Wild Lands (6 page)

‘How is the baby?' Bronzewing asked Bidjia while following Annie's movements as she went to check on the infant.

Bidjia shook his head and closed his eyes. The men's bellies were full and they were tired from the day's work. A short distance away Darel and Colby talked quietly, Jardi had disappeared. With the lengthening shadows Bronzewing sought out Merindah. She
had her own fire behind a bark lean-to and the sick child lay close to the warmth of the flames. The girl started at his approach, drawing a blanket across her swollen belly.

Bronzewing squatted opposite her and asked after the child, noticing that the foods brought to her remained untouched.

The young woman touched the baby's chest gently. She had swabbed the child every day for three days with an infusion made from the leaves of the paperbark, which could help with aches and pains, but there had been no change.

‘How long is it now?' Bronzewing asked the girl.

Merindah poked at berries cupped in her palm. ‘Four days, he grows weaker. He will not suckle. The milk is good, but if he does not drink …'

Her words hung. In the firelight the child looked starved. His tiny rib cage stuck out and the cheeks were sunken. It was only a matter of a day or so at most. Perhaps there may have been a chance if the child had been taken to Mrs Lycett – there still may be – but Bidjia's approval was needed and in his current mind-frame such consent would be unlikely. ‘You're still unhappy here? But are you not looked after? You have enough food?'

Merindah stroked the child's face. The young girl had come from another tribe two years ago, the agreement brokered by Bidjia when his last woman had died in childbirth. This was the fifth woman of Bidjia's that Bronzewing could remember. It seemed with the death of each previous one, whether through sickness, childbirth or accident – his first woman had been bitten by a snake – that each subsequent woman had even less time to walk the earth. The continuation of the clan was vital and most of the women who came into their group fitted in easily but it was different with Merindah. She was open to understanding the ways of the white settlers, and she'd been quick to pick up the English Bronzewing taught her, but she was also very young compared to
her husband. The loss of the child would not help things. ‘I'll talk to Bidjia.'

Merindah's dark eyes grew luminous beneath a rising moon. He felt the lightness of her touch on his arm as he made to leave. ‘I work for the Lycetts.'

‘You can't, Merindah. You belong to Bidjia.'

‘I would wear the woman's clothes, I would learn their ways to keep my children healthy.'

‘Sometimes not even white medicine will help, you know this, and who is to say your child does not have a white's illness?'

The girl ignored this. ‘You see, I have this.' From beneath a blanket she pulled out a ball of material, unravelling it to reveal a woman's dress.

‘Where did you get that from?'

The girl snatched it away.

He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I won't say anything, but keep it hidden.' He wondered where the dress had come from. Who had given it to her? ‘Merindah, you are with Bidjia now, you can't leave here, you know that.'

‘I would be your woman, Bronzewing.'

He thought of what it would be like to lie next to her. To feel the warmth of another's body, the companionship of sharing more than just a piece of the earth. It had been nearly eleven months since he'd bedded the girl at the hostelry the night Lycett's wool had been sold. Bronzewing had treated himself to a good meal and a nip of rum sitting out on the verandah, the small dining room being full, and later found himself with company that wasn't bad looking. It had been a long year since that night, but he didn't look back as he walked away.

He found Jardi by following the noise of metal against stone. The young Aboriginal was sitting in a patch of tall grass a short distance from the camp. A cold wind rustled the pasture so that the surface of the land appeared to be rippling outwards, much like the ocean.
The grass grew golden in the moon's light and in the centre of this halo sat Jardi. He was sharpening a knife on a flat rock, spitting on the shiny surface, scraping the edge of the blade in a circular motion. Bronzewing had gifted the blade to him some years prior.

‘You make the noise of two kangaroos,' Jardi muttered, remaining absorbed in his task, not lifting his head.

‘And I see you no longer hug the fire at night.'

‘Was it not you who told me that the night spirits wouldn't drag me away? Some things I listen to.'

Bronzewing looked over his shoulder. The camp fire burnt brightly. Jardi never strayed too far from the fire's protection. ‘I have spoken to Merindah.' He sat down in the long grass, broke a stem and chewed on the sweetness.

‘She is close to her time, Bronzewing,' he rebuked.

He wanted to tell Jardi about the dress Merindah concealed but the garment suggested that the girl had had recent contact with the whites. She would be punished. ‘I know, but I wanted to see her and the child. It's probably too late but I could take the baby to the Lycetts in the morning. They may well have some treatment that could help. Mrs Lycett is a kindly woman and –'

‘They have already sent enough of us to the spirit world with their sicknesses, even their own people weaken and die. Their medicine is not so strong.' Jardi lifted the knife to inspect his handiwork, the fine edge of the blade glinting in the moonlight. ‘Anyway, my father would not allow it.'

‘The child won't survive,' Bronzewing stated flatly. ‘Surely that must be a consideration.'

‘We managed to look after our own long before the whites came.'

‘I know but they bring their illnesses to the clan and they may have the knowledge that can heal them.'

Jardi sighed. ‘There are some things that must be left alone, Bronzewing. You should respect our ways. You have lived with us these many years.'

‘You and the tribe have always had my respect, you know this to be true, but we speak now of a child's life. To do nothing, to simply wait until the baby dies, is wrong.'

‘The sick will be replaced with the new. Merindah will soon birth another.'

At times the customs of the tribe gnawed at Bronzewing's conscience, yet the ultimate goal with every decision made always led back to the overall wellbeing of the clan and their survival. It was difficult to argue with such thinking although Bronzewing knew that were it not for the strained relationship between Bidjia's people and the Lycetts, his wish to take Merindah's baby to Mrs Lycett may have been considered and consent begrudgingly given.

‘You have always been the hopeful one, my friend.' Jardi dropped a length of grass across the knife blade. The sharp edge sent two halves falling to the ground. ‘And I know that you do not understand us at times. My father says that things were simpler once, that life was better. I understand this from the stories he has shared. Life for my people is not as it should be. Nothing is right. Between one place and the next, this land has no sense of itself.'

‘Things will get worse before they get better,' Bronzewing agreed.

‘Do you believe that? That things will get better?' Jardi stabbed the knife in the dirt at his feet. ‘What will you tell Lycett when he asks you about the burning? And what will he do when we burn again? My father will not be stopped and I fear there will be trouble.'

Bronzewing spat out the soggy grass stem. ‘I know.'

1837 August – en route to Parramatta

‘Told her not to go I did, but these young things never listen. Do you listen, dear? It's important to listen to your elders.' Kate nodded politely to the talkative woman, one of five travelling companions since joining the Sydney coach at Ashfield, and held onto the timber surround that was all that separated her and Mrs Allen from the road below. Dust spun up from beneath the carriage wheels, the grit clouding the stone road as it grew small in the distance. At any minute Kate expected to be jolted from the rear outside seat to land with a thud on the road. The wide stone thoroughfare of Parramatta Road may have been considered quicker than taking a boat down the safer Parramatta River but it had been a rough journey.

‘You'll be right, love,' one of the male travellers called from the carriage roof where he was perched between baggage.

Kate was unsure whether he alluded to the roughness of the journey or the chance of attack by either natives, highwaymen or both. Apparently such incidents happened frequently, a fact that
was confirmed by the driver who'd warned them to keep an eye out. The man who'd called to her kept a musket in hand. Kate had spent most of the trip looking at the thick bush they passed through, her stomach knotted by nerves.

‘So I says to her,' Mrs Allen continued, ‘you go then. Pack yourself up and head to Sydney Town, but if you end up with some down-at-heel soldier or sailor with nothing to show for himself except a toothy smile and a mile of promises, don't come running back to me. Looked at me, she did. Told me to mind me own business. My own daughter. She'll end up with a bastard, she will, and the poor little blighter will be found on the streets wandering with the rest of the homeless urchins and be taken to one of them orphanages.' Mrs Allen blew her nose loudly into a handkerchief, and then coughed up a mess of something from the back of her throat and spat the globule over the side of the moving carriage.

Apart from a few other drays and wagons, the majority of the traffic was confined to the hostelries located at intervals along the Sydney to Parramatta road. These rest stops serviced many travellers, but with spring soon to arrive, shorn wool was already being brought to market. Kate was intrigued by the many settlers with drayloads of wool, who were talking animatedly to buyers on the side of the road. One such merchant cut a slash in a bale as Kate's carriage rolled past and, pulling free a handful of wool, examined it carefully then spoke animatedly to the man next to him. The settler frowned, shook his head and made a show of moving on.

A row of timber cottages, each with a waft of chimney smoke lingering in the sky, suggested they neared their destination. Drays of cut wood and carts of lime fought for space with those walking; men, women and children, convicts and free settlers. Those with horses, well-to-do settlers and the military skirted past the traffic, giving little time for people to move aside. A gang of convicts were repairing part of the road, carrying stones back and forth under the
watchful gaze of the military. None of the men looked up when the carriage rolled past.

‘Parramatta!' the driver yelled, stringing the word out so that all could hear.

‘Home at last.' Mrs Allen nudged Kate in the arm and pointed to the north. A glimpse of the town appeared through the trees. Open land, pretty in its gentle undulations, folded inwards to Parramatta proper, with its carefully laid-out streets and the spires of a church. ‘Mr Howell's wind and watermill. I always feel better when I see them sails.'

The wind and watermill featured picturesquely in the foreground, the four long arms of the windmill rising up from the banks of the Parramatta River as if standing protectively over the town.

‘I've heard it on good authority that Mrs Elizabeth Howell is involved in the business. A woman, with a family to rear and all. She helped birth my Margery's boy, she did.'

The horses slowed and the carriage came to a rolling stop. Kate stepped stiffly down. For a moment it was as if she still moved and she leant against the coach for balance, as her travelling companion bustled past.

‘You'll get your land legs soon enough, lass,' the older woman called. ‘Parched, I am, and in need of a feed. They keep a good table inside. Come join me.'

‘Thank you but I'm not hungry,' Kate lied. Tugging at her bonnet, she watched the woman enter the inn and then sheltered from the morning sun beneath the bark-roofed verandah. Kate was wind-blown, her bottom hurt from the hard seat and her skin felt tight from the sun, but she refused to show her discomfort as the Reverend stepped from the interior of the carriage. An extra shilling to travel inside was not forthcoming for her journey. He dusted off his clothes and, barely acknowledging her presence, waited as travelling trunks and bags were unloaded. The postman exchanged the brown leather pouch slung over his shoulders for a
bag of mail for Sydney with his Parramatta counterpart and then joined the other passengers inside the inn.

Return passengers for Sydney were already milling about the staging post as horses were unhitched and led away to be watered and four fresh ones brought forward. Sweat from both man and beast mingled in the air as the Reverend waited some ten feet from where Kate stood. She would have dearly loved something cool to drink and a tasty bite to eat, but with no coin to her name she contented herself with the chunk of bread Madge had pressed into her hand on leaving. She bit into the hard dough, chewing slowly. There was barely enough spittle in her mouth to moisten the bread but she was grateful for it. Kate had not looked behind as the rickety dray trundled away from the Reverend's farm, even though they'd lined up to see her leaving; Madge, the new girl in the kitchen and the old Welsh gardener.

Wiping crumbs from her face, Kate rewrapped the portion of bread and tucked it into her mother's empty drawstring bag. Lesley Carter had been dead this past month, however Kate's decision to leave the Reverend was made the day following her burial. At times her resolve had weakened. To throw away the known for the unknown, to tempt the fates was a steadying thought. For his part the Reverend, having expressed his anger, simply stopped talking to her. The school was closed. He sent the children to plead with her. Young Thomas Prescott gave her a hangman's stare. The lad was to be sent away to learn a trade, indentured to a wheel-wright. Even Madge expressed her disbelief at Kate's decision, growing sullen and bitter as the departure date grew nearer. Better the devil you know, were her words of advice.

Kate hadn't known a person's heart could hurt so much. Although she and her mother had grown apart, her death had struck her forcibly. Kate missed her with every breath she took. In the grief that stalked the hours following her mother's death, she did consider staying with the Reverend, in putting the children's
needs before her own, in assuming her mother's role. Yet Kate only saw two roads that could be taken: abide by her decision to leave and start a new life, whatever that may be, or remain where she was and live as a hypocrite, an impossibility after all she'd said and thought about her mother's arrangement with Reverend Horsley. And yet as she waited outside the inn, with strangers milling about, Kate felt more than uneasy. Had she made the right decision?

‘Be on yer guard all of youse travelling to Syd-e-ney. We might be in this fancy carriage but there are bushrangers and natives on the Parramatta Road and they're not afraid of showing themselves, if you know what I mean.' The driver hitched his trousers up. ‘We'll be leaving in thirty minutes. So look sharp, the lot of you.'

A dray pulled up behind the carriage and the driver, a narrow-headed man with a thick beard and bandy legs, scanned the people outside the inn before picking the Reverend out of the crowd. He jumped from the dray. ‘You be 'im that's going to Mr Kable's farm then, Father?' His Irish accent was thick and rough.

‘I am not a priest, I'm Reverend Horsley, but yes, my companion and I are –'

‘Well then, let's get you loaded. They don't normally send a dray but considering it's the likes of you, Father.'

Kate took one look at the Reverend's sour face and did her best not to laugh.

The Reverend sighed, beckoned to Kate and soon they were sitting on a hard bench seat behind the driver, Kate's grand mother's travelling trunk and the Reverend's bag stored in the rear of the dray.

‘I'll take you the scenic route, Father. I'd be appreciative if you keep that pistol of yours at the ready.'

The Reverend rested the flintlock on his thigh.

The dray passed a roadside inn where a group of men stood in a ring, cheering partially dressed Aboriginals. The dark men weaved about the circle, their legs unsteady, clearly drunk. Two of them were fighting, and the men were taking bets and enjoying the
sport. The men called out
coo-ee
, one making a lurid remark about what he could do for her if Kate had a mind for a bit of sport. Her eyes grew to the size of organ stops, and she blushed and turned away. The Reverend, his knobbly knees bumping against hers, too close for comfort, clucked his tongue disapprovingly. The two-seater dray, seemingly springless, with a pair of headstrong horses that were a poor substitute for the set of four Cleveland Bays who'd pulled them so efficiently to Parramatta, clattered across the road and then veered right.

Around the curve of the road the white walls of the Governor's residence gradually appeared. The building rose from atop a hill, its symmetrical lines softened by the surrounding manicured grounds. Kate watched the ruling seat of the colony until timber obscured its beauty. Far from feeling she was in the centre of life, the further they travelled from Parramatta, the more ill at ease she became.

The Reverend's cottage may have been isolated but at least there she'd been between Sydney and Parramatta. This road they travelled led them away from the bustle of civilisation, towards the mountains and lands she'd never seen. Kate thought of Mrs Allen, of her daughter Margery and the windmill and bakery. Maybe she should have enquired as to the possibility of work in Parramatta. Maybe Mrs Allen could have helped her. The dray bumped and jolted them at every step. A chill afternoon breeze wound down from the distant mountains.

‘Stop fidgeting, Kate,' the Reverend complained.

‘It's the bumps,' she told him, noting that he seemed intent on sitting right in the middle of the seat. ‘Could you move over a little please?' She could feel her hipbone growing bruised where it lodged against the dray's timber side.

‘You can always get out and walk,' the driver called over his shoulder. ‘Four miles to go.'

The Reverend patted his whiskers. ‘A little late to be complaining now, Kate.'

At one stage Kate thought it possible that the Reverend may well throw her out on the street, when she finally and most adamantly refused his offer of employment. Instead he'd come to her with the offer of finding Kate suitable employ. It was quite unexpected and even Madge expressed wonderment. Nonetheless theirs was not an amicable parting, although Kate was grateful for the lengths the Reverend had gone to in finding her a suitable position. There were few alternatives available to a single, educated young woman. Marriage remained the only other option but it was an unappealing alternative. She still remembered the night she'd seen her mother and the Reverend together. To be with a man, in such a way, well, she didn't think herself possible of ever forming such a union, nor marrying, and she would never do either without love. So here she was, in a quaking dray, nervously awaiting the moment when she'd meet her new employer.

Apprehension grew as the miles increased. Kate's life had been restricted to the cottage and the schoolhouse, and the weekly trip to the markets with her mother, only six miles' walk from where they lived. Hers was the life of a fringe dweller, forever perched on the outskirts of Sydney, and though she lived in an area surrounded by bush, the Reverend's holding was still far removed from the wilds that spread out to and over the blue hills beyond. This was a new world where great expanses of grassland were punctuated by towering trees and scant houses. ‘Is there a village over there?' Smoke was visible in the distance.

‘That be Toongabbe,' the Irishman was quick to answer. ‘The settlers are doing well for themselves over there. There's water-a-plenty in the crick there, some say too much. It can flood something terrible further up. Three miles to go.'

The dray trundled roughly over the ground. They were at least a mile from the last dwelling they'd seen and still the carriage headed inland. The wheels clanked and squeaked continuously. Kate grasped the worn edge of the timber seat as the driver
somehow managed to hit every hole and crack that lay in their path. She tucked at the hair which had fallen loose from the cap beneath her hat and rubbed at grit-filled eyes.

‘Two miles to go, miss,' the driver encouraged. ‘I'll be thinking you'll be pleased to stretch your legs after today.' Lifting a flask he took a long gulp. The smell of rum grew strong. ‘What about you, Father? A swig to warm you from your head to your toes? Makes a man hearty, it does.'

‘No, thank you.' The Reverend sat stiff-backed, his black garb contrasting with pale skin and much attended to whiskers running down the length of his face. Kate could smell sweat mixed with the stink of pipe smoke. Indeed the Reverend's odour came closer to surpassing that of the rum-belching driver.

The dray turned from the road and followed a path rutted by wheel tracks. The boning in the seams of her bodice pinched at her sides and waist as Kate blotted out the scene in the schoolhouse the day of her mother's passing. Even now she caught the Reverend glaring at her at times. There was dislike in his hard stare, undisguised annoyance, but often-times Kate also glimpsed familiarity in the tilt of his head, in the way he addressed her. It reminded Kate of the way he'd been with her mother.