Beneath the Southern Cross (11 page)

It was sad, Thomas thought, very sad, that he had not seen Wolawara for so many years. He turned to stare unseeingly across the bay.

‘I must visit Wiriwa and offer my condolences,' he said to Hannah when she returned with the tea. ‘In a month or so's time when the mourning period is over.'

‘May I come with you?' It was a rather bold request.

‘Yes, Hannah, you may, if you wish.'

Thomas could have hugged her. It was not a trip he was looking forward to, and her presence would make all the difference.

 

Thomas Kendall did not announce his arrival at Parramatta to his son and daughter-in-law, he saw no occasion to do so for he did not intend to visit them. With Hannah in the trap beside him, he drove directly to the Aborigines' property, and it was midafternoon
as, together, they walked from the track high on the ridge down into the camp to find Wiriwa.

Thomas was appalled and saddened by what he saw. Empty bottles and refuse littered the camp, and the first drunken person he encountered was Yenerah. That should not have surprised him, he supposed, but the lad at Yenerah's side, sharing the bottle with him. Mumbling. Incoherent. Reeling in his drunkenness.

‘Turumbah?' Thomas queried. The lad could be no more than fifteen, perhaps sixteen, years old. Turumbah turned at the sound of his name, and Thomas ripped the bottle from his hand. Instinctively, the boy made to grab it back.

‘Massa rum, gimmerum.' The words he'd heard his uncle saying to passers-by in the town.

Thomas cuffed the side of the boy's face with the back of his hand. Not hard, but Turumbah lost his balance and fell into the bushes. Yenerah giggled foolishly and squatted down beside him.

‘Turumbah!' Thomas repeated.

The shock of the blow and the anger in the man's voice had a sobering effect. Turumbah stared up at the old man with the white beard who stood glowering over him, and he knew, through the blur in his brain, who it was.

‘Thomas Kendall,' he said. The name he had heard his grandfather say over and over. ‘Thomas Kendall,' he repeated, then he started to babble. ‘Gran'sun James, Turumbah friend, Gran'sun James, Turumbah friend …'

Thomas dragged the boy to his feet. ‘Where is your grandmother?' he demanded. ‘Where is Wiriwa?'

The prospect of facing his grandmother in his present state had an immediately sobering effect on Turumbah. His grandmother was an old woman, wise the way the old were, and she would know in an instant. ‘Rum,' she would say, and she would spit on him the way he had seen her spit on Yenerah.

He shook his head and mumbled.

Thomas wrested the boy to his feet. ‘I want to see your grandmother, take me to see her.'

The old man's steel-like grip was as frightening as the prospect of his grandmother's wrath and Turumbah realised he had no option. He led the way to the hut by the river, Hannah silently following.

But Wiriwa did not spit on her grandson. The old woman shook her head sadly and waved him inside the hut, beckoning Thomas and Hannah to join her where she sat cross-legged at the door, Murrumuru by her side. Murrumuru no longer worked at the big house during these troubled times.

Wiriwa and Thomas introduced their daughter and granddaughter respectively, Murrumuru raising her eyes for barely a second before returning her gaze to the ground, but Thomas was accustomed to the shyness of Aboriginal women amongst strangers. He and Wiriwa chatted quietly, he offering his condolences and she explaining that Wolawara's death had been expected and that he had met it as bravely as she knew he would. She was glad, she said, that he had died without knowing the extent of his son's shame. She had disowned Yenerah, she told Thomas. He had been her only remaining son, but he was her son no more.

Guilt rested heavily upon Thomas. He took her hand and she looked at him, surprised. ‘Forgive me.
Ngandu
.'

‘
Ngandu
, Thomas Kendall?' Wiriwa looked bewildered.

‘This place …' How could Thomas express his guilt? How could he tell this old woman, his friend, that perhaps he had been misguided? Much as he had meant to do good for her people, perhaps his interference had brought more trouble to their lives. ‘This place,
wiri
place.'

She smiled a toothless smile. ‘No, no. This place,
budyari
place.' It was clear she had understood and wanted to set him at ease. ‘This place, no
wiri
place.
Wiri balagaman
, no
wiri
place.' She smiled again and boldly patted the hand that rested upon hers. ‘Wolawara
gurigurang
, this place.'

‘Thank you.' Thomas smiled, grateful for her words of comfort. It meant a lot to know that Wolawara had been happy on the land which was his. He and Wiriwa spoke a little longer, then Thomas rose, his body stiff and sore—he was no longer accustomed to sitting on the ground. ‘Hannah, we must leave now.'

As Wiriwa rose to bid them farewell, Thomas told her that the land remained her property. He didn't have the words to tell her it was legally deeded as such, and he knew that she would not understand if he did. But he told her that, no matter how far she travelled, the land would always belong to her people, to the
people of the Gadigal tribe. If she ever wished to return to this place, he said, this place would be hers.

She offered her hand, as Wolawara had always offered his upon parting with his friend. ‘
Gumal
, Thomas Kendall,' she said, and they shook hands like men.

‘
Gumal
, Wiriwa.'

As they walked back through the camp, Hannah glanced sideways at her grandfather. It was a steep trek up from the riverbanks to the track where they had left the trap, and his breath was a little laboured. She was longing to know what had transpired, but she did not want to intrude on his thoughts. To her surprise as soon as they had gained flatter ground and Thomas had recovered his breath, he began to talk.

‘Wiriwa told me that she is leaving with her daughter, grandson and some of her relatives before dawn tomorrow morning,' he said. ‘I have assured her that this land belongs to the Gadigal people. It is hers to return to whenever she wishes. It belongs to her grandchildren and to her grandchildren's children should they wish to return to it. I would like you to write all of this in your journal, Hannah.'

Hannah looked at him; she had no idea he took her journal as seriously as she did herself.

‘Someone must record their story, Hannah.' Thomas was in deadly earnest. ‘Even their language is dying. Someone must record their story.'

They talked little in the trap on the long return to town, Hannah insisting upon taking the reins, for her grandfather looked very old and tired.

Parramatta had grown into a thriving township she was surprised to note as they trotted along Church Street where pedestrians promenaded in the early evening, and street-stall vendors touted, and shops and businesses did a brisk trade. Then they were out in the countryside where the smell of the eucalypts was strong in the nostrils; where sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched in the trees, and wallabies came out to graze in the cool of the gathering dusk.

Her grandfather seemed unaware of the surrounding beauty of the bush. He was not only tired, Hannah thought. He was sad. Even though the old woman, Wiriwa, had said something which
had made him smile. Shortly before they had said goodbye. Hannah wondered what it could have been.

Before they alighted at the Surry Hills, it was as if Thomas had read her mind. ‘I shall tell you everything, Hannah. I shall tell you everything, and you shall record it in your journal.'

 

It was not long before every one of Elizabeth Macarthur's predictions proved correct. Following the damage to property, the theft of chickens and corn, and finally the unforgivable disappearance of a number of sheep and cattle from nearby properties, the farmers rebelled and the army was called in.

Shortly after dawn's first light, from her balcony overlooking the Aborigines' property, Mary Kendle watched the arrival of the soldiers high on the ridge behind the camp. She recalled Elizabeth's words. But she felt no guilt. She could have done some good for these people, but she had been betrayed. Had she not been betrayed, she would have taken the situation under control before it had become so volatile. And if Elizabeth were here now, that is exactly what she would tell her. But Mary had seen her friend only once since that day at Elizabeth Farm, and then briefly, two years ago, at Camden Park, on the occasion of John Macarthur's funeral.

Everything had changed, Mary thought, as she watched the redcoats leave their horses and drays up on the track, and start their march down into the camp. She would tell Richard tomorrow that they were moving from Parramatta. Their business was mainly in Sydney Town these days, and she no longer liked this house.

Mary had known the army was mounting its raid this morning, all the local property owners had been warned, the Kendle family in particular having been told to leave at dawn or to keep within the safety of their home.

James and Phoebe had accompanied their father into Sydney Town, but Mary had insisted on staying.

‘It could be dangerous,' her husband had warned.

‘Nevertheless, I intend to watch, Richard. Can you blame me?' And, once more defeated, he'd said nothing.

Mary could barely see the redcoats now. They had disappeared amongst the bush, making their way towards the river. Flashes of red, glimpsed briefly amongst the trees. As she waited for the
sound of a musket shot, that awful day came flooding back.

It was a Sunday. The house was empty, the servants at church. She herself had been at church with the children, but had returned home because Phoebe, as always during her time of the month, was ill.

As she unharnessed the horse, she told Phoebe to go into the house and lie down, she would presently bring her a warm compress. It was a hot day and the horse needed to be watered and stabled.

As she opened the stable door she heard a woman laughing. Quietly, she stepped inside, closed the door behind her and waited whilst her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

She saw them, half naked, on the fresh straw bedding at the end of the stalls. But they did not see her. Her husband, bare-chested, the whiteness of his skin stark against the bare black breasts he fondled. Murrumuru laughed again as he fumbled with her skirts, pulling them high above her naked black thighs. She was still laughing as Mary silently opened the stable door and stepped outside. Back into the glare of the day.

While she prepared the warm compress for Phoebe, she fought the desire to vomit. Her mind was a blank. There was nothing but the image of their bodies and the knowledge of her betrayal.

When Murrumuru presented herself for work the following day, Mary told her that her services were no longer required. She didn't look at the woman as she said, ‘I am employing a ticket-of-leave worker. I have decided, after all, that I prefer the services of a white person.'

And to her husband she simply said, ‘I am no longer happy with the woman's work.' She was unable to say Murrumuru's name out loud. Richard seemed quite content with the explanation.

It took a week or so for him to realise that his wife knew of his infidelity, though he had no idea how. Nothing else could explain her constant coldness, the looks of pure loathing which met his every attempt at charm.

Finally, one night when he had decided to make a more intimate approach in the hope that that might win her, she turned on him, sickened with hurt and rage.

‘I saw you, Richard,' she hissed. ‘I saw you with her.'

In a way he was relieved that the truth was out. It was just the
one time, he swore to her. The woman had teased and taunted and he had been unable to resist. He begged her forgiveness. He loved her. He would devote his life to making her happy if she would only forgive him his one moment of weakness.

Mary knew she would never forgive him, but if he was telling the truth, at least she could see a way of returning to a semblance of their previous life together. Without the trust of course, but she would allow him to woo her forgiveness. There was a certain merit in that.

 

The ambush was unexpected. The young Aboriginal men who had been stealing livestock from the local farms had met with violence before. A number of times their raiding parties had been chased by angry farmers, and several had narrowly escaped a musket ball. But no white man, farmer or soldier, had as yet ventured upon their land.

Redcoats swarmed into the camp, where huts and lean-tos nestled by the river. Panic broke out. Women screamed and clutched their babies and children. Men, most of whom had been sleeping, grabbed for their spears and clubs.

Lieutenant Brewster fired his pistol into the air as a warning. His orders had been to keep the exercise as peaceful as possible. The camp was to be cleared, the huts burned to the ground, and all children to be taken for placement in missionary institutions.

The warning shot served its purpose. There was a startled silence. Women stared, shocked; men, clubs and spears in hand, halted as they saw the numbers of soldiers and guns, aware that their weapons were of little use against the fire from a musket's muzzle.

‘Clear these huts!' Lieutenant Brewster shouted to his men. ‘Round up the children and take them to the drays!'

Men, muttering rebelliously, were shunted about with the butt of a rifle or the shove of a hand. Women wailed as infants were torn from them. They grabbed back at their children, only to be pushed away by rough hands and yelled at by rough voices.

In Yenerah's drink-diseased brain, the voices which spoke to him told him these were
wiri wiri
men, demon men. And they had been sent to murder him in his sleep. But they had failed, he thought triumphantly. Yenerah held his
ngalangala
, ready to kill.