and he dipped his forehead towards the black men, a small and secret gesture. Tryin to better themselves are they? he said to Batman in a low voice.

Dont be fooled by a few clothes.

Well leavem out here. I wont have blacks inside me hut.

The assignees downed their knapsacks and followed him
inside and the Dharugs and Black Bill watched them depart. A lively sun had appeared so they shifted into its warmth to wait. The hunting dogs yawled and raised their hackles much as did every other white man’s dog in that occupied country when they sighted a black man. The threesome held their weapons to their chests and waited.

Henry Ridewood was a man of few means. Wallaby skins staked and dried lay heaped in the corners of the shack and the party men, upon finding nowhere to sit, planted themselves atop those piles. The billy was offered around and the men drank from the lip and gave muted thanks. A homely fire burned that lit the room. It was close inside the hut and the stench of animal pelts hid every other smell. The smoke drew mostly up the chimney but a decent amount drifted free and turned the air in the shack soupy and setting Horsehead off on a round of coughing. He hawked into his palm and smeared the mess on his trousers.

We heard word of blacks being hereabouts, said Batman.

Ridewood nodded. His expression hardened. You heard right.

You seen them?

Seen em. Talked with em. Traded with em. Regular as shipmates we are, me and them blackfolks. He pointed out the doorway to the country of dead trees curving away into a plain a quarter-mile south where there seemed no sign of anything man or animal. They live down thataways.

How many?

A few. Bigguns and littluns. Naked as French whores the lot of them. But they’s friendly enough.

So you never had no trouble?

None worth the word. They call after tea and grub and what have you so I give what I can spare. For use of the land unmolested, you see. They wont tolerate me on their hunting lands but here in the scrub. Well. Seems they oblige, dont it?

At that point Ridewood reached inside his clothes and fished out a tobacco pouch and he handed it around to the men who opened the drawstring and peered inside but it proved to be empty. They passed it around to Batman.

What is it?

Crow skin.

John Batman pulled the leather through his fingertips. It was supple. Pored like chicken.

Thigh flesh suits best if you mean to tan it I’m told. Ridewood stirred the billy then replaced it in the ashes of the meagre fire. But that there is the bawbag of some poor black fool.

Batman looked anew at the pouch. It maintained the shape of genitals. He wrong you? This chap?

Ridewood took the pouch from him then stuffed it back inside his tunic. Not me, said Ridewood. There was this emancipist lived on the river some years back. A decent old cuss. It was him what made it.

Name of Gunshannon?

That’s him.

I heard told he was dead.

He is. Saw that with me own two eyes. He had it comin his way if any chap ever did. He was one for shootin the blacks he was. Had himself a pack of rooing dogs trained for the purpose and kept lively by the constant application of the lash. Him and his dogs scoured those hills aways south, the Sugarloaf, the Tiers, and shot every sorry fool they saw. Took his trophies from em. Those of us what knew the blacks warned him off out of it. They’ll hold a grudge in their miserable hearts long past sense or reason we told him. But away he went after roo and whatever savages were daft enough to cross him. Sure as eggs they got him one day when he was comin in. Put a twelve-foot spear straight through him. They poison em, you know. Stand the tips in rotten offal. It was one such that he caught in the gut.

The men on the piles of skins looked around at each other and shifted uneasily on their seats.

Ridewood continued: He crawled to his hut did this emancipist and he proceeded to die across a few days. A proper bloody horror it was. Near the end he lost his mind. He’d scream out how the blacks was circlin his bed and kick off his bedclothes. We tended to him but nothin earthly could be done for his health. A proper horror I tell you. No way for a man to die. Even a man like Gunshannon.

You find them animals what did it? said the boy.

I left well enough alone, son.

You’d kill a dog what bit you, wouldnt you?

That false courage’ll vanish when faced with them spears.

A leg of wallaby meat was hanging to smoke in the fireplace and Ridewood gestured at it now. You lads want some grub?

They nodded. He unhooked the claw and using a string-handled fisherman’s knife lay a few slices of the shiny crimson meat onto a board and pushed it across the table. The assignees fell on it like house rats.

You aim to thin their numbers yerself then? He directed this at John Batman.

Batman’s hat was upturned in his hand and he looked inside the dark well of the crown and measured his answer. We’ll see.

Ridewood seemed to expect him to say something more.

Batman cleared his throat and obliged him. We hear one name spoken on here and there. Manalargena.

Ridewood sat back in his chair. He ran his eyes across the six crowded into his hut. Took account of them. He nodded his head. I see. You blokes are come after the witch.

Batman folded his arms and stared.

Then youse are better men than I.

I’ve met lepers that was a better sort than some of this lot, said Batman.

That man has a meanness even God wont forgive.

Does he now?

Believe it.

Batman looked around at his men and they at him. We aint no trifles ourselves, he said.

He will come upon you like the flame of fire. I tell you now. Wont no sidearms will save ye.

You think us faint hearts, said Gumm. Choose yer words, Ridewood. There’s some short tempers in here.

I’m not questionin yer mettle.

Then think hard on what you say next.

The billy rattled in the coals of the fireplace and Ridewood leaned down slowly and with his bare hand he lifted the can and sat it on the hearthstone. When he turned to look at them his face was lit in the ember glow. He licked his lips. I dont doubt what you are. None ayou. But if you provoke the snake, you must prepare to get bit. Know this. He will teach you the truest lesson you ever learned.

They took a last round of stringent bush tea in silence then John Batman rose and donned his hat and stepped into the warming afternoon with his men behind him. They waited as Batman surveyed the country ahead and Ridewood followed them down and offered some counsel about the most advantageous way to proceed. Out of boredom Black Bill was working his blade through his fingers, spun like a palmist’s coin across his knuckles, around his thumb. Ridewood watched as he caught the blade.

carner mema lettenner? Ridewood said to him. Each sound emerged poorly formed.

The Vandemonian didn’t look up but fed the knife into its hide sheath and laid it across his knee. Panninher, he said.

You speak somethin of his cant? said Jimmy Gumm.

Somethin.

You speak Welsh any? We need someone to tell our Taffy he stinks like a flyblown arse.

But the old fellow proffered nothing by way of that matter; his gaze was fixed upon the Vandemonian and the broad dagger on his knee. He addressed Black Bill once more. nina Tummer-ti narapa?

Bill looked him full in the eye. narapa.

I knew as much. Knew it by the look of you. The blackfolk have many names for you as well but there’s few they will speak.

They speak them clear enough when it suits. Bill clutched the sheathed knife in his fist.

The company walked once more into the woodlands. Ridewood whistled his dogs off and collared them with loops of rawhide and he stood staring after the party for a long while.

They tracked that whole afternoon across a series of sandy plains where nothing grew save tussocks of speargrass. The ground underfoot was softened by rain and adhered to their slippered feet. Puddle water mirrored the ragged shreds of cloud and the boy shattered the images one then another and another until
he was mud to the knees. But the men ignored his madness, instead looking east where those same clouds were displacing around the peaks of the rainforested hills they’d be climbing by tomorrow. The Dharugs scouted the soundest terrain and led the company along.

In following the Parramatta men the party was spread thin over a mile or so and after a while Black Bill turned to tally the bobbing heads. He made it seven. Another count brought the same result. So he put his hand to his eyes and searched the stretch funnelling away down the valley. Standing rigid among a stand of tussocks was William Gould. He did not reply when Bill cooeed to him and he remained erect, outlined against the dark hills like a stone sentinel, his coat flapping and his hair flattened in the wind. Black Bill unslung his weapon and removed the oilcloth from the firing mechanism.

Hold up, he called to the front markers and the party men came to a stop and faced him.

The Vandemonian trudged the hundred yards back to Gould, scanning the few shrubs marking that flat land and holding his gun at his waist. A pair of plovers cackled and swooped with their golden wattles ashine in the sun. When he drew up he saw that Gould was staring down at the ground. Bill lowered his gun. A great length of black snake was coiled and contorting in the grass between Gould’s legs, one of the man’s feet pinning the snake to the ground.

Kill it kill it kill it, he said. Sweat tracked down Gould’s cheeks.

Bill crouched down. Gould’s leg was quivering with the effort as he brought all his weight to bear on the trunk and the head snapped about as it searched for purchase on Gould’s calf.

The Vandemonian stood up and rubbed his bare chin. You’re in a bind there, he said.

Jesus, Mary and—

Just keep the pressure on it. Hold it there.

Me leg is givin out.