Beneath the Southern Cross (6 page)

McGregor was a flame-haired Scot with a fiery temper. Farrell kept him under control, but appeared the only man capable of doing so. Several times when Thomas had had cause to reprimand McGregor for slackness, it had been Farrell who had calmed the irate Scot. But Thomas knew only too well that Farrell was a cunning manipulator, and if it were to his advantage, he would be the first to fuel the Scotsman's rage.

Now, on observing the two men, Thomas decided to give them several minutes before breaking them up and ordering a return to work.

‘We found a camp,' the Scot was whispering. ‘Far east side, old hags tendin' babies.'

‘Good,' Farrell replied, ‘the young ones'll be back after the day's fishin'. If we can nick one of the women without too much trouble then we can 'ave us some fun.' Thomas was approaching. ‘Pass the word around,' he muttered, ‘we'll pay 'em a visit tonight.' Then, loudly, for Thomas's benefit, ‘Now get back to work, Red,
we don't want to upset Mister Kendall 'ere.' Red obediently trundled off and returned to his baling.

That night Farrell produced a full bottle of rum. ‘Only two more nights to go,' he said, ‘no point in takin' it back with us, is there?' He took a swig and passed the bottle on. ‘Plenty more where this come from,' he boasted.

The men shook their heads in admiration. Farrell's constant liquor supply was a mystery and, rum being an excellent bartering commodity and therefore a power to those who could acquire it, he fiercely guarded his secret.

After a second swig, Thomas retired, leaving the men to their raucous campfire conversation.

Farrell passed the bottle again and again to Benjamin Waite. ‘Come on, Benny me old mate, drink up, you're a big lad, you need your fuel.' And, when on the fifth swig, the rasping liquor caught in his throat and they all laughed, Benjamin joined in. He was having an excellent time.

Farrell looked a signal to Red McGregor, who quietly slipped away to steal the knives from the soldier's tent. When he returned, mission accomplished, Farrell insisted Benjamin take the final swig and the soldier obediently drained the bottle.

‘Time to turn in,' Farrell announced.

As the men dowsed the fire and prepared to retire for the night, Private Benjamin Waite, happy and drowsy and just a little the worse for wear, weaved his way to his tent.

After noisily bidding each other goodnight, for the benefit of Thomas and Benjamin, Farrell silently signalled the others to follow and, away from the camp, they huddled to make their plans.

In the distance, they could see the Aborigines' campfire and, emboldened by the rum, one of the men was all for mounting a raid and storming the camp. Farrell was scathing in his reply.

‘Want to get yourself killed, you fool? We don't know how many there are. Now listen.' The men squatted and awaited their orders. ‘Red and me'll go out front,' he instructed, ‘you lads keep well behind. Stay in the scrub and no noise, mind, the blacks are sharp. If we can get to the women without too much of a fight, then well and good; but if there's too many men, the deal's off. I'm not coppin' a spear from one of them black bastards.'

It was a cloudless spring night and from their vantage point amongst the trees Farrell and Red could easily make out the camp in the clearing. A series of bark lean-tos, women and children sleeping, curled up on beds of reeds, and to one side, gathered around the embers of their fire, a group of men talking. Farrell counted five in all. He shook his head. Too many.

Farrell and McGregor were about to creep back to the others when, as if in answer to their prayers, one of the sleeping women rose. She stood for a moment, stretched her naked body, then started to walk towards them.

They looked at each other, unable to believe their luck, and Farrell nodded to McGregor, his finger to his lips.

 

From the bark lean-to, where she sat suckling her child, Wiriwa watched her sister rise and walk to the edge of the clearing. Yenada squatted in the bushes to urinate and Wiriwa lost sight of her, returning her attention to the baby who, satisfied, had fallen asleep at her breast. As Wiriwa gently set the child down upon the bed of reeds, there was a brief scuffling noise from the bushes. She looked up, expecting to see Yenada returning to the camp. But there was nothing. She waited several seconds. Still nothing.

‘Yenada,' she whispered softly, careful of waking those sleeping nearby. No answer.

Wiriwa rose to investigate. She would not call the men, they would be angry if she interrupted them for no purpose. She crossed to the edge of the clearing. The bushes where Yenada had squatted were flattened and there was a broken trail through the scrub. Wiriwa knew with a glance that the trail had been made by several people and she ran quickly to the men.

‘Wolawara!' she urged in a whisper, again careful not to wake the others. There must be no outcry to warn the assailants. ‘Wolawara,
barrawu
.'

She dragged him to the trail, the other men following soundlessly.

 

His hand clapped over her mouth, Red McGregor carried the terrified woman far from the Aboriginal camp. Farrell hissed at the others to quell their excitement and keep silent—the blacks had ears like dingoes.

They were not far from their own camp when they set the woman down. They laid her on her back and Farrell held a knife to her throat as McGregor released his grip. ‘One sound and I'll slit you from ear to ear,' he threatened. Paralysed with fear, Yenada stared up at the men in silence.

Four of the convicts held an arm and a leg apiece and Farrell nodded magnanimously to Red McGregor. ‘You get first go, Red.'

Yenada's head was threshing from side to side, a hissing sound coming from between her clenched teeth, as McGregor lowered his breeches and knelt between her thighs. He laid his body over hers, fumbling to find his mark, and Yenada kicked with all her might as she felt the man's hand on her private parts.

‘Hold her still, damn it,' the Scotsman hissed, rising to his knees. ‘Hold the whore …'

He was silenced as a spear ripped through his chest.

‘
Djiriyay! Djiriyay!
' Screaming their war cry, the Aborigines were upon them.

Two hundred yards away, Thomas heard the cries and was up in a flash. He dragged Benjamin Waite from his tent. ‘A raid!' he yelled. ‘A raid!' As the soldier grabbed his musket, Thomas fumbled in the dark for a knife. There were none. The knives were gone. And so were the men. Thomas knew, in that moment, it was the convicts who had initiated the attack.

Clad in undergarments, firearm at the ready, instantly sober, Private Benjamin Waite charged into battle, Thomas Kendall close behind him.

Three convicts lay dead on the ground and, even as Benjamin and Thomas arrived on the scene, two Aborigines had set about a fourth with their clubs. The man dropped beside his fellows, his head a bloodied pulp. One of the convicts, wounded and whimpering, was dragging himself through the scrub in a bid to escape, but the Aborigines intended to leave none living. It was Wolawara whose spear was raised to deliver the mortal blow.

Benjamin aimed his musket directly at Wolawara's chest. The spear left the Aborigine's hand, piercing the convict through the heart, and Wolawara turned to confront the fresh aggressors.

In the split second which followed, Thomas flashed out instinctively and deflected the soldier's aim. Then the air was shattered with the musket's roar, and Wolawara fell to his knees.

Two spears hit Benjamin simultaneously, one in the leg and one in the side, but he was a big man. Strong. He staggered, then stood his ground and started to reload. He had already powdered his musket and was disconnecting his tamping rod when he was felled with clubs. It took two Aborigines many blows before Benjamin Waite finally lay still.

Only then did they turn their attention upon the unarmed man beside him. Thomas had not attempted to flee. Horrified at what he had done, he stood waiting for his turn to come.

One of the Aborigines wrenched a spear from the body of the soldier and was about to drive it into Thomas's chest.

‘
Ngadu!
'

Spear poised, the man stopped midaction.

It was Wolawara who had spoken. He had staggered to his feet, in pain, holding his bleeding side. ‘
Gumal
,' he said to his clansmen.

The men muttered to each other, confused. How could Wolawara profess to a friendship with this white man? But Wolawara had seen Thomas lash out. He had seen the muzzle of the musket deflected in that second before the fire had ripped into his side, and he knew that Thomas had saved his life.

‘Tom-ass.'

‘Wolawara.' Thomas crossed to the Aborigine to inspect the wound as best he could in the moonlight.

Wolawara lay on the ground, as Thomas instructed, and the others gathered around. The white man had called Wolawara by name, he must be his friend, they muttered. Perhaps this was the man who had taken the hair from Wolawara's face. But in the darkness it was difficult to see the face of this man, and besides, the hairless white men all looked the same.

It was a flesh wound as far as Thomas could ascertain. The musket ball had hit Wolawara just above the left hipbone, but it had not lodged in the flesh. It had passed through, leaving an ugly wound which would need cauterising to avoid infection.

‘
Guwiyang
, Wolawara.' He held his hands above the wound, then pressed them downward, making a hissing sound like fire on flesh. ‘
Guwiyang
.'

‘
Guwiyang?
' Wolawara looked confused.

‘
Guwiyang
.' Thomas made the same gesture with his hands as he racked his brain for the word he wanted.

There had been a day on the beach, he remembered. They'd hauled the seine. The natives had been excited, as usual. In the net there'd been the rotting carcass of a small kangaroo which had drifted in with the tide. They'd said a word, and at first he'd thought it was their name for kangaroo. He'd hopped about, miming a kangaroo and saying the word. They'd laughed loudly at him. Then they'd joined in the fun, jumping around saying the word over and over, holding their noses and making disgusted faces as they did so, and Thomas had realised that the word meant rotten, putrid. What was the word, damn it, what was the word?

‘
Gudjibi
.' It came to him suddenly. ‘
Gudjibi
.' The men stood staring at him as if he were mad, but Wolawara's eyes were boring into his, he wanted to understand. Thomas mimed a musket and aimed it at Wolawara's wound. ‘Boom,' he said loudly, and the men jumped, startled. He held his hands like claws over the wound. ‘
Gudjibi
,' he said and he worked his fingers like worms. ‘
Gudjibi
.' Slowly Wolawara nodded. ‘
Guwiyang
,' Thomas urged. ‘
Guwiyang
,' he mimed the pressing on of fire once again and shook his head. ‘
Guwiyang
, no
gudjibi
.'

Wolawara understood. As the Aborigines carried the injured man back to their camp, Wolawara beckoned Thomas to follow.

The men laid their clansman beside the campfire as the white man instructed, then stood in a circle watching as Thomas pulled one of the heavier sticks from the embers. He held the unburned end of the stick in his hand, squatted, and pointed the red-hot glowing tip towards the wound in Wolawara's side. The Aborigines muttered amongst themselves, but clearly their clansman was putting his trust in this white man.

Thomas placed his hand upon Wolawara's shoulder and gestured to one of the natives to do likewise. He repeated the gesture with Wolawara's leg, and the men realised that he wanted them to hold their comrade down. But Wolawara shook his head and they stood back at a respectful distance.

Thomas lowered the burning ember, praying that the pain would not cause the Aborigine to thresh about, risking further injury. Then he pressed the red-hot tip into the cavity of the wound.

Wolawara's muscles instantly spasmed with the pain, but he himself made no voluntary movement. As the sickly smell of burning flesh rose from his body, he remained rigid, hands in fists
at his side, leg and stomach muscles locked hard. His teeth were clenched, he made no sound, and his eyes stared fixedly up at the clear night sky.

The surrounding men watched silently. They knew pain, and stoicism was respected in their community. Wolawara's courage was no more, no less, than was expected.

Thomas removed the burning ember and smoke continued to rise from the wound, the smell of burnt tissue now thick and acrid in his nostrils. He was astounded that the man had neither moved nor fainted during the procedure. Now, as Wolawara relaxed, which also was extraordinary for he must still have been in severe pain, Thomas realised that the Aborigine had induced in himself some form of trance. Some state beyond the normal threshold of human pain.

Wolawara held his fist to his heart then pointed to Thomas. ‘
Gamaradu
, Tom-ass,' he said.

Thomas offered his hand and they shook, the way Wolawara had seen the white men do. ‘
Gamaradu
, Wolawara,' Thomas replied. He had learned the Dharug word for ‘comrade'.

As the Aborigines prepared to abandon their camp, Thomas returned to the scene of the massacre. He surveyed the carnage, identifying each man and checking each body for any sign of life, but there was none. It was only then he realised that Farrell was missing.

Thomas searched the nearby bush. Wounded, the man may have dragged himself off into the scrub. But there was nothing.

He knelt by the body of Benjamin Waite. Thomas knew that, with or without the death of Wolawara, the Aborigines would have killed Benjamin. There had simply been insufficient time for the soldier to reload his musket. But when Thomas had deflected his aim, Benjamin had turned for an instant before reloading and in his eyes had been a look which Thomas would never forget. A look of shock and disbelief and, above all, betrayal.