Salt Creek (30 page)

‘I regret those actions I helped to set in train. Dogs that are unleashed are not easy to control. But I let the men go and went with them. The blacks should not have killed the survivors, yet I cannot say that there was not some provocation. When I asked one of my men what might have happened when the blacks were always previously so helpful – indeed they saved many other shipwreck survivors – he said that perhaps the men had been too forward in their attentions to the women. He said the blacks don't like that – most protective they are. I have remembered that. There is that which I should do and that which I will do. I do not intend to fail but the failing is sown at the beginning. It is certain.' His eyelids fluttered here and he nodded as if agreeing with himself. ‘But that is not part of this story. Do not attend to it.

‘It was right; it must have been right to act. Something had to be done. They were wearing the clothes of the poor murdered souls. Blood on the clothes, but dried, you know.' He drew in a big gulp and his throat moved. ‘They saw what our muskets meant. One or two were wounded. And another was less fortunate. There was no trouble holding them. We were a large party. We had our orders, which were to choose and execute the guilty parties, up to three, and we must follow them. So two of the roughest, most villainous of them all were chosen. They did not make any objection, which I could not understand. We built the gallows and we hanged them. It was a piteous sight. They were fine built – fine for any men. And I will not speak against their courage. They did not flinch. Their toes touched the ground. They got it wrong you see. They could hold themselves to life. We had to stop and fetch different rope and hang them again, and dig a hole beneath them so they swung free.' He pulled his whiskers, curling an end into the corner of his mouth. A nervous habit of his; his moustache had a raggedy edge. ‘The one I think of was a tall fellow, very well made. I felt his severe countenance on me – grave, you know. He stared into my eyes and I tell you I could not look away try as I might. Oh, I wanted to, but he would not let me. I do not suppose even God would strike such a feeling into me on Judgement Day. Call that blasphemy as you will. No doubt you are right. He was a man, same as you or I. I don't know what else he meant by looking at me like that. We had our orders.' He drank and did not speak much more and did not look at the boys, but at me. I felt he was saying or asking or showing me something and I was not sure what.

Later still when everyone had gone to bed and I was tidying the dining room thinking of Tull talking of Papa and of his hat, Papa spoke once more. ‘He saw to the marrow of me – do you see that, Hester? When I pray to my maker for forgiveness in the hereafter I see that man's face. Could I have stopped it? Could I have counselled different? I was young, but I had the captain's ear and his respect I think. But there were orders to be carried out and we did this up to the very least and not beyond. Sometimes we must do things that we prefer not to. Do you see?'

‘I am not sure I do.'

‘One day you will, I daresay.'

CHAPTER 16

The Coorong, February 1861

THAT SUMMER BURNED ITSELF INTO ME
, and if I have thought of it with longing during cold winters since, it was otherwise then. The air vibrated and the sky was elemental blue and had the unyielding perfection of a proof. It eyed us all, ants beneath. We became narrow eyed and slow and walked barefoot until the ground burned, and the heat filled my skirts until they felt like a kite that might lift me right up into that sky. The trees and shrubs and smaller plants drew back what moisture they could from their leaves until everything appeared shrunken, as skin draws close to bone with age. The smaller sucks dwindled to staring salt-rimmed eyes of luminous pink and finally there was nothing for it but to open the fenced sucks to save the sheep. Papa had to go to the expense of having a deep well dug for our use. It filled quickly with sweet water.

Billy and George (whose true names Papa could never remember and which I never heard), the two natives from long ago, approached Papa one day and he went with them. ‘Very agitated, they were,' he said. ‘It was the loss of their sucks. But what could I do? I tried to explain. I showed them the sheep. There is nothing else to be done and so I told them. They wanted Tull. I told them he was in Point McLeay, but they didn't understand.'

‘Because they call it Raukkan,' Addie said.

We all stared at Addie, that she knew something that no one else did.

‘Tull told me once,' she said.

I watered the vegetable garden each day, not from habit or even hope, but as something that measured the day – beginning and end – and altered the slight events between by their difference. Between one pail and another Rimmilli appeared and converged with me, cautiously and obliquely, as if she had started with another purpose and direction and happened upon me by chance. But she was a deliberate person, she had never been this close to the house before, and I had not seen her for a long time. She wore a sort of tunic made of something nubbly and dark, perhaps seaweed, but was otherwise unchanged: straight-backed and with her chin up so that she seemed to be regarding me from a height, though we were much the same as I recall, and spitting out her mouthfuls of words as if she hated herself for uttering them and hated me that I was their target. Being near her left me scorched. Her eyes were glittering black and fierce and I could never understand why – except for the time with the reeds, which I had never done again, and I did not think it was so bad a thing to have done. Anger was the essence of her, deeper than bone, from the profoundness of her self. I do not believe I have ever wanted a person's respect more. I think I never had it. I cannot blame her for it.

‘Where is Tully?' she said.

‘Hello,' I said.

She stared. ‘Where's Tully?'

‘Point McLeay. Raukkan? Is that right?'

‘Why?'

‘To go to school there.'

I thought she might strike me then. She was fearful too, I think, and opened her mouth to speak and stopped. I couldn't help stepping back.

‘He's been gone for a while,' I said, but she said nothing more to any of that. ‘Were you in need of something else?'

‘Water.'

‘We have water. The well. Come and see.' I put my hand to her arm. She threw me off with a little grunt of disgust before she could help it and stilled all of herself, even her eyes. By some loosening of the muscle of her face I understood her to be regretful. But I had nothing, no words, to verify that.

Keeping space between us now I took her to the well and showed her how it worked, how to remove the lid and winch the pail up, making sure I did not touch her. The skin of my hands and arms was freckled as eggshell and browner than the hidden parts of me. Her hands and arms so close beside were sleek with muscle and marked with accidental scars of different lengths and sizes and unlike the even, neat cicatrices of her chest. She flicked the long sharpened nail of her thumb against the next finger as a man might shift a dagger in a scabbard, alert and from unease.

‘See, it's quite simple,' I said.

She was stern and not at all impressed, testing the movement of the handle herself and winding with ease, though the pail was heavy. She would not need to be told again. When it was up, I pulled the pail across to the well edge and set it there and she took a big shell from her bag and dipped it into the water and drank and filled it again and drank. ‘Have as much as you like,' I said. She looked at me very direct and filled the shell and drank, more slowly this time. Her gaze tracked down the slope to the shore, stopping at the privy, the old suck, the stable, the dairy, the washroom, the kitchen, the house, back to me. She didn't thank me, just returned the shell to her bag and flowed away past and between the buildings and over the fences as if the gates and every other thing Papa had created did not exist even in my imagination.

Late in the afternoon Fred burst into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen what's happening?'

I went out, and around the well were several natives and Rimmilli showing them how to get the water.

‘Papa won't mind, will he?' Fred asked.

‘I suppose not. I don't know.'

They were gone before Papa came home and we did not have to say anything. But there was no pretending that they were not there the next Sunday. Papa saw them from the veranda when he was preparing for the service. His face fairly blazed at the sight. ‘Faith is its own reward, of course, but sometimes there are others.'

‘It's the well, Papa. They're waiting their turn, that's all,' I said.

‘The well?'

‘They are short of clean water. I showed Rimmilli. I thought you wouldn't mind.'

‘When?'

‘Only this week. Truly. We didn't know how to stop them. I meant it for Rimmilli.'

‘Just water then? From whence cometh refreshment of their spirits?' He clapped his hat upon his head and strode towards them, beckoning, but they scattered, disappearing into a stand of scrubby trees.

Inside, he gave an incoherent sermon on the verse: ‘And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.' I took him to mean that we were light and perhaps Tull also, but everything else on this glittering blue and white day was darkness.

After lunch he brooded on the veranda and fondled his pipe, edging his shoulder against one corner of the chair. A man came riding down the slope on a tall bay horse.

‘Stubbs,' Papa said, sitting forward. ‘Well, well. Quickly go inside and put things to rights, Hester, if they are not already. Find Addie and make sure that you are both neat. Now. And scones I think.'

When I came out again having delivered my instructions Papa and Mr Stubbs were sitting on the veranda together.

‘See who has come to visit, Hester,' he said. ‘Mr Stubbs, passing by on business.'

I was unused to new faces and his face was so different from any familiar to me that he might have been another race. He was a florid sort of man of thirty or thereabouts, sun roasted and pale haired and pebble eyed. His hands were damp to touch and he had the nervous habit of licking his lips, his pink tongue darting out like a lizard's as if to sample the air. But he was pleasant enough. He stood and bowed and I gave a half-curtsey, which I judged to be sufficient for him. He sat again, tugging his waistcoat down to ease the strain on the buttons.

‘Passing by?' I said. ‘Have you moved near here? I thought you lived at the lakes.'

‘Two days ride only – a pleasant journey. Visiting a little run of mine east of here,' Mr Stubbs said. ‘Thought I'd stop in and see Mr Finch here, and meet his family, about whom I have heard so much.' He seemed pleased with this neat compliment and regarded me expectantly.

I did not know what to say to that, and looked to Papa, but his attention remained fixed on Mr Stubbs.

Mr Stubbs relaxed against the settee, an arm along its back, his stubby fingers stroking it. ‘A very fine view,' he said. But his gaze did not linger on the islands breaching the water or the birds scudding its surface, settling instead on the veranda roof of rough hewn boards and the spider webs spun at every angle across posts and rails and the way the stable listed and the stockyard fence wavered. Addie came to the door and he looked at her and smiled.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear,' Papa said. ‘My daughter, Adelaide. And this is Mr Stubbs.'

‘Really, I'm Addie,' she said. ‘Only Adelaide when I have forgotten to do something very important – such as feed the chickens.'

Mr Stubbs laughed. ‘Well, chickens are a serious matter.'

‘You may call me Addie. Mayn't he, Papa?'

‘If you say, my dear,' Papa said, inclining his head as if he were conferring a blessing.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Stubbs?' I said.

‘Yes, that would be splendid. Thank you,' Mr Stubbs said. ‘Miss Adelaide – Addie – will entertain us quite well. We must not be greedy and keep both of you here.' He winked at her, which I could not like.

I went down to the kitchen. Addie could not see what Mr Stubbs might be to Papa or what Papa might hope. It was too late to warn her. In the habit of pleasing Papa and everyone else, she was the coquette once more. Perhaps she would like him and Tull would be forgotten. That might be the best thing.

‘Not too hot I hope?' Mr Stubbs was saying when I returned.

‘It's the coolest place we have,' Addie said. ‘So it would be bad luck if I were too hot. But I am quite comfortable, thank you.'

His accent was not that of a well born or educated man – I am sure Mama could have told in an instant where he came from and what his family might be like. He curled his little finger when holding his tea-cup. He trumpeted his nose into a crisp white kerchief and wiped it until it was red before thrusting the scrap of cloth into his pocket. Despite these failings I made sure to be polite since Papa had business dealings with him. Also, Mama said one should always put one's social inferiors at their ease.

Some blacks approached the well, a small family I would say. I hoped the men would not notice, but Addie's shifted gaze alerted them. Papa looked with a sort of sad confusion.

Mr Stubbs stared from them to Papa. ‘Are you not going to do something about them? What are they here for?'

‘Water, from the well,' Papa said. ‘Their sucks have dried.'

‘They should move on then. I'll send them on their way for you if you like. It doesn't do, Finch, to have them about your place so. They're just looking for the chance, the opportunity, and then—' He clapped his hands together, loud enough that we all jumped.

‘No need,' Papa said, moving slowly towards the stairs. At the sight of him the blacks edged back and were gone.

‘They'll likely need a reminder they're not welcome.'

‘They are welcome,' I said.

‘Indeed?' And he turned to Papa.

‘Hitherto,' Papa said with reluctance, ‘we have tried to be generous.'

‘Generous. That's all very well. It's a fine thing, but the wisdom of it. There's the rub, eh, Finch? Keep a musket about you and don't be afraid to use it is my advice. And now, look at that sun. I must be on my way.'

He stood to leave. ‘I hope I will see you again, Addie. Miss Adelaide.' He chuckled as if this were a witticism, then, remembering himself, ‘And you of course, Miss—' He struggled for a moment, the slow machinations of social awareness working, and his eyelids fluttered.

‘Finch,' I said. ‘Miss Finch.'

‘Indeed yes,' he said with relief. ‘I hope I will see you too, of course.'

I smiled.

‘Poor man,' Addie said when he had left us and we were watching him ride away. Halfway up the slope he turned in his saddle and raised his hat with a gay flourish and kicked his bay into a sluggish canter.

‘Poor man? Why is he poor? I wonder that Papa was so civil to him. Shooting the blacks. He and Hugh would get on famously.'

‘You frightened him.'

‘I did not. I was everything that Mama could wish. Was he amusing you?'

‘I like company, Hett.'

‘But such company. And his terrible horse. Did you ever see such a thing? Cow hocked.'

‘It distracts me.'