Beneath the Southern Cross (12 page)

Squatting low, club in hand, he looked wildly about at the chaos. He would fight them all. He would kill any
wiri wiri
man who touched him. He would kill every single one of them if he had to.

The butt of a musket prodded him on the shoulder. ‘I said move along there.'

Yenerah screamed as he whirled. From his squatting position, he rose to his feet, swinging his
ngalangala
with both hands. The knobbed head of the club caught the soldier under the chin, smashing his jaw and laying open the side of his face.

‘
Djiriyay!
' Yenerah shrieked as the soldier fell in agony. ‘
Djiriyay!
'

Yenerah's war cry was enough to inflame several of the others. Even as a musket ball exploded Yenerah's chest, a number of Aborigines turned on their captors. A soldier was speared through the leg, another clubbed to the ground, and panic abounded on both sides. The soldiers started backing away, firing indiscriminately.

Five of the men who had turned on the soldiers were shot dead in the barrage of gunfire, and several wounded. An old man, clawing for the return of his grandchild, was shot through the head. A young woman who ran at the soldier carrying her infant was shot through the chest. It was only when eight Aborigines lay dead, and the others had fled into the bush, leaving the elderly, the women and the children moaning and wailing and crying, that the mayhem ceased.

Yenada knelt staring at the body of her husband as the blood poured from his head in a steady stream towards the river. Why did they kill Nowinah? He had been begging them to return his grandson, nothing more. Numb with shock, Yenada did not wail and moan with the others, but she rocked on her heels as she knelt. They should have gone with her sister Wiriwa, she thought over and over. For the sake of their grandson, they should have gone. Wiriwa had said that bad things were going to happen, the white missus had told Murrumuru. ‘Take your family and go,' that's what the missus had said. But Nowinah had refused to leave. He was an elder and it was his duty to stay and advise his people. That was what he had told her, but Yenada knew it was because he had grown too used to the easy life.

As the soldiers collected the children and took them away, Yenada waited to be herded up the hill with the others. To watch as they set fire to the huts.

She was old now; soon she too would be dead. Death held no fear for her. But killing did.

Yenada could still remember the terror of the night at the bay of rushes, the night when the convicts had dragged her from the camp. That night had been a night of killing, and her people had not been outnumbered then. But the slaughter had given her no joy. She had hoped she would not witness another such killing.

‘Come along. Come along now, grandma.' The voice was not unkind. ‘We have to get you up the hill where it's safe.'

The old man should not have been killed, the young private thought, taking Yenada's arm as gently as he could and helping her to her feet. Terrible things had happened here this morning. ‘Come along, grandma.'

Upon government orders, a military investigation was held as to the necessity for such wholesale slaughter of the natives, but nothing untoward was found, particularly as two soldiers had been severely wounded. As a result, it was found unnecessary for reports of the killings to be made public. Renegade Aborigines had been routed from the area, the community was informed. Disease-ridden campsites had been burned to the ground, and sickly, malnourished children had been taken to missionary institutions where they would be housed, nurtured and educated. For their own good.

The Aborigines did not return to the death place, and the property remained vacant. When James and Mary sold their grand house and moved to Sydney Town, the buyers made an offer to Thomas Kendall for the sale of the adjoining land. But it was not within his power, Thomas informed them, the land was no longer his to sell. It was a cause of frustration to the new owners of the big house.

 

‘Wolawara's family never returned,' Mary said. ‘They never even attempted to reclaim the property.'

Thomas had not seen his daughter-in-law for ten years, and he was astounded that, upon such a sad occasion, her first words to him should be of the massacre four years previously.

It was at the wake, following her daughter Phoebe's funeral, that
Mary approached Thomas. Not once during the graveside ceremony had she cast a look in his direction. She had stood stiffly, her husband on one side, her son on the other, watching the lowering of the casket without shedding a tear.

Phoebe had died of typhoid at just twenty-six, leaving behind a one-year-old son and a devoted young husband. As Thomas looked at Nathaniel Streatham openly weeping over his wife's grave, he felt a weary sense of guilt. It is high time I died, he thought. At seventy-six years of age it was obscene to witness the burial of one's grandchild.

Thomas Kendall was amazed that he was still alive. Who would ever have thought that he would see the year 1840 nearly at a close? He stood at the graveside with Matthew and Emily, who themselves were grandparents now, their son William holding his secondborn in his arms. He longed to be reconciled with his younger son's family before he died. Kendall or Kendle, what did it matter? They were blood. He did not wish to die with bad feeling between them.

Thomas had wandered around the elegant house in Elizabeth Bay, waiting for the right opportunity to approach his daughter-in-law. But Mary had been surrounded by her family, accepting the condolences of friends, and Thomas had not been able to break into the conversation without appearing clumsy. James had stood beside his mother, his young wife who had not been present at the ceremony for the obvious reasons of her advanced pregnancy, next to him, holding the hand of a small boy. Thomas had heard they'd had a son.

Even as he had stood watching, he had seen Mary make her excuses. He was heartened as he watched her approach, and his condolences had been sincere. ‘It is a sad day, Mary. You have my deepest sympathy,' he had said. But she had appeared not to have heard.

‘… Surely the fact that the Aborigines have not returned is proof that the gift of land was wasted on them,' she suddenly declared, her tone triumphant. Thomas was at a loss for words.

‘Did you ever think you could solve the problem of those people?' Mary was relentless in her pursuit. ‘You not only ruined their existence, you cost a number of them their lives.'

Her words tore at him. For years Thomas had lived with the
burden of the Parramatta slaughter, as if the dead had been slain by his own hand.

‘I believe that Wolawara spent his final days in peace,' he replied weakly; it was all he could think of to say.

‘You have given peace to no-one, Thomas. Least of all your family.'

Mary's aim had been to hurt. She had wanted to destroy the old man. He looked as if he was not long for this life. Good, she had thought as she had surreptitiously glanced at him in the cemetery, fully aware that he was studying her. Let him go to his death knowing that he has ruined our lives.

Now the hurt and horror in his face robbed her of her victory. He was already beaten; just as she herself was beaten.

‘And as for me …' Mary turned to stare at her husband. Richard was standing at the far side of the room, talking animatedly to Hannah, who was looking with some concern in their direction. ‘It was your actions, Thomas, which ruined my marriage.' She studied her husband a moment longer, then turned back to face him. In her eyes Thomas could see the years of bitterness. ‘For that I will never forgive you.'

With that, she walked away, once again circulating amongst the guests, accepting their condolences and encouraging them to drink a cup of tea or a glass of wine. Thomas stood still, utterly bewildered. How had he wreaked such havoc upon his family? What was it he had done?

‘Can I get you something to drink, Grandpa Thomas?' It was Hannah, as always with an eye to his comfort. He did not respond, so she continued encouragingly, ‘The red wine is excellent, I believe, from the vineyards of Aunt Mary's friends at Parramatta.'

She had witnessed the exchange between her aunt and grandfather. What in God's name had Mary said to him? The old man looked shocked, pale. ‘Come and sit down. Let me fetch a glass for you.'

From the far side of the room Mary watched as the old man allowed himself to be seated. He and Hannah were inseparable according to Emily.

‘She writes down all of his stories in the diary I gave her,' Emily had said, ‘and she won't let anyone see. It's for posterity, she says. Well, that doesn't seem right to me at all,' Emily had laughed
affectionately as she'd prattled on, ‘a girl should write about beaus in her diary. But then Hannah doesn't seem particularly interested in beaus.'

It was probably the beaus who were not interested in Hannah, Mary thought as she watched her niece return with the wine. A bold, brawny girl, one who made few concessions to femininity, it would be a rare breed of man who would take on Hannah Kendall. So unlike her mother, Mary thought, as she caught sight of Emily comforting Nathaniel. Even in middle-age, and even at a wake, Emily fluttered her fan coquettishly at Godfrey Streatham as she offered condolences to his son. And Matthew, standing beside his wife, smiled fondly, proud of her femininity.

Theirs was a good marriage, Mary thought with envy. A good marriage bound by love, support, trust, a happy family surrounding them … She must not get maudlin, she told herself. The Kendalls, after all, would amount to nothing. The market farm had long since been subdivided and sold, the family keeping several small allotments which they rented to tenants. No longer a scattered village, Surry Hills was becoming the backyard of Sydney, providing low-rental housing for the working class. As landlords, the Kendalls earned enough to keep their family clothed and healthy, but they would have little to leave their children and their children's children.

The descendants of the Kendle line, however, would inherit wealth, power and station. She, Mary Kendle, had been the driving force behind a legacy unequalled in the colony. Her children would inherit Kendle and Streatham, soon to become the finest emporium in Sydney. What need had she for envy?

But try as she might, Mary could not shake off her despondency. It was a wake she told herself, the funeral of her only daughter, she was supposed to be despondent. But she had accepted Phoebe's death. During the two weeks it had taken Phoebe to die, mother and daughter had never been closer.

Mary's one worry had been that Phoebe might have married Godfrey Streatham's son simply to please her. The Kendle partnership with Streatham and Son, the well-known family retailers, had certainly been the business coup of the decade, and Phoebe had always done as her mother wished. But theirs had been a true love match. On her very deathbed, Phoebe had told her so.

‘Look after him for me, Mother,' she had whispered in the dead of night when the fever had subsided, Mary spending every minute at her bedside. ‘Look after Nathaniel, I do so love him.' They had clung to each other and wept and never in her life had Mary felt so close to another human being.

‘I will love him like my own son, my darling, I promise,' she had whispered.

‘And the baby. Look after the baby.'

‘Your baby will have the world, Phoebe. I will give Howard Streatham the world, I promise you that too.'

The memory of her promises made Mary strong. So why did she feel so sad, so defeated?

She could live without the happiness she saw in her sister-in-law's marriage. That was a small enough price to pay for the legacy she would leave her grandchildren.

No, it was the look on Thomas Kendall's face which filled her with despondency. She had wanted him to bear the brunt of her hurt; it was his fault, she had told herself that for years. If Wolawara had never been his friend, if he had not given the land to the Aborigines, if he had not placed temptation in her husband's path …

But her accusations had only brought back the past. The look on the old man's face, the shock and the query in his eyes reopened the old wound, and the humiliation was as stinging, the pain as fresh now as it had been then.

‘There will soon be trouble,' she remembered saying. ‘Take your mother and Turumbah and leave the camp.'

It had been barely a month after her dismissal that Murrumuru had come to her in tears. At first Mary had not believed her.

‘I sleep with the massa for twelve month now,' she had said, ‘I sleep with no other man.'

Mary wanted to strike the woman. She did not believe her, she could not believe her. She must believe her husband. The two had never been lovers. ‘Just the once', he had said, ‘just the once.' The woman had teased and taunted, that's what he had told her.

She ordered Murrumuru out of her house.

‘Please, missus,' Murrumuru had begged, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘I know I do wrong. I know. But I love Richard. And he tell me too, he love me, he tell me too.'

That was when Mary knew it was the truth. When, sickeningly, she heard Murrumuru call her husband by name. Perhaps she had always known it was the truth, she thought as she fetched the money.

‘You must leave this place, Murrumuru,' she said. ‘There will be trouble. Take this money and leave with your family. For the sake of your unborn baby you must leave this place.'

She didn't tell Richard about Murrumuru's visit and the fact that the woman was with child. What was the point—he obviously cared nothing for his Aboriginal mistress. But any remnant of love which existed within Mary died that day, and from then on she looked at her husband with loathing.

The years had passed and she had never told him about his child, but she made him suffer a contemptible marriage. He must be made to carry the burden of his guilt.

And tonight, as she had looked at the old man, Mary had decided that he too must share the guilt. She wondered what Thomas Kendall would do if he knew that he shared a grandchild with his friend Wolawara. He would never know, but as she had watched him, the old bitterness had crept back like bile. He should suffer along with her husband. Both of them should suffer, both of them should know that they were the cause of her unhappiness.