Wild Lands (19 page)

The stench of fire was on the wind. The acrid scent seemed to grow more powerful every day. ‘The fires.'

‘Ah yes.' He cracked the long whip, reminding the bullock team to retain their steady gait. ‘The blacks are all about burning, burning, burning. One would think they lived on fire instead of water. They're trying to burn the whites out, Miss Kate. That's what it is, for if they burn the grasses, what will the livestock eat?'

‘Mr Southerland told me it was so new grasses would grow, for the animals. The kangaroo and such-like.'

Mr Callahan rolled an aching shoulder. ‘I've heard the same. He's got a name he has, our leader, for getting on with both black
and white. He pacifies us all with stories tried and true and somewhere in the middle is the truth.'

Kate shielded her face with the end of the shawl as the bullocks kicked up dirt and dust. The track they drove along was rutted and dry, the tree branches overlapping so it was as if they moved through a dim tunnel. A few hundred yards on, the pink comfort of dawn greeted them as they left the forest and entered an expanse of open country. She smiled at her companion, but Mr Callahan was focused on the route ahead, on Mr Southerland and his dapple-grey mare and … three figures.

Blacks.

The Aboriginals appeared between the wagon and Mr Southerland, and ran directly towards them, throwing their spears in tandem. Kate screamed as a spear sailed directly at them. The warrior was tall and lean with a mass of dark hair and deep scars etched across his torso. In an instant Mr Callahan reached up, pulling her roughly. Kate fell to the ground with a thud and rolled on her side. The bullocks bellowed, the wagon rocked violently and lurched to a stop. The chickens within screeched as musket shot echoed.

Kate got to her hands and knees. Mr Callahan was running towards the lead of the bullocks, Mr Southerland was at the gallop, his musket directed towards one of the natives. Another shot followed and one of the attackers dropped to the ground. Dazed, Kate retrieved the pistol from the folds of her dress, ran to the edge of the trees and fell to her knees. Her hand trembled violently, the pistol wavered from left to right. With difficulty she removed the safety and tried to steady a raspy breath.

Wrenched to her feet and spun around in one movement, Kate looked up into the eyes of an Aboriginal. His hands were on her shoulders. There was a smell of animal fat, of the earth. A bone pierced his nose. He pushed her hard against a tree so that the scream within her was lost with the winding. His appraisal was
brief, interested. Kate cocked the pistol and fired. Sparks flew. A burning sensation struck her hand. The native fell to the ground, clutching his stomach as she took a shocked step backwards. Feet away, the warrior with the matted hair and scars met her gaze. Then he was gone.

The black tracker, Joe, rode past her, his horse jumping the fallen logs amidst the timber, then he too disappeared into the scrub.

George Southerland galloped towards her and dismounted. ‘Are you hurt?'

‘No.' Kate couldn't take her eyes from the moaning man writhing on the ground before her. His hands clutched at his stomach.

Mr Southerland winced. ‘It's a slow painful death you've given him, miss. But a kill is a kill, I suppose.'

‘I thought … he touched me. I thought …'

‘Come now.' Taking the pistol from Kate's shaking hand, he led her back to the wagon.

Behind them Betts and Gibbs had left their bullock team and joined Mr Callahan. Mr Southerland handed his musket and shot to the Scotsman. ‘You know how to use it?'

‘Aye.' The Scotsman took the firearm without further comment.

‘Keep a lookout then.' He checked Kate's pistol as she leant against a wagon wheel, reloaded it and handed it back into her care. ‘You'll be right. You did good, girl.'

Kate could barely find the pocket amidst the folds of her skirt, her hands shook so badly. As their expedition leader climbed into the rear of the covered wagon to emerge moments later with another musket and extra ammunition, she dry-retched onto the ground.

‘Here.' Mr Southerland handed her a bottle.

‘No, I'm fine really.'

‘Drink it, Kate. It'll fortify you somewhat.'

It was rum. The drink burnt all the way down, but it stayed down and to her surprise Kate took another gulp. Their leader
took two big swigs, stuffed the bottle inside a saddle-bag and then, remounting, gave chase to the fleeing black, and Joe.

‘Damnation.' The bullocks bellowed and kicked out in fear and then one of the two lead animals fell to the ground. Mr Callahan wrenched the spear free of the animal's mid-section as Mr Southerland galloped past. The Scot studied the spear, which had broken off inside the beast, and threw the weapon away in disgust.

‘Will it live?' Kate walked closer, her legs still shaky. The bullock's back legs scraped the dirt as it kicked out.

‘No, he's near dead as a saint and just as useless to us out here.' The man shook his head. ‘Damn fine beast. It's just a waste, a waste I tell you.'

Betts and Gibbs scanned their surrounds. ‘That be a first.' Betts gestured to the musket. ‘Maybe we'll be armed as well.'

‘And a good thing that would be,' Gibbs decided. ‘Even the lass has a pistol.'

Mr Callahan passed Betts the yoke key and ordered them to unhitch the dead bullock, while he stood guard waiting for the Englishman's return. ‘They were a well-matched pair, my leaders,' he told Kate as the metal bow that secured each bullock pair to a wooden yoke was undone and the central chain coupling each pair together in tandem was disconnected.

Two shots sounded from the bush and minutes later Mr Southerland reappeared with Joe. They rode swiftly back to the stationary wagons as the two convicts took one of the less experienced bullocks out of the team and tied him to the rear of the wagon, then they backed up the team and re-hitched the old and new leaders.

‘Are there enough to pull the load?' asked Kate.

‘Aye, lass. We'll be right,' Mr Callahan advised. ‘We've brought extra in case of loss.'

‘Anymore harmed?' Mr Southerland didn't wait for a reply. He ran an experienced eye over the bullocks and then the dead
animal. ‘Cut a hind leg off it, wrap it in a blanket and put it in the rear of one of the wagons. We might as well treat ourselves to a bit of beef. Any problems, Mr Callahan?'

‘No problems, Mr Southerland. We'll manage with what we've got, though they were a doughty pair, those two.'

‘Good as you are then.' He flung a knife in the dirt at Betts' feet and told him to cut the leg and be quick about it. The convict's lip curled. He glanced from their leader to the black tracker on horseback but he did as he was told and, with Gibbs' assistance, carried it to their wagon. ‘I'd be keeping a watch on things, Mr Callahan,' their leader suggested.

‘Aye, you can be assured of that.' He lifted the musket.

‘Keep it.' The men exchanged nods. ‘We could be lucky, but I'm expecting we won't. News travels fast out here. The blacks will know we're coming, how many are in our party and what stock we have. And I fear we haven't made a good first impression,' he said sarcastically.

‘They be after the muskets then, do you think?' the Scotsman asked.

‘Those who have seen them know their limitations. The blacks prefer their spears, they're faster and more accurate, unless you're up close and friendly like Kate was. They'd rather use muskets to shoot birds.'

‘Did you get the other one?' asked Kate, hoping so.

‘He was long gone.' Mr Southerland trotted away to take up position at the front but this time he stayed closer to the wagons, his musket across his thighs.

Joe reappeared from the timber line to canter his horse across and joined him.

Kate climbed up into the wagon and sat on the chest, her heart still pounding as Mr Callahan enticed the bullocks to movement. The animals were testy. The wagon rolled back and forth unsteadily. She would get off and walk in a few minutes but her legs trembled
at the thought of what she'd done. Point and shoot, she'd said earlier that morning.

Ahead, Mr Callahan snapped his whip, once, twice and then resumed his position near the leaders as finally the beasts began to move. The black tracker shared a few words with Mr Southerland and then rode back to Kate's wagon and, taking up a position alongside, kept pace with the bullock team.

Kate felt unnerved by Joe's presence. They'd never spoken directly to each other, which was as it should be, and yet she sensed his dislike, although whether his perceived animosity was for her personally or their expedition it was impossible to tell. ‘Can I help you?' Kate asked, her fingers grasping the lid of the chest as the vibrations from the rough ground shook the wagon. Around Joe's neck hung a metal disc with the letter
J
carved into it. Kate wondered at this trinket, looking quickly away when Joe saw her staring at it. In the grass lay the shot man. The team trundled past the killing spot and Kate couldn't help but look. Red blood pooled on luminous skin and flies were settling on the body. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she turned away. For all the danger they'd been in, there seemed to be something terribly wrong with what she'd done.

Joe turned to her. ‘You take a good look, Missus.' He stared openly, his eyes hard and bright. ‘Welcome to blackfella country. You just done murder.' He twitched the reins and rode away.

1837 September – following the songlines

The rifle shots echoed loudly across the countryside. Bidjia lifted a hand to halt their progress and then together the three men began to run down the hill in the direction of the noise to investigate. It was not yet mid-morning but the men were aware that the base of the tree-lined hills that bordered the valley below was a good place for an ambush. They kept their weapons at the ready, alert to anyone who may be escaping up into the safety of the slopes as they descended. They would be the unexpected strangers, once again moving through lands belonging to another tribe. Small stones scattered as they ran, but soon their path was slowed by the steep and rough terrain and by the time they reached the bottom, nearly an hour had passed.

Bidjia, convinced that any blacks in the area would have already moved on, took up position behind a clump of trees, the two younger men flanking him. Jardi's breath came hard and fast.

‘You are growing slow, Jardi,' Bidjia complained. ‘Soon Bronzewing will outrun you.'

The younger man grunted as they squatted on the ground, peering through the trees. The squeak of wood and leather carried intermittently on the air.

‘Wagons.' Adam leant on his musket, the wooden stock lodged in the dirt. ‘Well, I guess if they were attacked, it's over now.' He didn't mean to sound disappointed but it was some weeks since he'd spoken to a white person and, although they were on the run, Adam found himself more than willing to render assistance to his kind if it were needed.

‘We will leave this place and cross back to the west,' Bidjia announced.

Since leaving the Lycett farm Bidjia had been most careful in frequently altering the direction they travelled in. Adam knew that the older man was right to do so as the path they now journeyed along was heavily settled. It would be better if they did head west and away from the scattering of farms.

They waited with interest for the wagons to reach them. Their leader came into view first, a straggly-limbed white with a dense beard, dressed in skins. Adam knew his sort, a rough but capable adventurer, undoubtedly vital to the holding to which the wagons travelled. He was accompanied by an Aboriginal. Both were on horseback.

‘Guide,' Bidjia said softly.

‘And no livestock,' Adam added, ‘so they're resupplying a holding with provisions.'

The voice of the teamster, a Scotsman, rang out loud and clear as he called out to the bullocks; the crack of the long rawhide whip snapping smartly in his hands. The wagon drew closer until it was level with their position behind the trees. Adam watched as a woman came into view. She stopped walking and, removing the straw hat she wore, turned in the direction where they hid in the timber. He knew she would not be able to see them, they
were well-concealed, and he lifted a leafy branch obstructing his line of sight in order to get a clearer view.

The girl was a dark-haired beauty, slim of figure and of middling height. She appeared to pinch the bridge of her nose as if exhausted. A hand strayed to the skirt she wore and from within the folds of the material a pistol was revealed. She studied the weapon, holding it at arm's length, as if she were considering throwing the firearm away, but eventually she placed it back in her pocket and kept on walking.

They waited as the second wagon lumbered into view. Two rough-looking types clothed in convict garb walked alongside the bullocks. Adam expected more riders, a man suited to being the young woman's husband, brother or father perhaps, but no-one else followed. Her inclusion in the party seemed at odds with the people the girl travelled with and he couldn't help but wonder what or who had led her to travel northwards. Clearly it had been too long since he'd experienced female company and the chances of that happening now were becoming more remote by the day.

‘Come.' Bidjia was already moving uphill.

The dust rose as the last wagon trundled past. Adam observed the sway of the girl's skirts and the way her hand lifted to the wide-brimmed hat on her head when a gust of wind threatened to blow it away.

Jardi thumped him on the chest. ‘Come, this is not the time to be looking for a woman.'

‘No, we are meant to be finding one for you,' Adam countered.

Jardi grinned as they picked their way through the timber.

‘You be better with one of ours,' Bidjia told him. ‘White woman too much trouble.'

Adam laughed, but quietly he decided that some women were worth a little strife.