Wild Lands (17 page)

1837 September – towards the outer limits

The world was obscured by darkness. Kate rubbed at eyes crusted with sleep and peered across the rumple of blankets. Through the rear opening of the covered wagon, the canopy of trees resembled filigree. Branches wavered slowly in the light breeze and through the woody ceiling a few stars glimmered weakly. There was movement beyond the insubstantial structure, which served as both bedchamber and carriage, a crackle of twigs, leaves and the pre-dawn mutterings of a man well-used to a daily task. The cloth side of the wagon was illuminated as the camp fire flared. Gradually the light grew steady and the many crates piled behind Kate's narrow sleeping space were revealed.

The beginning of the day brought relief. Kate found it strange how quickly one grew accustomed to a new life, to the endless monotony of travelling, and the men about her, but she was not without fear. Night had become a living thing. It moved around her, over and under her, like a wild beast circling. Sounds echoed, things moved and there was no sturdy door between her and it.
With the sun's rising some comfort could be gained. The impenetrable countryside was at least visible and there was movement of man, horse and bullock, a distraction from the images that pursued her when the shadows lengthened.

In the pre-dawn gloom came a shuffling noise. It would be the Major sitting in the dirt pulling on his boots. His sleeplessness, which alternated impressively between grunts and snores, kept Kate firmly aware of his presence throughout each night. The man's nocturnal wanderings involved hefting himself up from the rough ground by hanging onto the wheel of the wagon. This action caused the creaking of wood, which invariably disturbed Mr Southerland, who was quick to reach for his Brown Bess musket. The false alarm brought muttering and oaths aplenty from the two convicts, and relief from Kate, who'd grown used to waking wide-eyed. The fact that the men had taken to sleeping in shifts in order to keep an eye on the camp and that Major Shaw was intent on checking that the man on guard stayed awake, should have allayed any fears. It didn't. The men remained uneasy.

The jangle of iron keys announced that the Londoners, Jim Betts and Harry Gibbs, were being released from their nightly leg-irons. The Major was a stickler for protocol although where he thought these two felons would wander off to remained a mystery. Even Mr Southerland, the expedition leader, thought it an unnecessary precaution, although for the first part of their journey there were villages and shanties along the way. Betts and Gibbs were assigned to the colony for stealing, and with months of provisions packed into the two bullock drays, including muskets and ammunition, Kate believed such caution was needed.

From beyond the wagon came a whistled tune. The presence of the convivial if rough Scotsman, Mr Callahan, was a boon. Grey of hair and beard, no doubt as much from the harshness of his life as age, he'd been granted a ticket-of-leave and from the beginning of the journey had assumed the role of cook. ‘Nothing like a
good fire. Black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat it was this morning,' the Scot exclaimed to no-one in particular.

To date their group had travelled together reasonably well. Generally complaints were short-lived for, depending on the perpetrator, punishment could run to the withholding of food from the felons through to the Major's withering gaze, should anyone query the slightest of things. But the final word on nearly everything invariably lay with their designated leader, George Southerland.

The three chickens roosting in the timber cage on the ground squawked on waking and the rooster gave a single call. The Major lifted the birds. ‘Miss Carter?'

Kate sat up and wrapped the blanket tightly about her cotton shift.

‘I thought you'd be awake.' He pushed the cage into the rear of the wagon, his voice betraying his discomfort at disturbing her. ‘I hope you slept well,' he muttered as he turned to walk a short distance from the campsite.

‘Yes, thank you,' Kate replied over the noise of the flapping chickens as she reached in the dark for her clothes. It was reassuring to have the Major sleeping next to her wagon, even if he did disturb her during the night and made a point of ensuring she was awake every morning. Kate was not happy that he was soon to depart. The Major's ablutions carried across the shadows, loud and long. None of them were precious about keeping close to the camp's perimeter when nature called. Mr Southerland had been strict in his rules. No walking off, no dawdling and no complaining. Men had wandered into the bush and got lost and he wasn't one for chasing after lunatics.

‘There's many a Scot who'd lay claim to a pint of piss on a cold morning, Major Shaw, sir,' Mr Callahan commented when the Major reappeared.

‘But then I'm betting you'd be one for pure alcohol,' the Major replied, ‘and I can't help you there.'

The Scot gave a throaty laugh. 'Tis true, it's a sad day to be out bush and not even a shanty to be had. When I think of those fine establishments we passed …'

The timber boards were pitiless beneath her knees as Kate peered through the wagon's opening. A harder night's sleep she'd never experienced, but it had been at her insistence. The thought of the cold, hard ground held little appeal while they travelled through mountainous country and the heavy dew that covered the land was reason enough to stay in the wagon. It also allowed the removal of the boned bodice she wore and a few hours' respite from the men who surrounded her every day. She'd never been party to such continued male companionship before, to their looks and innuendo, and at times Kate wished she'd given more thought to the irreconcilable decision made some weeks prior.

Kate had decided that if the colony of New South Wales had a creator, then surely it was a man. No woman would conjure brown dirt, patchy grasses and rough ground. No woman would make a sun that dried the land and those that walked upon it, nor create the fractious natives who'd killed one of their own, a harmless girl no less. Kate rubbed her arms and hands briskly, coaxing warmth into stiff limbs, begrudging the men their spots by the fire where, bodies outstretched, they enjoyed the freedom of a warm night's sleep.

Now the men were risen Kate hiked up her skirts and climbed down from the rear of the wagon. There were three men standing near the fire, their dark figures silhouetted by yellow light. The two convicts were waiting for the quart-pots to boil, while Mr Callahan was dolloping spoonfuls of a lumpy mixture – flour, water and salt – onto the griddle. The flat iron disk with its upturned rim was the Scot's favoured cooking item. He'd hung the chain that was attached to the hoop handle from a sturdy bough, supported by two upright branches, and the johnny-cake mixture sizzled as it hit the hot metal.

‘That be the only good thing to come out of Scotland,' the convict Betts stated.

‘Apart from me,' the Scotsman chuckled.

Kate's stomach growled as she picked her way carefully to the edge of the rim of light and, hiding behind a tree, gathered up her skirts and squatted. It was weeks since the Kable farm had vanished from view. In its place was the rough life of the traveller, with long days of being jolted across uneven ground, limited conversation and the problem of being the only female in a party of eight men, including the Aboriginal, Joe.

Kate tugged at her petticoat, tied the string on her drawers and sniffed the breeze. The smell of smoke, beyond that of the camp fire, hung in the air. At various stages of their passage they'd seen smoke on the horizon or passed through country previously burnt. It was a harsh scent, bitter to the throat and stinging to the eyes. And it rarely dissipated. Mr Southerland told her the natives did it to entice the regrowth of grasses, which in turn brought the animals that were part of their food supply. A less sinister reason could not be devised. A female she may well be, however Kate knew when she was being placated.

She walked back to the wagon. Lieutenant Wilson and Captain Gage were leaving today with the Major. They had already travelled farther than they intended as Maitland was a good three days' ride south. The infantrymen who'd accompanied them from Parramatta and who'd been seconded to join mounted troopers based in Maitland had not journeyed with them further. Their leaving made the reduced party so much the quieter and after this morning their numbers would be smaller still. The horses whinnied and shuffled their feet.

The convicts were grumbling about the cold as Mr Callahan advised them to cheer up, for it would be another perfect day. ‘There was a red sky last night. You be forgetting the signs, Betts.'

‘You and your signs, old man. I didn't grow up surrounded by fields. It's you who should be the shepherd, not Harry or me. We're not born to it.'

Mr Callahan told them to finish their johnny-cakes and save their talk for those who were interested in hearing it. ‘It's not right to force a man to come out here,' Harry Gibbs said woodenly. ‘I don't know nothing about nothing out here.'

‘Excepting that it's full of blacks,' Betts added, ‘and that some men make their fortunes and others lose what little they had and those that do the work are just as likely to be speared in the back as die as paupers.'

‘You two will be just fine then, for you've nothing to lose,' Mr Callahan answered brightly. ‘Besides, I've heard tell that a convict can do well out here. Put your mind to the task at hand, do what you're told and you'll make a go of things.'

‘If a man's not speared.' Gibbs slurped his tea.

Kate had grown used to the comforting crackle of tinder and the black sugary tea which followed, and with the chill wind blowing this morning the hot drink would be doubly welcome. Spring may have been upon them, yet the hills were unkind once the shadows encroached.

‘Here you are, Miss Kate.' Mr Callahan deposited a pannikin of tea and a two johnny-cakes in her hands. ‘There's sugar in your tea, just how you like it.' He lowered his voice. ‘And I sprinkled a bit on the cakes.'

‘You're too good to me, Mr Callahan.' She ate quickly, moistening her dry mouth with sips of tea, her eyes still crusty with sleep.

The bullocks were being walked back to the wagons by the convicts, ready to be hitched. Their complaining bellows signalled they would soon be leaving and it paid to be ready on time. Kate rolled up her bedding and, securing it with a leather strap, stowed it safely away, then she set about brushing her hair and gathering it into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Now that the convicts had left to attend to their allotted tasks, the soldiers and Mr Southerland gathered near the fire and broke the night's fast with gulps and belches as they ate, and then they too completed packing up their gear, rolling swags and kicking dirt onto the fire. By the time the bullocks were hitched Lieutenant Wilson was waiting as he did every morning to assist her up into the wagon, where, once seated, Mr Callahan would talk to her from the ground as he walked, barely drawing breath for the entire day. Kate knew the rest of the men thought it a great joke that she'd been lumbered with a man that Mr Southerland said had the vocal constitution of his dead mother-in-law. The comment made her wonder what happened to Mr Southerland's wife.

‘I would be pleased to see you again.' Lieutenant Wilson held her hand for longer than necessary as Kate stepped up to her seat, a battered sea-chest. In the half-light the paleness of his skin made the young man appear almost sickly in pallor. He only ever spoke to her at this time. It was as if in the minutes between night and day, when features were partially concealed and the bustle of departure was upon them, that he felt comfortable in conversing with her, away from watchful eyes and the smirks of the men. ‘You will take care, Miss Carter.'

Kate clasped the side of the wagon as the bullock team took a few steps forwards in anticipation. ‘I fear you worry too much. There are plenty of women settling beyond the mountains.'

‘Not so many where you are going. You will be in demand.'

Mr Callahan was at the lead, speaking to the animals as if they were children, reminding them of the cargo they carried and of the miles he expected the team to travel this day.

‘Were you able to write to me you could send it care of the barracks at Parramatta.'

Kate should have guessed by the Lieutenant's attentiveness ever since they'd first met that his departure today would not occur without comment. ‘You have honoured me with your attention, but
I have no idea how long I shall be away for.' He was a soft-hearted young man and for that quality alone Kate liked him. Over the past weeks she'd learnt a little of his life. The youngest son of a wealthy northern English family, whose father had purchased his commission, the Lieutenant was intent on proving his ability to both his family and himself. He would be a loyal friend, but it was clear that where Kate was concerned, such a relationship was not on his mind.

‘Time matters little,' the Lieutenant pursued. ‘I have been promised land. You would want for nothing.'

The Major approached on horseback as the faintest touch of colour tinged the sky, a pre-dawn pearling light. ‘Lieutenant, if you've finished holding Miss Carter's hand perhaps we could get a move on?' His gaze lingered on Kate as Wilson backed away reluctantly. She busied herself, rearranging the shawl across her shoulders. Kate knew she should have said something, anything, at least thanked the Lieutenant for his interest. His was a fine offer, a far better offer than what may have been available to her if she'd been born in England.

‘You will listen to George?' The Major's horse breathed a fine mist. ‘He may not have the subtle niceties that you're used to, Kate, but he will keep you alive and you have yet weeks of travelling before you.'

It was the first time that he'd addressed her by her first name. ‘Of course, and I wanted to thank you, Major, for staying longer. It has been something of a comfort to –'