Wild Lands (30 page)

‘The cold has come. You best move fast. You are far from home.'

‘There is no place for us in the lands of our people. The whites have claimed it. My clan is no longer and so we wander.'

This response seemed to satisfy the warriors for they formed a circle and, as one, sat on the ground cross-legged, leaving spaces for Bidjia, Jardi and Adam. Overhead the sky was a wedge of blue fringed by tawny leaves. Elongated shadows reached across the swirl of water to where the men sat.

Mundara gestured to the musket. ‘Trade.'

‘There is no trade worth the gun,' Bidjia countered.

The warrior snarled but knew Bidjia's words to be true. Instead he pointed to the shell bracelet on Adam's wrist, offering a cuff of fur from his arm. When this was refused he grew displeased. ‘I have no quarrel. Bronzewing, trade?'

‘No trade.'

Mundara frowned. ‘Across the mountains, by the waters, you will find more.'

Untying a pouch at his waist Bidjia pulled out a plug of tobacco, sitting the piece in the middle of the circle. He explained that the whites used it as payment along with their version of honey, a grainy substance called sugar. Breaking off a piece of the plug he placed it in his mouth and chewed carefully, the tobacco balling in the side of his cheek. He gestured for Mundara to try some and the warrior snatched it up.

‘You tell me nothing I don't already know. I have worked for a white.' He gnawed at the knob for some seconds and then offered Bidjia the fur bracelet. This was accepted. The trade was complete.

The warriors muttered among themselves. ‘You will join our fight,' Mundara stated. ‘Our lands are rich, we protect them.'

‘How do you protect them?' Adam argued. ‘The whites have muskets and horses. The more you attack, the more they will come, we have seen this. It is better to sit down and make terms for peace.'

‘Peace?' Mundara scowled. ‘When our ancestor, the Sky Father, came down from the sky to the land he created the rivers, the mountains and the forests. He gave us our laws and our songs, he did not do this for the white man, he did it for his people, us. This is what we fight for, what the whites would try to steal. You do not understand because you are white.'

‘I understand plenty, and so should you.' Adam frowned. ‘I can see by your skin that you have the blood of the white man in you.'

‘It does not rule me,' Mundara scowled.

‘In this place,' Bidjia warned, ‘we talk only.'

‘So you will fight,' the warrior stated.

‘We wish to move through your lands peacefully. We want no war,' Bidjia answered.

‘Such a word does not exist here.'

‘We heard whites have been murdered,' Jardi said carefully.

‘They stole women. Took what is not theirs to take. This was their payback, but the white man can never be bested. He must
show that he is stronger. Soon after the whitefellas sent men on horses to kill those of our people who were responsible. Hundreds were slaughtered. They named this place of victory in honour of a Great White Chief.'

Bidjia offered his sympathies for the tragedy. ‘We have heard of the sorry business. It is a bad thing.'

‘If you do not want to fight you should not have come here,' Mundara said simply. ‘We are at war.'

‘Then we will go.' Bidjia stood.

‘Follow the water,' Mundara directed. ‘There is a crossing place nearby. You will see it. The rains have been slow to come and the river is not full. Go north, then head towards the mountains. Do not come back.'

From the depth of the timber came a scream. A young black woman appeared, naked except for a strip of hide which hid her woman's parts from the world. She skirted the edge of the bank as a piece of wood sailed through the air. The throwing stick hit the female in the back and she fell, tumbling down the sandy slope to lay sprawled near the water's edge.

The man in pursuit collected the stick he'd used to bring her down and, without slowing his stride, reached the woman and pulled her upright by the hair. She was young, with plump features and large frightened eyes.

Adam and Jardi got to their feet.

‘This is not our business,' Bidjia cautioned.

The girl stretched out her hand to them. She was covered in sand, pale crystals against jet black skin. She called to the men on the riverbank and then, on seeing Mundara, fell silent. The warrior spoke and the man who held the girl replied in apologetic tones. Taking her by the arm he began to drag her away.

‘The whites displace the natural order of things.' Bidjia spoke to placate Mundara as well as Adam, but it was Jardi who grew anxious.

The younger man recalled the scattered cooking items that he'd come across at dawn. It was possible that the girl had been abducted from that very spot. ‘We should do something.'

‘Do nothing,' his father said quietly. ‘This is not our fight. Her clan will decide what is to become of her.'

‘And you think they will sit down with these men to get her back?' Jardi's statement hung. ‘You see the scars, the weapons.'

‘Does the white man stop another from beating a wife? No,' Bidjia replied angrily.

‘He's a renegade. Worse, there is white blood within him. This Mundara may speak like a black but the two parts within him means he fights himself.' Black warriors had crossed Adam's path over the years. Desperate men who'd left their tribe, some simply intent on causing trouble, others keen to avenge the wrongdoings of the whites. Some were banished by their Elders, others were quietly revered, but those of mixed blood were harder to gauge.

As the girl was dragged along the riverbank, Jardi followed their progress. She was slim, with shoulder-length hair, and she fought her abductor at every step, digging her heels in the dirt and straining against his grasp. He hit the girl in the face and flung her over his shoulder. Her arms hung lifelessly down his back as he stalked up the bank.

‘You leave this place,' Mundara ordered. His men followed him silently up the incline of the riverbank to disperse into the bush.

‘What of the girl?' Jardi queried. ‘If what you say is true, we should go after her.'

Bidjia trudged ahead. ‘There will be other women. Ones that don't come with blood-letting.'

They followed the river as instructed. The crossing place was indeed close by and they waded through the waist-deep water holding their weapons aloft and filling waterbags. They were soon climbing up the sandy bank on the other side. Bidjia led them
cautiously through the dense timber, walking steadily for the remainder of the day and into the next, until the river lay far behind them.

They came upon the bodies at mid-morning. There had been rain overnight and few tracks were visible. Birds scattered on their arrival and a wild dog growled and ran off into the bush as the three men approached the grisly sight. The first thing Adam noticed were the large number of human heads. These lay separate to a pile of bodies that had been burnt and partly consumed by fire.

Jardi bent over and sicked up his breakfast. Bidjia was too shocked to speak. The majority of the dead Aboriginals were women and children as well as some old men. It was clear that they'd been either hacked to death, shot or both, and had then been set alight.

Adam could only guess at the people who'd committed these terrible murders. ‘My god,' he said loudly. He turned to Bidjia. ‘Women and children? Decapitated?' There must have been at least thirty dead Aboriginals.

‘Whitefellas.' Bidjia squatted, scraping up some sand and letting the grains trickle through his fingers. Very slowly he let out a low moan. None of them could believe what they were seeing.

‘What do you want to do, Bidjia? Bury them?'

‘Their essence has already gone, as we should go. Come.'

Jardi and Bidjia remained quiet for the rest of the day. Adam followed the two men, equally subdued. It seemed that they had unwittingly entered a land at war.

‘We make camp here,' Bidjia told Jardi, stopping in a sheltered clearing. ‘I must rest for a time.' They had walked a day only.

Adam thought of Mundara's warning and the carnage of the previous day. ‘We should go further, Bidjia.'

‘I cannot.' Resting his spear against a tree trunk he surveyed the campsite, nodding as if pleased with the selection. ‘I have seen too much. Jardi will stay with me, you, Bronzewing, will go walkabout. I know you, my son. You will not sit down for a few days while I rest. Go.'

Adam looked from Bidjia to Jardi. The younger man was clearly not impressed to be left behind, but he didn't argue. Someone had to care for Bidjia while he regained his strength and Jardi was a capable hunter.

‘Go,' Bidjia urged. ‘On your return we will continue.'

Adam didn't know if he should leave them or not. There were white murderers around. But perhaps Bidjia and Jardi were safer without him. Mundara had taken an instant dislike to Adam and his white presence invited trouble for all. Adam guessed that Bidjia had weighed his decision carefully.

‘Be safe,' Jardi warned.

Adam adjusted the leather strapping of the musket across his shoulder. He guessed that if he came across any farms over the next couple of days that he could warn the occupants about Mundara and tell them of the slaughter. In return he might well learn whether their proposed track to the east was safe. Adam said his goodbyes and walked off into the scrub.

1838 June – the Hardy farm

The edge of the spade hit the ground and vibrated in Kate's hand. Lifting the implement she struck the frosty soil again and again until the butt of the small tree was ringed with dirt. Into this slight depression she slowly tipped the bucket of water, watching as the liquid was gradually absorbed into the ground. The two plants they'd brought from the Kable farm had survived the hot summer. She was almost proud of their tenacity. When she left this place, with luck they would still be here, standing as a testament to endurance, both theirs and hers. From another bucket Kate scooped out some sheep manure and spread it around the plants. She was due back at the house within the hour. Mrs Hardy wanted the hut swept, the washing completed and hung to dry and was keen to have the curtains in her room altered. Then there were Sophie's lessons, in between the demands of the kitchen.

There was movement from the direction of the creek. Kate reached automatically for the pistol and then silently chastised herself. Sally appeared out of the scrub, a baby on one hip and a
basket in hand. She'd not seen the girl since the day by the creek, since the storeroom had been raided. The tribe's absence during this time suggested guilt, but there was no proof of Sally's people being responsible, although Mr Hardy had condemned them from the first. The robbery had made everyone nervous. Mrs Horton refused to venture further than two hundred yards from the kitchen hut. That was the distance to the privy, a roofless bark structure with a hole in the ground where one had to squat to do one's business.

‘Orange.' Sally pointed at the sapling, displaying perfectly white teeth.

The girl was quick to pick up vowels and consonants and imitated Mr Southerland's phrases with striking accuracy and understanding. Kate was less than adept at learning Sally's language, and the girl often laughed at her mistakes. ‘Yes, orange. Well, at least one day it may bear fruit.' Although bare-breasted, Sally had taken to wearing a long skirt, a cast-off of Mrs Hardy's.

She held her chubby child out for inspection. ‘I name her Kate,' she announced.

‘You called her Kate after me?' What should have been an honour was beyond uncomfortable.

‘Yes. Kate,' Sally repeated.

When the baby was born Kate expected it would have the look of Mr Southerland about it and she'd been right in this suspicion. She took the child in her arms and tickled the baby under the chin. The child was a healthy, creamy half-caste.

‘You come and dig with us today?'

‘I can't.' She handed the child back.

‘That Missus she all work, work, work.'

‘I know,' Kate agreed, ‘but I would like to come and learn more about your medicine. Maybe on Sunday.'

‘You come find me after the Boss reads from his book.'

Mr Hardy was strict with his Sunday service. All those on the farm, except for those shepherds tending sheep and Mr Southerland,
were required to sit in the dirt in front of the main dwelling while Mr Hardy read passages from the bible.

Sally held out the basket. ‘Warringaay.'

‘Warringaay,' Kate repeated with difficulty, lifting a bunch of the long-stemmed grass from the basket.

The girl laughed.

Grass-like leaves sprouted from the base of the plant and Kate recognised it as one of a number of sedges that grew near the creek. She knew the plants as nut grass and bush onion. Sally's tribe dug up and ate the small pale tubers and wove the leaves together to make mats, baskets and fish nets.

The girl jiggled the baby on her hip. ‘You mix up and it fix plenty.' Sally gestured to her throat and stomach, to the slight graze on her arm.

Placing the grasses back in Sally's basket, Kate touched the baby's downy head. ‘Sally, did your people take flour and sugar from the store room?' It was an awkward question to ask but one that Kate hoped their friendship would bridge.

‘Did you take our land?' The young mother left, singing softly to her child, the folds of her skirt swaying gently.

Kate was left standing alone. The blatant response was not what she'd expected. In fact, Kate had hoped that the tribe was not responsible. She glanced up at the house. A whiff of smoke curled from the chimney. Sally's confession should be reported but she worried about Mr Hardy's response. Initially her employer wanted to make an example of one of the male natives after the theft, a public flogging was even discussed. Mrs Hardy was against it and thankfully Mr Southerland interceded and a loss of two months' stores was the penalty. Not that there was anything to give the tribe now. Everyone was on restricted rations. No, it would be better to say nothing, Kate decided. To go on as they were, two peoples doing their best to live together. Such an arrangement had worked for the Hardy farm and apparently also for the Scotsman to the south thus
far. With the boundary dispute resolved, a reason able friendship had developed between Mr Stewart and Mr Hardy. It seemed that the Scotsman had forged a strong relationship with the different tribes across his vast acreage, with some of the men becoming stockmen. It was proof that they could all live in harmony, and yet Sally's parting words made Kate uneasy.

Mrs Hardy appeared outside the hut, slowly limped the length of the lopsided verandah, passed the kitchen and, lowering the hurdles, entered the vegetable garden slightly downhill of where the cook was washing in the copper. Neither woman acknowledged each other. One bowed low over a steaming cauldron, the other, basket in hand, selecting something from the garden. Mrs Hardy's sickness had become impossible to conceal. Everyone knew she was ill. She spent most days resting, and even then she could be sitting on the stump chair at the table pressing native specimens for her sample book and suddenly fall sideways as if knocked unconscious.

Sophie appeared as the sun breached the hills to the east. The child was calling her. Gathering up the buckets and spade, Kate moved quickly from the fledgling orchard and ran towards a tree. The girl appeared from around the corner of the kitchen and began to skip down the hill, her mother waving to her as she passed. Kate ran further afield to where three close-grown trees stood. Sitting the buckets and spade on the ground, she hid from the girl. Kate really didn't want to see her. Not yet.

‘Jelly-belly, Jelly-belly!' Sophie yelled. ‘You're meant to come when you're called. Mama says you must.'

Does she now? Kate muttered. Lifting her skirts she made a dash for the next grouping of timber some twenty feet away.

The girl reached the orchard and walked around the plants examining them. ‘I know you're here, Jelly-belly. You're always here in the morning.' Leaning down she snapped a branch from the freshly tended sapling. ‘Oh look, it's broken.'

Kate gritted her teeth, but didn't move. Pressing her shoulders against the rough bark, she looked down the short distance to the valley flats. A shepherd was opening the hurdles where the sheep had been contained overnight. There had been attacks by native dogs with the arrival of winter and Mr Southerland had enlarged the hurdles to hold five hundred head, thereby ensuring that there were enough shepherds to watch the sheep overnight. Between the animals and her position were two men on horseback and the yellow dog. Mr Hardy and Mr Southerland were inseparable. Were it not for the constraints of social hierarchy imposed by Mrs Hardy, Kate thought the two men would dine together every night, perhaps sleep under the same roof if possible. Such were their fortunes tied to the other.

‘Found you!'

Kate tied the shawl in a knot about her shoulders and continued staring ahead.

‘What are you doing, Jelly-belly?'

The time had long past for reprimanding the girl. The child was hardly going to address Kate properly when the mother still absently used the same moniker at times.

‘Jelly-belly?'

‘Go away,' Kate scowled.

‘You can't talk to me like that.'

‘You can pout and stomp your feet as much as you like, Sophie Hardy.'

The child was adept at turning on the waterworks, especially since she'd become aware of her mother's illness. Kate couldn't help that she'd never taken to the girl. As she moved away she slumped to the ground, her fists balling her eyes.

In the distance the two men continued surveying the bringing in of the sheep. The animals were soon to be shorn and then the wool would be headed south to market. The arrival of this first mob was like a beacon of hope, for Kate was determined to
be with the valuable commodity when it finally left the property. She'd not discussed her leaving. Kate thought it best to announce her intentions when she was assured of escape. For that was what it amounted to.

‘Her ladyship has her nose out of joint.' Mr Callahan and the convict, Gibbs, were walking towards the creek, but he dawdled to speak to Kate, the two of them watching as Sophie finally clambered to her feet and began to walk back towards the homestead. ‘There'll be trouble at the big house.' He gave a wry smile as he joked about the impressive homestead that they'd expected to see on their arrival.

‘There's always trouble with that one,' Kate replied.

The Scotsman waited until the other man walked on. ‘They found Betts. Mr Southerland rode out again yesterday.'

‘I didn't know he was missing,' replied Kate, surprised.

‘I reckon they thought he'd done a runner, but the poor bastard was dead as a doorknob with his head bashed in.'

Kate lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh heavens, no. Natives?'

The Scotsman lifted an eyebrow.

‘He didn't want to go back out there, Mr Callahan. He told me as much. He was very frightened.'

‘Well, I reckon the poor bastard's dreaming of the Mother Country now. You know another mob of blacks have been massacred. Hunted down they were on a station to the south-west, a place called Myall Creek. The word is they was harmless, women and children and old men.'

Kate was shocked. ‘Who did it?'

‘Landowners, stockmen, convicts, who knows? Word is they went out hunting with muskets and swords. Settled a few scores they did.'

‘But why? Why kill innocents?'

‘'Cause them that own this land are sick of their meddling ways. The thieving, the burning. And there was whites killed just last
year and now Betts. People don't forget. Not when there's money at stake. They needed to be taught a lesson.'

‘Murder isn't the way.'

Mr Callahan rolled his mouth around like a cow chewing its cud. ‘What is then? For it's them against us. This might not be much of a life but as I cannot be assured of what's on the other side of it, I'd like to be here a wee bit longer. I'm getting meself a musket. Keeping it close. Have you still got that fancy pistol, girl?'

Kate patted the folds of the brown skirt she wore.

‘Good lass. Keep it ready.' He looked heavenward into a cold blue sky. ‘They be washing the sheep. Too cold, it is. Aye, far too cold. They'll die if there's a frost in the morn.'

‘What do you mean by washing?'

Mr Callahan laughed. ‘They'll not be boiling them up in a copper if that's what you're thinking, lass. No, it's to the creek they're going. Can't have dirty wool being shipped to London. The buyers won't have it.'

‘If you think they'll die you should say something,' Kate urged. ‘Tell Mr Southerland, at least.'

The Scotsman grunted. ‘They know everything, lass. Everything. If I weren't who I was and they weren't who they were, well, I'd slap them both in the listener.' He doffed his cap and grinned his fatherly smile.

Kate noticed he'd lost another tooth.

‘I better go. Come down to the creek, lass, and have a look-see. The Missus will only yell at you half the day for being tardy.' The man left with a wink and began to traipse after the other convict, who had already broken into a run. Mr Callahan increased his pace, a stumbling gait that was more limp than lope.

Kate's shoes slipped on the frosty ground as she followed the Scotsman. The sheep formed an arrow-head formation, a convict flanking each side and the two horsemen bringing up the rear. They were large animals with coarse wool and she knew from
overheard conversations that the Hardys hoped to purchase Saxon merino rams from Mr Stewart to improve the bloodline when funds allowed.

Losing sight of the mob briefly in the trees, the rhythmic calls of the animals grew steadily louder. Kate reached the sandy creek bank just as the lead of the mob appeared on the opposite side. On seeing the water they began to circle back.

‘Keep 'em ringing, keep 'em ringing!' Mr Southerland yelled. He cracked a whip, cracked it again, forcing the mob in an ever-tightening circle. Finally a sheep stopped, sniffed the air, gazed across the stretch of brownness and walked in. The rest of the mob soon followed suit, urged on by a shepherd, the whistling and
coo-eeing
by Mr Southerland and the Hardys' yelping yellow mutt.

In the middle of this disorder Mr Callahan and another convict stood waist deep in the middle of the creek, doing their best to dunk each animal as it swam past.

The sheep emerged in twos and threes, most thoroughly soaked. Finally, with the process finished, the men escaped the freezing water and Mr Southerland walked his mare across the creek. On seeing Kate he headed towards her. ‘What do you think of our methods, Kate?'

‘I wonder they do not freeze to death. What if there's a frost in the morn?'

The man gave a chuckle. ‘Well, you've been keeping your ears open. I'm glad someone has.' His gaze flickered towards Mr Hardy, who waited for his man at a distance. ‘It may frost, it's true, but with luck it'll be a good drying day.'

‘After the wool's shorn, how long before it's loaded for market?'

The older man cocked his head sideways. ‘Thinking of greener pastures, Jelly-belly?'

She didn't answer.