Tears of the Moon (15 page)

Conrad put down his mug of sweet black tea and took Olivia’s hand. ‘Olivia dear, I think perhaps we should give thanks to the good Lord for this meal and ask that he bless our home.’ Remembering the simple prayers of his father, Conrad bowed his head and said, ‘Thank you, Lord, for this food upon our table, the roof over our head and for your guidance and protection.’

Olivia whispered ‘Amen’ and thought of the Reverend Albert Cochrane back in London and
wished he could christen the baby. While it was a simple thanksgiving she believed Conrad’s dedication to work would see mat they achieved their goals.

But as the weeks went by, and Conrad inspected their land more closely, they discovered the terrain was worse than they thought and would prove difficult for sheep or cattle. The waterhole was not big and a place for a well would need to be found. It was apparent the last wet season had not been a good one. The country was hot and dry and the only things that flourished were the flies. Their first sheep were soon due to arrive in Cossack and Conrad planned to ride to town with one of his stockmen to bring them back, as he knew nothing about handling stock and was ill at ease on a horse. He had also hired John Tyndall to bring the rest of their goods and extra supplies out to them by dray when his next shipment arrived from Fremantle.

In the soaring heat of a summer’s morning, Olivia worked in their small house. She was tired from lack of sleep, as James had been fretful and cried most of the previous night. Conrad was completing the shed he was building, while the two hired men were across the property, fencing a holding paddock around a dam. At mid–morning she tied Conrad’s lunch of pickled meat and damper in a small cloth and prepared to take it to him with a billycan of hot tea. She checked the baby, who was sleeping in a cradle crudely fashioned from a wooden box and set up near their bed. Normally she carried him with her in a sling like she’d seen the Aboriginal women use, as it kept him calm and seemed to stop his fretfulness
by being close to her body. But for once he was sleeping well after a long feed instead of short bursts of fussy eating. She decided to leave him where he was and set out to where Conrad was working.

Conrad was having difficulty stretching a length of wire and asked Olivia to help. They worked together, talking little, until the task was finished.

Wiping his brow Conrad looked about him. ‘A hot wind has sprung up,’ he observed, then smiled at her, ‘Come and share my lunch.’

‘I’ve eaten, and I’ve left James sleeping.’

‘Olivia, do sit with me for a moment.’ They moved to the shade of a tree and sat with their backs against the tree trunk. ‘I know it is hard at present, but I feel sure the sheep will do well. We need the wet to boost the feed and I will look into other means of making our way. Maybe cattle at some stage.’ He talked on with a desperate buoyancy, describing how he saw the eventual layout of their land. She knew he was seeing sheep and cattle grazing and yarded in organised paddocks dotted with sheds and horses, and herself tending flowers she loved so much before a large and gracious homestead.

But for Olivia, tired and depressed, all she saw was the hardship of the reality before them—heat, flies and loneliness. And smoke, and a strange smell …

Olivia jumped to her feet. ‘Conrad, that smoke … there’s too much for the chimney … quickly!’

Scrambling to his feet Conrad raced with Olivia through the trees and over the little crest to where they saw their cottage partially smothered in flames and smoke.

‘Oh my God—James!’ screamed Olivia, tripping over her long dress as she ran. Conrad, fear clutching at him, sped ahead of her. The kitchen lean–to was already burned out, the roof was alight and as they ran they saw to their horror the fiery roof cave in over the rear section which they used as sleeping quarters. Like some voracious monster, fanned by the hot breath of wind, the flames swallowed their little home. With gasping wrenching cries of agony, Conrad tried to push forward, but the heat, smoke and flying sparks seared his skin and hair and choked his breath. Olivia, not hearing the screams that were torn from her chest, grabbed at him and they fell to the ground, clutching one another as if mortally wounded while their son and their future, died before their eyes.

In the silent bush, partially burned by the fire that had leapt from the house to nearby trees, no bird sang, no small creatures moved. Olivia had lost track of time, and squatted, motionless at the graveside, seeing only the nightmare scenes unroll, rewind, and roll forward once more, and she could do nothing to change the scenario of events that had burned into her soul. She crumbled a handful of the red dirt from the tiny grave, staining the palms of her pale hands, still blistered from her puny grab at the wild thing that had taken her child. She nursed her grief, crouching by the mound of earth marked by a plain wooden cross, her hand still clutching the coarse, dry red dirt.

She heard the slow steps but did not look up. The
grief–stricken eyes of Conrad caused her pain and guilt and she had spurned any broken advances he made to comfort her.

There was a slight cough and a gentle male voice, ‘Mrs Hennessy … words fail me … ’

She slowly raised her head and gazed into the concerned eyes of Captain John Tyndall. He squatted on his heels beside her, taking off his hat. She made no response and barely acknowledged his presence.

‘I brought your supplies and hoped to find you progressing well … I didn’t expect to discover this … this tragedy. I would like to say something to comfort you, but … ’ The wounded expression in her eyes, her crumpled body by her baby’s grave, touched him deeply. He remembered her vitality and strength, alone on the beach after she had given birth. He reached out and took her hand and patted it in a gesture of comfort.

She finally spoke in a whisper. ‘He wasn’t christened. We wanted to call him James. He won’t go to Heaven … he’ll be left here … all alone … ’ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Tyndall felt helpless then tightened his grip on her hand. ‘The Aboriginal women who helped you when you gave birth … tell me, did they do a little ceremony?’

She nodded and told him briefly as best she could of the ritual she’d seen. A small light seemed to glow in her eyes and she studied him intently. ‘What did it mean?’ she asked.

‘It means your son is safe. He has returned to his spiritual home. That was a birth ceremony, they
believe that the spirit returns to its place of birth, its Dreaming place. A place where he will find peace and joy and return to his own spirit world. Your son was christened without a doubt, Mrs Hennessy … Aboriginal style.’

She stared at him, her face softening with relief for an instant. She started to look back at the grave but Tyndall took her arm and helped her to her feet. ‘Let’s go back to the camp,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll help you both back to town and you can stay at my house as long as you like. I will stay on my boat.’ He anticipated her protest. ‘No, I assure you it won’t be an inconvenience. I’m busy making some changes on board for a new enterprise.’

He held her arm supportively in his and they walked in silence back to the tent Conrad had set up near the ruins of the cottage. Conrad was tending to the horses from Tyndall’s dray but his shoulders drooped and he moved with little energy. He suddenly looked an old man. Olivia walked to the tent while Tyndall approached Conrad at the wagon. Reaching into a bag under the seat, he pulled out a bottle.

‘The sun isn’t over the yardarm, Mr Hennessy,’ he said brandishing the bottle, ‘but I declare it is nevertheless time for you and me to have a little something that braces the spirit.’

He picked up two enamel mugs from beside the fire, tossed out the dregs of tea and poured a couple of stiff slugs of rum. The two men walked back to the dray and sat in its shade against a wheel, their legs stretched out in the dirt.

‘To the future, Mr Hennessy,’ said Tyndall softly, raising his mug in salute.

Conrad looked at him with glazed eyes, fighting back tears. Slowly he raised his mug. ‘The future,’ he choked a little over his words. ‘The past has so far been a bloody disaster … ever since we arrived in this godforsaken country.’ He forced the mug to his lips and swallowed hard.

Tyndall drank too, then cradled the mug in his hands. ‘Yes, it can be a cruel land, and for you it has been crueller than anyone would expect. But life must go on. What do you plan to do now?’

‘Quit this place,’ snapped Conrad with bitterness. ‘I doubt we really have the skill or the will now to make a go of it. Perhaps there is some opportunity in town. I still have some capital left.’

Tyndall said nothing for awhile, but sipped thoughtfully at his rum.

‘Well now, that’s an interesting prospect,’ he said at last. ‘You told me about your background when we sailed to Cossack and it seems to me I have a little project that might be just what suits you.’

Conrad stared at him. ‘And what might that be?’

‘Pearling my friend, pearling.’

Inside the tent Olivia carefully emptied the handful of red dirt she had brought from the grave into a small jar and tightened the lid. Biting her lip, she put it safely in the trunk that held her remaining clothes, shut the lid and went outside.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he three men picked their way through the oily red slick of the tidal mudflat trying to avoid the sharp points of new shoots, ducking between the spread of mangroves until they reached a cleared area where the lugger lay on its side, shrouded in damp hessian sacks like a veiled bride.

Conrad watched Ahmed walk around the boat, lifting a sack, tapping on the hull, peering into its belly.

Tyndall studied the rigging then walked around checking the deck and fittings. Looking thoughtful he turned to Ahmed crawling out of the fo’c’sle hatch. ‘So what do you think eh, Ahmed? We take her to sea or not?’

‘Must sail it, tuan.’

‘I suppose it’s the only way to tell if a boat is sea-worthy,’ offered Conrad, taking off his hat and wiping his brow. He found the heat and humidity of the mangroves oppressive.

‘That’s the final test. Ahmed can tell if she’ll ride well and be what he calls a “setia” boat—a loyal one. He has a sixth sense about boats,’ explained Tyndall. ‘Like some men with horses. This is an old boat but a good one. She’s made from kajibut timber, built inland, put on wheels and carted to the coast. She’s given good service.’

On the full tide the
Bulan
was refloated and Conrad marvelled at the synchronicity between Tyndall and Ahmed. He sat on the deck doing as he was directed and wondering if he would ever feel at home at sea. As they headed through the channel to the open sea with billowing sails he drew a deep breath, relieved to feel the wind and seaspray after the muggy, sluggish atmosphere of the mudflats, and began to understand a little better what Tyndall had told him about the lure of life at sea. He had never imagined that he would be involved in something as … he searched for the right word to describe his ambivalent feelings … as buccaneering, yes, as buccaneering as pearling. It was a long way from the Bon Marche Emporium owned by Olivia’s father in Southwark. He was still cautious about this undertaking, but Tyndall had been persuasive, explaining how lucrative the pearling industry was—though not without risks, for it was dangerous work with no guarantees. However, with his knowledge of new shell grounds, his contacts, sheer bravado and salesmanship, the odds seemed to be in their favour.

While Ahmed and Tyndall put the
Bulan
through its paces, Conrad reflected on the last few weeks since they had arrived in Cossack.

Tyndall had brought the shocked and grieving Hennessys into Cossack, settled them into his small house and then broached the idea of going into partnership in a pearling lugger. When Conrad had protested he knew nothing about this business, Tyndall had countered by asking what he knew of farming and running stock.

It was Olivia who had surprised them both by speaking up. ‘Conrad, I think you should consider the idea. You have organisational skills, a business head for numbers. I’m sure Captain Tyndall didn’t see you at the helm of a lugger. I think we should move in a new direction.’

She didn’t add that in her heart she had never felt that Conrad was cut out for life on the land, particularly land as harsh as the property from which they had just fled. Had James lived, she would have stayed beside her husband and battled on, trying to make good in the wilderness. But since meeting Captain Tyndall again she began to think Conrad should participate in something that held the promise of quicker profit as well as a total change in their lives. She still hadn’t totally assessed what kind of man Tyndall was, for his rather swashbuckling ways disturbed her, even his charm caused her disquiet, but her inclination was to trust him. His relationship with the Aborigines put him in a different category to most of the Europeans she’d met. They generally despised the blacks, dismissing them as worthless and of no account.