Wild Lands (29 page)

‘How the hell did you know that?'

The door to the house opened. Mrs Hardy, dressed in a cream and lace gown more suitable for a reception room in a grand Sydney townhouse than a bush hut, gave a sunny smile. ‘Mr Stewart, is it? Wonderful. You're married, I hope? I would be delighted to make your wife's acquaintance. Perhaps when the current difficulties with the natives are behind us we can meet at some midpoint between our respective farms. A picnic of sorts.' She noticed Kate and her daughter. ‘Kate, dear, do ask Cook to make tea for us. We'll take it here on the verandah.'

A flummoxed Mr Stewart removed his hat and mumbled a hello.

‘Come now. Join us at the table.' She linked an arm through that of the Scotsman and the man found himself escorting the lady of the house to a chair at the table. ‘You too, Mr Southerland. Those of us living in these parts must do our best to come to terms. There are so few of us, after all, and one day either of us may call on the other for assistance. Don't you agree?'

Kate watched in admiration as Mrs Hardy's gracious tone eased the tense standoff. Mr Southerland lowered his musket, although the two men on the porch didn't rush to speak. Sophie ran barefoot to her mother's side.

‘There's good grass in that area.' Having seated Mrs Hardy, Mr Stewart began to pace the unstable verandah. ‘But I suppose we could mark out the area together. Then a fence of sorts could be constructed perhaps. As long as it's fair, mind. I'll not put up with any shenanigans.'

‘We'll be cutting timber for the rest of our days,' Mr Hardy complained.

‘A brush fence would do,' the overseer suggested. ‘Pile branches and cut scrub to make a barrier.'

‘Better to use cut poles,' Mr Stewart decided. ‘Forked sticks driven into the ground, and saplings or young trees laid across them.'

‘It would stop further boundary problems with other settlers,' Mr Hardy agreed.

‘Aye, it would do that. If we had the labour we could add a second, shorter row. A two-railed fence.' The Scotsman scratched at his beard. ‘It might ease the straying of sheep as well.'

‘We'll use the blacks. The tribe here would do it.' Samuel Hardy waited for the overseer to answer. ‘Well, wouldn't they, George? You keep telling me they're harmless, that they'll do as they're bid. Mind you, that doesn't stop them from firing the land or that tracker of yours, Joe, from taking off and not returning. How long's he been gone for now?'

‘They can be persuaded, but you'll have to make it worth their while,' the overseer replied.

Mr Stewart also agreed to send men from his farm to assist in the building of the fence. ‘We just need to agree on the date.'

‘George will oversee the construction for me. We need someone armed, after all.'

‘All my shepherds are armed, so there's no problems there,' Mr Stewart told them, ‘and in truth we've had few problems with the blacks.'

Mr Hardy nearly choked. ‘Convicts, armed? You must be daft, man.'

‘Not at all. I can't afford to lose labour. I had one man run off six months ago or more but he came back, sad and sorry and more frightened than a child without a candle on a dark night. He's a willing worker now he has a musket. But another, a half-caste, has been and gone twice now, without arms. I'd lay odds on his death.'

Kate left the group to their discussions and went in search of the cook. Mary Horton was sitting in the dirt next to the hole in the hill where their stores were kept. As she moved closer Kate saw at once that the wooden door was ajar and a trail of flour leading to the north suggested robbery. The cook merely pointed on her arrival and Kate walked into the space of hollowed-out dirt. The storehouse was the cook's domain and only she and Mr Hardy had a key to the heavy padlock. Kate never could have imagined that so much was stored within. Goods were piled high to the rafters. Bags of flour, drums of tobacco, barrels of preserved fruit and one apiece of middling sugar and the cheap black ration kind, shared space with pairs of shearing shears, quart pots, tomahawks, iron nails, a large chest of tea and another filled with clay pipes. There were piles of men's clothing, blue blankets, a bolt of women's dress material and any number of bottles holding potions. Kate saw that a portion of the flour was gone, some of the sugar and half of the tobacco and the men's clothing had been rifled through. Only the cook and Mr Hardy would know exactly what had been taken. The markings on the wooden door suggested an axe was used. Kate guessed the thievery was done this morning after the men had left and she'd headed to the creek.

‘Blacks,' Mrs Horton mumbled. ‘We give them blankets and sugar, flour and the like and still the ungrateful sods take what's ours. We'll be on rations now until the next trip to Syd-e-ney or when the crop comes in. Whatever's first. You'll be busy the next few days, girl, so no lay-abouting. I'll have to do an inventory. Mrs Kable will have the book. She always has the book.'

‘You mean Mr Hardy,' Kate corrected.

‘I mean whatever I say.'

Kate didn't argue. ‘Mrs Horton, Mrs Hardy would like tea made and –'

‘Tea? They want tea when the blacks have done this?'

‘Would our blacks have done it?'

‘Our blacks.' The cook spat in the dirt. ‘Jelly-belly, you sound like George Southerland. He thinks by bedding the women he can keep them in line. Throw them a few stores, pass out a handful of trinkets. In Syd-e-ney there are enough of us to push the natives over the hills, to keep us safe, but out here, well it's them that will be doing the pushing. If we run out of food we're not like them. We can't scratch around in the dirt to get a feed.'

The wheat crop was still to be planted. There'd not been enough rain and the little moisture stored from March's showers had quickly dried. ‘We must hope for rain, Mrs Horton.'

‘Pray on it, lass, if you're a believer, for we'll be out of rainwater in a few weeks and then we'll be drinking from the creek. Eh, where are you going?'

‘To tell Mr Hardy that we've been robbed. That door needs to be mended.'

‘Best be on your guard.' The woman scrambled to her feet and hurried after Kate. ‘For now we know.'

‘What do we know?'

The cook looked at Kate as if she were foolish. ‘That they've been watching us.'

1838 June – near the Big River

They were camped in a valley near pointy-topped hills. Behind them lay the mountain in whose shadow they had met the old man in the hut. The giant monolith with its forests and low-scrubbed heathlands was now invisible, hidden behind a line of stony hills, while in the east the sun was yet to rise, the land cast in tones of pinks and purple. Adam shrugged off the kangaroo hide cloak; beside him Bidjia stirred. The head of their clan had been quiet the last few days but they had kept up a reasonable pace, although their midday rests had lengthened. Jardi had risen to explore their surrounds and would soon return. Light seeped across country captured by the chill of winter. They'd covered a mosaic of landscapes over the previous months but the valley they were in now held the promise of glistening life come spring. Here there would be good grasses and animals in abundance. Only water and warmth were needed to bring this land to life.

In the west where the countryside lay in shadows, a line of thin smoke appeared to form a bridge between land and sky. Blacks
were burning the terrain. Fire-stick farming had made the land plentiful. There would be many tubers and fibrous roots for the eating in this peaceful place. The whites were not yet here in great numbers and Adam and Jardi both thought Bidjia would be tempted to stop, for they had already travelled far and the great hills which they headed for and that existed as a barrier between land and water were not yet visible. They had been on the run for nearly nine months. It was time to stop moving, but Bidjia grew more adamant with every passing day. He wished to follow the gathering creeks and rivers, to trace these life-giving waterways to the mountains and beyond to the sea.

‘Are you sure you don't wish to stay here? The nights grow frosty and this would be a good place to camp for the winter.'

Bidjia blew on the pile of twigs and leaves, gradually feeding the fire so that it grew hot. ‘We have already spent too long here and my bones grow weary. With my lands gone they draw me to the great waters. To a place like that I knew as a child.' He laid a larger branch on the growing flames. ‘I would have our blood continue. I would have Jardi find himself a woman so our clan goes on, so that we are not lost. So that our people and our stories survive. To do so we must find a compatible tribe.'

‘We're safe here,' Adam argued.

‘We are not free of the white settlers,' Bidjia countered. ‘I fear this place we have entered. It is like the placid river. Here the surface appears still, suggesting good fishing but beneath, the currents boil and rage. The fish in their confusion swim in all directions and eat each other in bewilderment.'

‘You sense all this?' Adam wished he had such foresight.

Bidjia shrugged. ‘Some I sense, some I see, some you learnt from the old man in the hut, the rest I know from what we have left behind. The white man who has a cow killed will kill a black in vengeance. It may not be the black that speared it, nor may the white man kill just one of us. In truth he does not care. We are
nothing to him. He has no respect for our way of life and we do not understand his. We live from and with the land, they seek to own it, control it. And here,' he spread his arms wide, ‘it is worse, for the whites are not yet everywhere and so they are scared of our kind. They hate what they do not understand. They wish we would go away, or at least take the sugar and blankets that they offer and in return see us toil for them.'

Adam unwrapped the remaining black duck left from the three he'd snared the previous evening. He'd stuffed its beak with pepper and wrapped the bird in damp grasses so the night's fast would be broken by more than a mouthful of water and some tuberous roots. They were good eating, although Bidjia laughed at his white-man preparation.

‘They are like meat-ants, the settlers. They build their nests and then pick the bones clean of each place they come to.' Bidjia stopped speaking, lifted a leg until his foot rested in the crook of his knee and leant on his spear. ‘They know we are here.'

It was not the whites the old man spoke of. Adam threaded a stick through the small carcass and held it above the fire. Close by lay his musket.

‘The musket is no good here.' Bidjia spoke as if he read Adam's mind. ‘The spear and the boomerang are quiet, like the rustle of grasses. Remember that as we move through this place.'

Adam rotated the duck carefully as the flames licked the feathers burning the plumage. Once the body was blackened he rested the ends of the threaded stick on the forked branches that made a makeshift spit.

Jardi appeared from the trees with two quart pots filled with water. He'd taken to wearing a cotton shirt with the onset of colder weather. Squatting by the fire he wedged the vessels in the embers. ‘There are signs, but I saw no-one.'

‘They will come,' their father said with confidence. ‘They always come.'

Yesterday morning they had awoken to the sound of musket fire. The younger men had been keen to investigate but Bidjia had been adamant. They were moving forwards, not back, and he had no wish to interfere in another's fight. They'd already been involved in enough skirmishes.

‘We have no clan ties to these people,' the old man reminded them. ‘They will not like us being here.'

Adam rotated the spit. ‘I wouldn't have expected them to be any different than the rest.' The moment they had left their lands it had begun. They'd soon discovered that they were not always welcome when they crossed into new lands. There was always a small group of warriors ready to attack without provocation. All three of them had the scars to prove it.

Jardi poured sugar into each of the quart pots. ‘To the west along the water there were women's things scattered nearby, baskets, cooking tools. The camp appeared seasonal. It looked like a raiding party perhaps two, three nights ago. They are ahead of us.'

‘White?' Adam asked.

‘There was one with boots, the others blacks. Eight including a woman, have headed east, another five, old people and children, escaped north.'

‘I have seen enough fighting.' Bidjia turned to his white son. ‘Now do you understand why I tell you not to use the musket? It is best that we pass through here quietly.'

Jardi turned to his father and laughed. ‘My white brother is no good with the spear. He has not the muscle for the throwing stick. The musket is easier for him.'

Adam charged Jardi, knocking him into the dirt. They rolled and tumbled across the ground, strong hands clutching at taut bare skin. They laughed and shouted abuse at the other before stopping, their bodies crusted in dirt. Finally Adam extended a hand and helped Jardi to his feet.

They ate quickly, crunching the soft bones of the bird between their teeth and sharing out the tea. By the time the sun was warming their skin they were ready to move. Jardi doused the fire with dirt and the three men set off on foot.

The country was sparsely timbered in places and they made easy going of the gullies and small rises that threaded the valley. Over the previous months they'd been watchful, tentative, but as they'd headed north the white man's settlements grew fewer and today the men felt a sense of exhilaration. They'd kept away from the dirt tracks, avoiding shanties and stockmen. It almost seemed as if they'd walked free of the settlers' boundaries and come to untouched country. But in truth they knew better.

At noon they were stopped by a river. Kangaroos and wallabies startled by their approach lifted their heads tentatively from where they nibbled grasses on the sandy bank. They hopped away cautiously to hide among the timber as the three men walked down the steep bank. The river moved sluggishly, waiting to be topped up with rain from the mountains to the east. Jardi wanted to build a canoe, to speed down the waterway to the west until the land flattened out and he could see the setting sun. There was logic to this. The days were cool. The nights grew long. A warm place to wait out winter appealed. Such a thought was not welcomed by Bidjia though, who'd grown up in the shadow of cliffs and fished in the great waters.

Bidjia waded into the water, testing the depth. It was too deep to cross.

‘We'll go further, find a narrower point.' Adam remained mindful of what the old man in the hut had told him. He shared his thoughts with the men, that this must be the Big River. ‘Best we be on guard.'

There was a waterhole not far from where they stood. The older man walked to the edge where great trees hugged the moist edges, their massive roots exposed like skeletons. The blue-brown stillness of the pool of water suggested depth and good fishing but although the day had grown warm the place felt cold. There were scarred trees on both sides of the waterhole. Some of the markings were indistinguishable, their shapes obscured by a lack of light due to the thick canopy, others were recent and clearly defined. One tree was scored in the shape of a shield, another trunk bore an outline that resembled a spear thrower. The two younger men clambered up the steep bank and walked out into the timber. A tree with a large trunk and thick, fibrous bark had recently had an outline cut into it. Stone wedges had been inserted around the edges to loosen the bark.

Adam ran his hand across the rough surface. ‘A canoe. This bark is ready to be pulled free.'

Musket shots sounded. At the river they joined Bidjia and then ran into the bush. They headed west following the water-course, running through trees and bushes, spears at the ready, Adam with the musket. In the distance came the unmistakeable sound of musket fire. The shots carried on the breeze, but with a northerly wind they couldn't be sure from how far away the noise had carried. At the top of a rise they stopped. They could smell smoke and the tang of sheep. They'd hoped for land untouched, unsullied by strangers.

‘They have already settled north of here.' Jardi stuck his spear in the dirt, his anger evident. ‘Did you not once tell us, brother, that there were nineteen counties? That the settlers were to stay in these areas governed by their white king?'

‘I also mentioned the Governor is finding it impossible to control his people and has changed the laws. Land outside the boundary can be leased now.'

Bidjia looked askance. ‘So they go anywhere? They squat on
land and make it their own? What of the white king, Bronzewing? Does he not know of us?'

‘There is no king,' Adam explained. ‘A woman now sits upon the English throne.'

‘A woman.' Bidjia shook his head. ‘All will be lost.'

Jardi pointed to where a wisp of smoke was visible through the trees. ‘I think there is trouble ahead.'

Turning back in the direction of the river, Bidjia pointed to the scarred trees. Fresh imprints marked the passage of men in the soft river sand. He ran a finger in the dirt, tracing the heel and the spreading toes and then slowly lifted his head.

At the top of the riverbank five men waited, shields and spears at the ready. Painted with ochre and animal fat, all had bones through their noses, their arms and wrists decorated with bracelets of fur and hide. Only one wore the trousers of a white man. This man, their leader, walked a few paces towards them. A luminous oval shell, engraved with tiny figures, hung from the centre of his string belt. Adam lifted his musket, Jardi his spear, but Bidjia was quick to raise a hand.

‘Listen first,' he commanded.

The warrior rested his spear in the sand. The stone tip was barbed, a weapon for fighting as it could not be withdrawn from flesh. Although his companions were dark skinned, this man was slightly paler. He talked quickly at first in a strange tongue but gradually it became apparent that he spoke in a mix of his own dialect and English. The warriors had been following them for two days. Bidjia and his party were in the heart of their lands and they were not welcome at this special place.

When the warrior had completed his address, Bidjia handed over the message stick. As the man studied it, Bidjia introduced them and, announcing his clan name, pointed south to their lands. The stick was well-used. Each new tribal territory demanded introduction and then the granting of permission to
pass through it. The message stick seemed to appease the warrior for he handed it back to Bidjia and beckoned the other warriors forward. The leader had a mass of long hair. He was tall with deep scars etched across his torso, his body hairless. He called himself Mundara and gestured to Adam as if it were better he was not present.

‘I have raised him since this high.' Bidjia lifted his hand to indicate that the white man had been a child when he'd found him.

The warrior pointed his spear. ‘You raise a white and yet they take our lands and kill our people.'

‘He is of my clan,' Bidjia replied calmly.

The warrior spent long minutes studying Adam, as if sizing him up for a fight. ‘I am a descendant of a great warrior.'

Bidjia was silent. The names of the dead were not talked of.

‘Where do you travel, Bidjia?'

‘Across the mountains to the great waterhole.'