Wild Lands (22 page)

From the top of the rise directly before them was a small valley and, on the other side, a wind-blown hill. A curl of smoke drew the eye and on closer inspection two huts could be seen framed by trees on the western side. It was a desolate spot but the position afforded a clear view of part of the valley. Mr Callahan kept a firm hand on the dray's brake as the bullocks lurched down the slope. A small group of cattle were feeding into a westerly wind, while mobs of
sheep were being herded to the east by a single shepherd. The Scot was moved by the sight. ‘Could almost be home. ‘'Course the hills would be bigger and it'd be colder and greener and there'd be trickling streams and deer, and less trees, and there'd be cairns to mark the trail, but it could nearly be home.'

Kate suppressed a laugh. She would miss seeing Mr Callahan.

On reaching the flats, Mr Southerland, devoid of his admirers, galloped through the trees and drew level with them. ‘As good a sight as a man could wish for.' He reined his horse in, keeping pace with the wagon. ‘I reckon the Hardys will be pleased to see us. Be prepared for days of questioning, Miss Carter. I doubt they've seen anybody else since I left months ago.'

‘And the main house, Mr Southerland, is it behind those trees?' Kate strained to be polite after what she'd just witnessed, although her own enthusiasm at nearing the end of their journey fought for release.

The Englishman lifted a shaggy eyebrow. ‘That is the house. The smaller hut is the kitchen. Behind it a quarter-mile is the men's hut.'

Kate looked at the distant buildings and looked again. Surely it wasn't possible. The structures were partially circled on the north and western side by trees. While behind them, the steep hill rose to a timbered peak. The two buildings jutted out from the side of the mound in precarious fashion, and it appeared as if at any moment both huts could slide down the side of the hill.

‘If you were expecting the likes of the Kable farm, I fear you'll be disappointed. Best you forget the comforts of Syd-e-ney, Miss Carter, and any expectations that might be filling your head. Here we only have what we bring with us, or what we can grow or make ourselves.'

She'd travelled for weeks on end, very nearly been speared by natives,
for this
? The thought of Reverend Horsley with his comfortable cottage and ordered life made Kate momentarily stop
mid-stride. She thought she would sick up the knob of bread and black tea eaten hours previously.

‘You best rest the bullocks a mile further on, Mr Callahan, no more than a half hour. We want to have these supplies unloaded and the bullocks unharnessed before dark.'

‘As you say, Mr Southerland.'

‘And the musket, if you please.'

With reluctance Mr Callahan passed the rifle back to the Englishman and their expedition leader rode away. ‘Mr Southerland will do right by us. He'll speak to this Hardy and tell 'em what's what.' The Scot displayed his missing tooth in a wide-lipped grin. ‘Come on, lass,' he encouraged, although his enthusiasm had diminished somewhat, ‘there's houses and people and a new life to reckon with. We must all make the best of things and remember, you can leave eventually.'

Kate thought of the return trip and gave a wan smile. What lay behind her was little better than the alternative ahead. Dispirited, she placed one foot in front of the other. They made their way across the narrow valley, following the ruts of previous wagon tracks. The bullock teams were left to meander slowly as the Englishman rode on ahead.

Mr Callahan and Kate walked side by side. ‘You'll get used to it, Miss Kate, we all will.'

Kate doubted it. Behind them, the natives followed at a short distance, while in front rode Joe. Kate couldn't help but think of the Pied Piper. When they stopped to rest she remained close to the wagons and Mr Callahan, for the natives were curious. They stopped as well, pointing and chatting and sitting in groups nearby.

‘Mr Southerland will be cooling his heels with a drop of tea, I'd reckon.' Mr Callahan waved at the flies about his face, which quickly resettled, despite his attempt to shoo them away. ‘By the time we arrive at the run he'll have handed over the bill of sale for the wool. I heard that they overlanded the sheep with seven months' worth
of wool, shore them a scant three months later and then returned the fleeces to Syd-e-ney so the lease could be obtained and the first clip delivered, simultaneous like. So the monies will be in and spent on these here supplies, I reckon. Of course Southerland will have us lot summed up nicely.' He noticed Kate's startled face. ‘That's his job, lass. Get the supplies and the help safely to their destination and then make his report.'

‘Blind leading the blind, settling out here,' Betts commented, ‘and they won't get me living out in the bush by meself with all them blacks around. A person can't be expected to give up life and limb for a sheep.'

‘Shepherding sheep is what we've been told we'll be doing,' his companion replied.

‘They've cattle, haven't they?' He pointed to where cows grazed. ‘That's what I'll be angling for, a horse and a musket and the task of looking after a few cows.'

‘There won't be no muskets for the likes of you two.' Mr Callahan sat fanning his face with his hat by the wheel of the wagon. He'd removed his blucher boots and the raw scent of his feet was rank in the hot air. ‘You might be free of irons but you're here to do what you're told, just like me. Mr Southerland told me there's a dearth of cattle up here and this lot is kept in sight of the house.'

Betts threw a stone into the dirt. ‘We'll see. This place is the ends of the earth.'

His mate scoffed. ‘You said that when we got off that hulk in the harbour. Bet you're wishing you didn't steal that bread now.'

‘Shut your trap,' Betts growled.

1837 October – The Rocks, Sydney

Georgina Lycett was seated by the window, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the tall masted ships moored in the harbour. The view across the water to the heavily timbered foreshore was breathtaking. The ocean glimmered. Vessels plied the calm surface leaving tiny streamer-like trails in their wake. Winston could have watched the activity for hours. It was a scene so different from the brown-green stillness of the farm that he found himself wondering why his father hadn't chosen a merchant's life, or at least some employ associated with the riches that the ocean could provide. There was also the intriguing enjoyment of being in Sydney, where women, wine and song were available any hour of the day, if one had the coin to pay for it. Which he now did.

It was a clear, sunny morning and fashionable Princes Street was abuzz with activity. Men and women strolled casually, stopping to talk to friends, their voices carrying upwards to the second storey of the townhouse owned by a family friend. The friend in question, Mrs Annabel Beuth, sat on the opposite side of the room, her
fingers rarely faltering in the cross-stitch she was absorbed in. Her merchant husband had been one of the first to see the benefit of building in this particular section of The Rocks and Annabel, now fifty years old, was at long last enjoying the life that years of toil had rewarded. It was true that their locale was bordered by minor streets with less than desirable occupants, however, in only a matter of years the wealthy had made Princes Street a coveted address.

Although pleased to see his mother, Winston wished to be anywhere but here. Georgina Lycett had not shifted in her chair, her profile, with its patrician nose and stubborn chin, thrown into relief by the brightness of the day. Mrs Beuth had rung for tea and an assigned servant had delivered the hot drink. Small talk had been made and still his mother remained silent. A carriage clock ticked. From the street below came the sound of a woman laughing. There was to be a hanging this morning and the crowds on Gallows Hill were already thick.

‘I must thank you for the care you have shown my mother, Mrs Beuth,' Winston began, noticing not for the first time the fineness of the furniture in the room; the chairs with their brightly upholstered seat cushions, the matching window dressing and the gleaming breakfast table, an environment that was in stark contrast to the Lycett farmhouse. ‘Is she sufficiently recovered?' He was inclined to reach for the fruit bowl where grapes, nectarines and plums enticed. The quality and cheapness of the food in the city was quite remarkable.

The heavily built woman lifted her cap-covered head. ‘I wonder you have not been to visit sooner. It is past a month since her arrival.' Mrs Beuth's grey eyes were reproving.

Draining his tea cup Winston sat the service on a side table. ‘There were things that needed to be attended to.' What was he meant to say to a mute woman? He assumed that his mother would regain her speech when her strength returned. In the meantime there were too many sights and sounds drawing him. He'd spent
the early morning walking about the foreshore. The area was crowded with merchants and chandlers, hardware shops, taverns and bond stores. This was a place of smells and sights such as he'd never imagined.

The woman returned to her sewing. ‘Your mother has expressed a desire to return to London. I have written on her behalf to your father's sister informing Mrs Farrah of her imminent return. You will make the necessary arrangements for her passage.'

His mother remained expressionless.

‘Of course.' Winston tried not to show his surprise. Mrs Beuth was a right old boiler, but then what could one expect of the merchant class. ‘I did not think, however, that she would wish to leave here. There is our farm, after all, the family business, and my father's will stipulates that my mother remain in my care.'

Mrs Beuth held the cross-stitch aloft and studied it critically. ‘You can hardly expect your mother to return to those wilds. My husband, may he rest in peace, always maintained that the lands beyond the mountains were no place for an English woman.' Satisfied with her handiwork, she placed it aside. ‘Ridiculous. Still, your land cannot founder and sink to the bottom of the ocean,' she concluded, referencing the loss of a whaling ship acquired and equipped by her husband for £10,000. ‘Your mother wishes to sell your father's acreage. She will need monies of her own, else she'll be at the mercy of her sister-in-law.'

Winston turned to his mother. He would never forget searching for her those many days, only to find her three nights after her husband's death curled up by the creek. He had nursed her at the farm and then, once capable of travel, taken her to Sydney Town and Mrs Beuth's home. In all that time she'd never uttered one word to him. Food and drink had passed her lips, indeed she'd been a most dutiful patient, but she never spoke to him, not once. Not even his father's grave, placed with care amongst the smaller remembrances of Winston's siblings, encouraged her to speak.

‘My father's property has been bequeathed to me. I will not be selling the farm,' Winston stated flatly. ‘I thank you for your interest in my mother's situation, Mrs Beuth, but these matters are not of your concern.' He wanted to add that Mrs Beuth should attend to her sewing and not meddle in the affairs of men, but for the moment the woman was providing his mother with all the necessary comforts appropriate to her station. ‘It is only right and proper that my aunt offer my mother hearth and home, if that truly is her choice, but I'm sure you will understand that I would like to hear such sentiments from her own lips.'

‘There is nothing for me here.' His mother's voice was soft, broken. It quavered like an unfinished musical note. ‘Annabel, you will excuse us, my dear. I need to have a few minutes alone with my son.'

Their hostess was slow to move. ‘You are sure?' When there were no words spoken to the contrary, Mrs Beuth placed her sewing down. ‘Do not upset your mother, Winston. She has been through more than a person ought.'

Winston rose. ‘We both have.'

‘Really?' Mrs Beuth regarded him coolly before leaving the room. The door closed with a sharp click.

Through the window a convict hulk and deep sea whalers sat stationary as a fleet of other vessels navigated between them. For the briefest of moments Winston wished he was aboard one of the boats moving men and equipment to whaling stations scattered along the coast. He focused on the activity. Sailors were busy loading barrels of salted meat, bales of wool and a supply of empty wooden casks to store whale oil.

‘The police paid me the compliment of a visit.'

‘The police,' Winston repeated.

‘Have you become like one of the caged birds that your father kept?'

His mother rose, steadying herself on the windowsill. On facing
him her eyes were puffy, her face blank. But it was the disappearance of her ready smile, a constant in his life, that struck him.

‘They wanted to confirm events on the day … the day of your father's death.'

‘I see.' This was unexpected. Winston had described the incident fully to the local police, the report of which was forwarded to the sheriff of New South Wales. He'd thought a warrant to have already been issued.

‘They wanted to confirm that it was indeed Adam who shot and killed your father.' She paused as if to gauge his reaction. ‘I did not realise the regard in which Adam was held by some, although we knew his many attributes, didn't we?' Again she waited. ‘After the shooting was reported in the newspaper, apparently a number of people came forward attesting to his character.'

Winston said nothing. He'd been given no sign previously as to his mother's recollections from that day, believing that the shock of his father's death had obliterated the details.

‘It is a sorry thing that has happened.'

‘Indeed. Father's death is a great loss to us both.' In his own way, Winston wanted to honour his father's life and dream. To that extent he intended to employ a manager to run the farm instead of selling it, and purchase a townhouse in one of the more fashionable areas of Sydney as his main residence. There was no point acquiring more land. Winston knew his father wouldn't approve, but it was the best he could do. He wasn't living out in the wilds a minute longer.

His mother began to pace the room, the dark taffeta of her skirt rustling as she moved. ‘If it was not Adam, the young boy who sat beneath the schooling tree, your friend, a man which your own father held with some regard, if it was another,' her eyes grew glassy, ‘you, perhaps …'

Winston swallowed.

‘Then there might still be some form of punishment allotted to you. Someone must be held accountable for your father's death,
for the death of the shepherd, kin or not, accidental or not. Who knows what the verdict might be, or the sentence handed down, especially after the stories in the paper, after your rendition of that day. If the truth were to come out it may look as if you tried to mislead. If gaol was involved, there would be no-one to manage the farm and I will not waste money on a manager nor ever set foot on that property again. There is the possibility the holding would have to be sold.'

‘What are you trying to say, Mother?'

‘I told the police that I agreed with your
version
' – she said the word slowly, deliberately – ‘of events. Though it went against my conscience, against my religion, against everything I was brought up to believe in. Do you want to know why I did this?'

Winston shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Firstly because it was a terrible accident and secondly, I'm your son, your only surviving child.'

‘The gossipmongers have filled the papers with stories, fact and fiction, about your father's death. And thanks to you, Adam has already been tried by the press and found guilty. Do you know that the description of your friend was very detailed? Every item of clothing, the way he wore his shoulder-length hair, the darkness of his eyes, down to the shells he wore about his wrist were listed for all to read. But you are not surprised, are you, my son? For it was you who gave these details.' Georgina brushed her hands together as if wiping away dirt. ‘In the end my current situation needed to be considered,' she finished tiredly.

‘I don't understand.'

‘I'm sure you do, Winston. As you already mentioned, your father left everything to you in his will with a small stipend for myself. But firstly let me confirm that a warrant has been issued. Adam is wanted for your father's murder, along with the natives involved.'

‘You have done the right thing, Mother,' Winston replied. What else could he say? It was too late to recant his story. The events
surrounding the attack on the Lycett farm had grown out of all proportion and spread like one of the many fires across the colony.

‘Tell me this, why Adam? He was your friend. If you really were too scared to take responsibility for your own actions, why not blame one of the natives? Heaven knows there are plenty of them in the area and they were there that day. They started it.'

‘It happened so quickly. Adam arrived and he found me and Father and,' he took a breath, ‘he just stood there with this horrified, disbelieving look on his face.'

‘The use of a musket would be a last resort for Adam,' his mother concluded.

Winston hesitated. His childhood friend had grown to be a reminder of the type of person that he could never be. If his father hadn't offered Adam management of the prospective holding at Bathurst, if Adam hadn't told the blacks about Merindah, if that convict had not arrived as Adam had left that day … Winston had been in shock. He'd been angry, at life, at his father, at Adam. Grief and resentment and fury had led him to blame Adam for his father's death. He'd told the convict, Chaffy Hall, that Adam was responsible, and then the constabulary. By the time Winston realised the enormity of what he'd done, it was too late. He couldn't go back on his word, wouldn't change his story, couldn't risk smearing the Lycett name. It was all too late. And as his mother rightly insinuated, there could be consequences if he admitted his deception. ‘Adam was raised by blacks, Mother. There are things you don't know about him.'

His mother had a stony look about her. ‘Clearly there are things I didn't know about you either. Adam was your friend. You have shown yourself in a most despicable light. The farm is to be sold. We will share the proceeds equally.' Moving to the bell pull, she tugged at the length of material that fed down from the picture rail.

‘I will never agree to it. That property is mine by right.'

‘Do not think, Winston, that I will return to England a pauper, not having buried your little brothers and sisters, not after having been subjected to the loneliness and discomfort of your father's dream, though I loved him dearly.' She gritted her teeth, her words leaden. ‘And do not think that I would hesitate in changing my story, in sullying the Lycett name with the truth, that you shot your father because you were terrified, a grown man cowering behind the door. You shot him in your cowardice even though I told you I could see him running towards the house.' Her breath grew irregular. ‘I only agreed to your story because I will not return to London penniless, and in spite of what you have done I would not see you in trouble with the law. You have your conscience to answer to and the loss of the livelihood that you expected. You may consider the punishment in the extreme but it will never atone for the death of my husband or the noose that you have surely placed around Adam's neck. Yes, the land is rightfully yours but you will sell it, my boy, or risk an uncertain future.'

‘You would reveal me if I don't agree? But I'm your son.'

‘The pity of it is that you are my only child.'

The door opened. A servant bobbed a curtsey.

‘You will show my son out, Susannah, and then I would like you to accompany me up George Street. I wish to purchase some silk and lace for a new gown and I'm unsure of the best place to obtain these goods.'