Wild Lands (20 page)

1837 October – towards the white space
on the map

Mr Southerland had informed the expedition that he believed that there were only ten days to go before they reached their destination. But that was before Mr Callahan's bullock dray became bogged crossing a muddy creek. Kate had been forced to wade through the mud to the bank and it was here she now sat, surrounded by the wagon's contents, which had been removed to lighten the load. Amidst barrels and sacks, trunks and wooden crates she remained, her palms planted firmly on the ground, grateful for the lack of passage. It seemed as if she still moved for the endless momentum of bumpy travel stayed with her even when stationary.

A few hundred yards away the men heaved on thick ropes attached to the lead bullock's yokes. There were yells and curses and the crack of a whip and more than once they halted in their task and surveyed the few inches they'd managed to drag the wagon forward. Kate observed the seemingly useless attempt to recover the dray through eyes half-closed against a too-bright sun. The Major and his men would have added significantly to the
manpower required but they were long gone. In their absence, the trip seemed never-ending, the days grew longer and the men edgier. Another bullock had been speared in the past week. The native had run towards them, thrown the spear and disappeared into the scrub. On other occasions the natives followed them at a distance for a whole day and then melted into the landscape. Kate understood now this was not white man's country. She kept the pistol on her person and scanned the surrounding land nervously as everyone else did.

Theirs was a solemn procession. Mr Southerland took the lead, followed by Kate and Mr Callahan, and then the two convicts and the second bullock dray. As they journeyed further northwards, conversation became limited. Even the rooster eventually stopped his daily crowing, a bad sign in Mr Callahan's opinion and silently Kate agreed. It was as if the quiet which they travelled through had invaded their souls. So lonely and desolate had the country become that the call of a crow came to signal despair, an owl, the depth of the unknown surrounding them.

Strangely, sitting on the creek bank, it was heartening to hear the men shout and swear, even though their comments were shockingly unsavoury. It made Kate feel alive, gave hope that even out here they as a group had a voice which might be heard.

They'd seen no-one for weeks, apart from a dilapidated humpy that had housed a man and two native boys. They had come across the dwelling by accident, having taken a detour to bypass some fallen trees. There was no thought of Kate venturing near the dwelling. Ordered to stay with the wagons while Mr Southerland and Joe had spoken to the inhabitant, they returned with little news, other than to say that the man was a loner, a runaway no doubt, who was only interested in tobacco and sugar. The man had watched them as the wagons trundled away.

Picking at the drying mud that encased her feet, Kate bashed the heels of her wrecked shoes together. They would need to be
sun-dried before she had any hope of removing the sticky black sludge. She hoped for fresh water before they reached the Hardys' run, to wash her body and hair, to finally eat more than the kangaroo, birds and bread they existed on. Every day she thought of the orchard left behind and of the barrels of preserved oranges and lemons behind the dray's seat. During the long afternoons as their small party travelled onwards, the scent of the fruit tantalised in the heavy air. Kate knew it was just her imagination, that the citrus enticed through its very existence, but it did not stop her thinking of prising the barrels open and stuffing her mouth with the sweetness within.

The dray and its contents were the heart of the venture. Theirs was a travelling store, holding provisions for the Kables and the farm's inhabitants. There would be no more trips south for at least a year once they arrived, Mr Southerland explained in the early days of their journey when Kate had remarked upon the quantity of goods. It seemed that many a settler had been forced to abandon their expeditions to a new run when their provisions were lost or spoilt en route. It was impossible for most to survive without supplies on the frontier and there was also the problem of cost. Kate learnt that goods were extraordinarily expensive and in many cases could not be replaced by those who'd spent their savings. There were those who ran out of supplies before they'd established themselves and, after months of living only on meat, grew grievously ill. Some died. Such stories made all in Kate's party protective of their cargo. For a loss of stores affected everyone – settler and convict alike. There was flour, salt, sugar, tea, tobacco and grain. Apparently the wheat crop had failed and seed was urgently needed for the coming year and that most precious of staples, bread. There were also vegetable seeds and two potted fruit plants, seedlings. Miraculously they were still alive, although watering had been infrequent.

The men heaved. The timber wagon groaned. The bullocks' muscled shoulders rippled as the animals dug their hooves into the
swill at their feet. They managed one foot, two and then with a jolt the lumbering animals rushed forward, pulling the wagon free. The men gave a cheer. Nothing was broken. With the wagon checked and double-checked for any damage, the bullock team was led to shade.

‘We'll rest here,' Mr Southerland advised as the men fell to the ground exhausted. Overhead the sun grew hot. Sticky black flies antagonised eyes, noses and mouths. In the distance the land grew hazy with heat.

‘Is there clean water near, Mr Southerland?' asked Kate, sipping from a waterbag.

‘Joe's gone a-looking.' Sinking to the ground he upended a bootful of sloshy water. ‘That was lucky. I wouldn't like to have arrived having lost that load.'

It was too hot to sleep in the middle of the day. Kate always felt listless afterwards if she did close her eyes like the others. In spite of her nervousness and the strict rules laid down by Mr Southerland, she'd taken to walking, always keeping in sight of where they camped. Today was no different. As the men drifted off, she left them to skirt the listless creek upstream and down, stooping to collect shiny pebbles, sticks and branches. Most would be thrown away on leaving but the objects gave Kate something to examine while she waited for the trip to recommence. Some items she kept, dropping them onto the dirt from the dray, as if one day she would return this way and her markers would lead her back to Sydney.

Ahead, in their path lay a line of stony hills. Mr Southerland promised that once they reached the other side that they would come upon a well-watered valley, with excellent pasture, bounded on each side by a bold and elevated rocky range. His description was certainly compelling, however, before such a splendid sight was reached there was still a couple of days' travel, and water was vital. A half-empty barrel of water for human consumption was all that
remained on one of the drays. Of more concern were the bullocks and horses.

Along the bank the men still dozed. Kate wandered through the trees, dragging a fallen branch behind her in order to find her way back. She'd not gone far and was admiring the lightly timbered country when she came across the skeletal remains of three humans. They lay where they'd fallen. Their clothes tattered by the wind, sun and rain, their swags in the dirt by their sides. It was such a dismal sight to stumble upon that Kate simply stood and stared. It was as if they'd not had the strength to carry on. Maybe they'd died of hunger, or perhaps the same creek that bogged the dray was also dry when they'd walked through here.

So intent were her thoughts that Kate didn't hear the four blacks walk out of the scrub. They were upon her before she had a chance to run. Nervously she began walking backwards, aware they studied every move, conscious of the snapping of twigs as her mud-crusted shoes found purchase on the uneven ground. She reached for the pistol, her progress halted by a tree. She backed hard into the thick trunk, and screamed.

‘You alright, Missus? These blackfellas heard your mob is all.'

It was Joe. The guide joined the four blacks. ‘They okay. I tell them Mr George not sit down here. We just passing through.'

Her throat was dry and raspy. ‘The dray got bogged,' Kate found her voice. ‘But it's out now.'

One of the native men, a tall individual with a painted chest and a querying stare, approached her. Kate wanted to run. Instead she pushed her shoulder blades tight against the tree trunk, dug her nails into the bark and, although frightened, held her ground.

‘They heard of white man, but this one not seen white man, especially white woman,' Joe explained.

That didn't make Kate feel any safer. The black walked straight up to her and touched her cheek, rubbing her skin. Kate flinched and turned her head.

‘He think you spirit from across the sea, that beneath the paleness there will be black, maybe you dead family.'

Kate pushed the man's hand away. ‘I don't think so.'

Unperturbed, the Aboriginal ran a hand across her breast and shoulder then he fingered the material of her skirt. Finally he tried to lift her dress to see what was underneath.

She brushed his hand away. ‘Stop it.'

‘Step away.' George Southerland was at her side, his musket lifted. ‘What did I tell you about wandering off?'

The blacks bolted, hiding behind some distant trees.

‘They not all see white man but they heard about white man's thunder.' Joe gestured to the musket. ‘No harm, Boss. I tell Missus they not see whitefella, they think you come across the sea from the place of the ancestors. They not realise there be more lands beyond the water.'

‘How can they not know that?' Kate asked curtly. She suspected that Joe had enjoyed her discomfort.

‘'Cause they only know this land, they have no sense that there be more. You stay here long enough, Missus, then you too will learn this land enough. We don't want no trouble with another.'

George lowered his firearm and gradually the blacks reappeared. ‘Did you find water, Joe?'

‘Yes, Boss. Good crick two mile. Rough travelling.'

‘Well, we'll have to go slow. What do they want?'

Joe turned to the natives and, in a mixture of pigeon English and a local dialect, repeated the question. The same man who had subjected Kate to such scrutiny responded.

‘Tomahawk, Boss. And maybe sugar,' Joe interpreted.

‘Very well, and they'll give us safe passage?'

Joe pointed to the stony hills that were knife-edge sharp against the horizon. ‘Yes, Boss. Then you be in Mr Stewart's place, big run, big station.'

‘Stewart's done well,' he told Kate. ‘It was somewhat of a shock for Samuel Hardy to reach the valley ahead only to discover that a Scotsman had already claimed 40,000 acres of it.' On turning to leave, he noticed the remains on the ground. The Englishman kicked one of the bodies. ‘Poor blighters.' When he picked up the swags, the material fell apart. ‘Ran out of water I reckon, or the sun-sickness got them.' The bush was quiet in the midday heat. Lifting his hat, he wiped at the sweat on his brow. ‘No rain since we last came through, Joe.'

‘Everything get plenty thirsty soon.' The tracker stared at Kate. ‘Whitefella have plenty problem then. Blackfella, cattle and sheep, bush animals, all want water, all want food.'

‘One thing you can be assured of in this country is drought, Joe, we're agreed on that. And you, Miss Carter, it's a hard land. If you don't want to end up like them,' he pointed to the bodies, ‘I suggest you not go wandering off again.'

‘But we cannot leave them, Mr Southerland.'

He didn't give the dead a backward glance. Increasing her pace Kate caught up with him. ‘Mr Southerland, we must do something. We must at least bury them and say the proper words out of respect.'

‘Respect? They didn't have much respect for the land they found themselves in and I think the time for burial is long over for those men.'

‘As Christians, Mr Southerland, it is our duty to ensure that those men are accorded the proper rights. Surely in our leaving of Sydney we have not also left behind the fundamentals of civilised society,' Kate said indignantly.

‘You believe in all that, do you? I thought you had more sense. But it's to be expected, I suppose, with you having lived with a Reverend.'

‘I-I don't believe. It's just that there are certain practices which mark the civilised from the uncivilised and –'

‘Miss Carter, look about you. We are in the middle of nowhere. Outnumbered by blacks though you don't see them all. But I see them. Every day there is some sign that tells me we are travelling across an old land and the people whose territory it is have been here for a very long time. The trees carry their markings, the waterways their camping spots, the smoke you have seen has been caused by them. They're everywhere. You walk into the timber and scream at the sight of them and truly I wonder that you were not speared, for women aren't immune from attacks and few people are lucky twice.' He drew breath and adjusted the musket on his shoulder. ‘You were lucky. Joe tells me that the clans in this area are peaceful. And we're lucky we've made it this far with no deaths, excepting two bullocks and a dent to my pride. But it is my task to ensure that this expedition reaches its final destination and having already been delayed for a good part of the day, I will not stop to bury those who, whether it be through their own making or not, have fallen foul of this land. They are dead. They know not whether they are buried or not, miss. This is a harsh place. If you've not the stomach for it, you should not have come.'

Kate clenched her fists together, rushing to think of an appropriate retort. ‘You are no Christian, Mr Southerland.'

The man grinned. ‘Well, miss, that's one thing I never professed to be.'

Kate's fingernails dug into her hands. Some feet away Joe observed this exchange with a scornful grin. If her mother were still alive, a daughter's letters home would be of little comfort, for surely Kate travelled with the worst of men; convicts, one black and a heathen. Hardly the company Lesley Carter would have hoped for for her only child.