Benevolence

by Julie Janson

  BENEVOLENCE

  JULIE JANSON

  First published 2020

  Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation, Broome, Western Australia

  Website: www.magabala.com Email: sales@magabala.com

  Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts advisory body.

  The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries. Magabala Books would like to acknowledge the generous support of the Shire of Broome, Western Australia.

  Copyright © Julie Janson 2020

  The author asserts her moral rights.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

  Designed by Jo Hunt

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed and bound by Griffin Press South Australia

  ISBN 978 1 925936 63 6

  Author’s Note on Darug Language Use in Benevolence

  I have used one main source for the Darug language, JL Kohen’s A dictionary of the Dharug language: the inland dialect, Blacktown and District Historical Society, 1990. Some Darug words not available in Kohen’s vocabulary have been found in Jakelin Troy’s The Sydney Language, Macquarie Library, 1994. I am grateful to both researchers for their invaluable language work. Some Darug words may have spelling that differs from other sources. I apologise for any misspelling or unsure meaning but assure the reader that the intent is to render Darug language as I have heard it spoken and as I have studied over some years. Please forgive my poetic licence.

  Dedicated to the memory of my great great-grandmother, Mary Ann Thomas of Blacktown Road, Freeman’s Reach.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1816: MURAGING IS GIVEN AWAY IN PARRAMATTA

  The grey-green eucalypts clatter with the sound of cicadas. Magpies and currawongs warble across the early morning sky as the sun’s heat streams down. It is eaglehawk time, the season of burumurring when the land is dry, and these birds fly after small game. Muraging’s clan, the Burruberongal of the Darug people, gather their dillybags and coolamons and prepare for the long walk to Burramatta, the land of eels, and Parramatta town. The old women stamp out a fire, and one gathers the baby boy in her arms and ties him onto her possum-skin cloak.

  Muraging hears rattling carts full of waibala, whitefella, and the sound of pots against iron wheels. She looks back and sees the deep wheel marks, like huge snake tracks, and hurries after her father, Berringingy. He gives her a waibala coat of red wool. So he loves her. He turns away and she watches the boy take her place. She can see the love between man and boy.

  She doesn’t understand what is about to happen, but she knows she must try to have courage. There is loud talk around her. She is limp with the heat and imagines herself floating in a deep, cool creek. But her father is speaking to her and what he is saying brings her back. He tells her he met some men in Parramatta town who offered to teach Aboriginal children to read and write. She is to be an important part of helping their people and she must learn their language and their ways. She must be brave and remember that he loves her and one day he will come back for her. He reminds her that the sky god Baiame and his son, Daramulum, will watch over and protect her. She panics and grips his hand. Alarm rises and her aunt mothers look away.

  Her father lifts her up and holds his head with her body pressed against his black curls. She longs for food chews wattle gum to ease her thirst. The red coat is dropped along the track.

  …

  They walk for many days before they arrive at Parramatta where carriages and bullock wagons churn mud – and the horses are terrifyingly big. She quivers at the sharp hooves and the whinnying, like the sound of monsters. A wooden stage has been erected near the church, where soldiers stand in formation, rifles by their sides. Musicians play on the stage and a juggler tosses balls in the air while a boy raps on his drum. Men in black coats and women in long dresses hold parasols as they gather. Roses bloom behind picket fences.

  Today is the Annual Native Feast – a day when blankets and food are distributed to the Deerubbin Aborigines of the Hawkesbury River area. Families sit in groups on the lawn, passing roast meats and swigging at jugs of bool, rum. Different clans sit next to each other, some dressed in rags and others resplendent in possum-skin cloaks. They gather in front of the verandah where the Governor’s wife, Mrs Macquarie, hands out blankets.

  Berringingy pushes through the melee searching for the man in a black coat. Muraging’s head turns back and forth staring at men in red with sabres. She is startled by the noise and loud music. She sees a tall wooden box with striped material, surrounded by small children who shout and laugh. Tiny people in bright coloured clothes are trapped in the box hitting each other. One has a hooked nose and a red pointed hat with jingling bells. Muraging pulls urgently on her father’s arm to get him to look at this spectacle.

  Her father places her down and hands her over to the government men of the Native Institution to be a school pupil. She is shown where the big fella boss stands – Governor Lachlan Macquarie. He gives a speech about his feelings of benevolence towards native people and how he accepts their gift. This word nguyangun – gift – can’t be correct.

  Muraging wants to scream but she can’t move or speak. Berringingy is standing in the sunlight and the boy now clings to his shoulders. The longed-for boy. She wishes they had left him in the bush for the ants.

  Her father stands, places his knuckles together on the top of his woomera and leans forward, listening. A captain in red wool is talking slowly as if her father is stupid. The English words sound like the rattle of sticks.

  Berringingy looks over at her and wipes away a tear.

  Muraging stares at him. She has seen this look of confusion on his face before, when he was first given a bag of flour. He made a joke – had they given him white dust or ochre paint? He mimed spitting it out as he tasted it. He threw it away and the bag burst and produced a white cloud. They had all laughed. The tribe had kept their eyes on him to see what to do about these ghost men with fire sticks that killed. Her father was their star and moon. But then the soldiers had laughed at him. She had been dismayed to see him, their leader, ridiculed. They produced damper from a saddle bag, and the terrible horse had whinnied, frightening them all except her father. Berringingy stood tall, turned his back and, with a flick of a hand, the whole mob walked away. Proud. They didn’t need white dust from dead people.

  Only later would Muraging know what it is to beg for just one scoop of waibala flour.

  Now she is naked in front of these ghost men, their ghost-blue eyes glowing as she pulls a cotton shift over her head.

  Governor Lachlan Macquarie stands next to Berringingy. Macquarie is dressed in a red coat with gold buttons and braid, and a hat of bright green feathers. The men beside him also wear red coats and gold braid; swords hang from their belts. Indian ceremonial daggers in silver scabbards glint in the sun. Muraging squints at the Governor as he delivers his speech:

  ‘We are aware of many Darug clans inhabiting the area around our new-found settlement. The Bidigal of Botany Bay are responsible for many incursions. In Prospect, new farmers are undergoing terrible afflictions as a consequence of these incursions. Other woods tribes are the Bidigal at Castle Hill, the Burruberongal on the Deerubbin, the Hawkesbury River, the Cannemegal near Parramatta and the Cabrogal at Liverpool. They are often reported to gather together for catching eels and what-have-you. We must endeavour to bring a civilising influence on these natives, who possibly
number up to five thousand in this area alone. Today, I bring good tidings: we shall, with the enthusiastic aid of my good wife, add some pupils to our Native School, including this rather untidy child.’

  He points to Muraging and she is shocked to see people stare and laugh at her. The crowd cheers and the Governor smiles at Muraging. The waibala ghosts in their long black shiny boots laugh a lot with snorting pink noses.

  Macquarie puts out his hand to his wife Elizabeth, who stands in front of a line of scrubbed Aboriginal Native Institution children in white shifts, like trees. She leans down to Muraging and shows her a gold frame with a dead child locked inside. The child stares back at her, trapped in a gold stone.

  Muraging feels the edge of the lady’s dress as it brushes her face. Perhaps if she keeps still, she will not be eaten. It is a relief when she is not eaten. Still her guts turn to liquid and she thinks she might wet herself as she is pulled along with the other children. Scissors snip at her hair and she grits her teeth as her curls drift down into the dirt. She wants to show she is strong.

  Her chest pounds and she thinks it will burst. For the first time she looks at the newly arrived school children. One little girl cries and wets herself but nobody seems to notice. Muraging is terrified but stands very quietly. She wills herself to withstand this moment. She must be brave and stay ready to escape. Her granny’s spirit is standing by her side, as always. She imagines she is biting the white people, screaming and punching, and running as she leaves the waibala empty-handed. But for now the sun is hot as she crouches to watch ants moving a crumb of bread. She puts a twig in their way and they climb over it.

  She looks around the square, surrounded with big stone buildings, to see a whole bullock cooking and turning on a stick. The drips of juice are sizzling and her mouth is drooling. The smell attracts stray dogs and a white one runs off with some meat. She wants to chase it and grab the food. She watches her father feeding the boy some delicious chewed meat. Her meat.

  She looks towards the edge of town and the great grey gum trees are full of spirits watching them. A white cockatoo drops from the sky and sits beside her. It speaks to her about its need for some seeds or bread and she agrees; life is hard.

  The children have been taught to curtsy and told to do so to the fat men and ladies; this makes them giggle nervously. But Muraging refuses and kicks the nearest waibala. She stands tall while a big sweaty man with a red nose introduces himself as Reverend Masters. He is wearing dark clothes with a white collar that seems to be choking him. He’s a minister and a magistrate. He has a gold ring with a black cross around his neck. He smells of perfume and pipe smoke. She cringes before this man’s cruel eyes.

  Two tall people, dressed like crows in long black gowns, push through the crowd. They stand in front of the line of Aboriginal children and bow to Reverend Masters.

  ‘Dear Reverend, I hope our other charges from the Parramatta Native Institution show you how we are successful in taming the natives in becoming useful members of society,’ says Mr Shelley, ‘Thank you for Muraging. I will be like a father to her.’

  She is startled to hear her name.

  ‘Mrs Shelley, Mr Shelley, I am pleased to see you take on these native charges on behalf of the Colonial Missionary Society,’ says Reverend Masters. ‘Teach these children of God to see into their souls. God’s will endures. We hope that you can provide for the young natives so that they can learn English and become interpreters for their savage cousins. We can hope that they may marry and breed a better type of native. The full bloods will naturally die out. These innocents will be more respectful of our ways and desires. There will be no corruption of souls here. We can save them from damnation.’

  ‘Yes, our sole motive is the conversion of souls and, for this, we have come so far from our missionary activities in Tahiti,’ says Mr Shelley while Mrs Shelley nods. ‘My wife and I desire to do much wonderful work and trust our little school will be a beacon of hope for these poor innocent children.’

  Reverend Masters puts his glasses on and peers closely at Muraging. ‘She seems to be about twelve years old. She has features that are close to the African. I feel little hesitancy to classify these Aborigines with the progeny of Canaan who was cursed by Noah. They are cursed to be servants of servants.’

  ‘Surely not. Jesus will love them, as shall we, and we will bring them improvement and civilisation,’ says Mrs Shelley.

  ‘Madam, we are the civilisers of heathens,’ says Governor Macquarie.

  ‘Perhaps you are not equal to the exertions required. We do not wish the natives to languish in ignorance of the Lord,’ says Reverend Masters.

  ‘Governor, if you wish to enumerate any difficulties, we shall attend to them with no hesitance. The Negroes in other new worlds are said to be ready for emancipation. Who knows what may eventuate with our humble endeavours,’ says Mr Shelley, but no-one seems to be looking at him. Masters picks his teeth and examines the contents. He rubs Muraging’s head and tickles her ears in an awful way as she squirms. He is greasy and hideous with a huge shadow in the sun, like a Hairy Man.

  Mr and Mrs Shelley smile and beckon to her. She thinks at that moment that she might be eaten.

  ‘Now take care that the females remain ignorant of all but sewing, cleaning and prayers – all the better to serve husbands,’ says Masters, as he grabs Muraging’s ear and peers into it.

  ‘We will call her Mary James, after my old housekeeper,’ says Masters, as his hand creeps across Mary’s skull; he then wipes his palm with a silk scarf.

  ‘Say your new name, Mary,’ says Masters.

  ‘Muraging,’ she says.

  She shivers and tries to rub his smell off her head.

  ‘Mary! She will grow used to it,’ says Masters.

  Berringingy appears and walks up to the Governor. Has he changed his mind? Muraging smiles at him hopefully while the Governor bows before him.

  ‘Greetings, Chief Berringingy. This is an unheralded visit but a most welcome one. I remember that Governor Philip met your esteemed leaders, Nurrugingy and Yarramundi, or is it Yellowmunday?’ says the Governor.

  He continues: ‘On the Richmond Creek. They exchanged gifts. Two stone hatchets in return for two metal ones. Very good to see you all here with us in peace. We offer you breakfast. We will present you with a breast plate and take your child for the school,’ Governor Macquarie continues. He is holding out a brass gorget for the chief to wear.

  ‘You teach my daughter, no whu karndi,’ says Berringingy.

  ‘I hereby name you Chief of the South Creek Tribe. I have already promised your countrymen Nurrugingy and Colebee a grant of thirty acres on South Creek as an additional reward for fidelity to our government with their roles as guides. You may be next,’ says the Governor. Her father bows his head and the shiny metal crescent is hanging from his neck like a noose. He nods. He will not look at his daughter as he swings the boy onto his shoulders and walks away.

  …

  Mrs Macquarie leans forward and kindness pours out of her face as she nods to Mr and Mrs Shelley.

  ‘Please allow me the indulgence of speaking,’ says Mrs Macquarie, ‘I can see the other children assembled and you say they have made progress in their studies that is equal with English children of the same age – and they can read the Testament or Bible. Marvellous, seeing as they were only rescued from the Appin punitive expedition last year. A terrible event, with many natives perishing, but it was necessary to bring peace. We have two boys and two girls for the school and they will join your charges. How is that naughty girl Mercy?’

  The tall girl next to Muraging smiles and pokes her tongue out at her.

  ‘You Mary?’ asks Mercy.

  ‘Muraging,’ she says.

  ‘No more,’ laughs Mercy.

  Muraging shoves Mercy away and stares with fury.

  ‘She achieves adequate reading skills,’ Mr Shelley replies to Mrs Macquarie.

  The feasting begins in the marketplace. Muraging and
the children are given meat and bread and they gulp it down. Mrs Shelley hands her a striped lolly. She crunches and sucks the red and white peppermint stick and it dribbles down her chin. The world is still.

  Muraging watches her father and her aunts as the feast is finished. She rushes towards her family but is captured by a soldier, flung over his back and returned to the schoolmaster. The children are marshalled back into line and Muraging trails behind.

  Mrs Shelley tries to take Muraging’s hand, but she struggles out of her grip and runs away to stand by the grand sandstone church, feeling lost. St John’s spire is the tallest building in the town. Muraging hears an eerie wailing in the distance, like someone has died. Mulbari. She wonders if the wailing is for her. She picks her nose and examines the contents but a white hand smacks it and drags her back. Muraging tries out a smile, hoping it will make her more appealing. She hopes they won’t put her on a big white bird ship to disappear over the edge of the sea.

  ‘Biana, biana!’ cries Muraging when she sees Berringingy moving away. But the bargain has been made. Eyes are gleaming with the sight of bags of food and her hungry family is shambling away into dust. Her people laugh and drink and are having a grand old time on bool. She watches her father trying on a blue coat from the Governor. He strokes the braid and pulls off a button for his son to play with.

  Then he looks back at her and calls, ‘Nogra whu karndi, waibala.’ Be brave and do not run away. He smiles at her and turns his back.

  There are ashes in her mouth. She tries to uncurl the pink fingers around her own. She could bite Mrs Shelley and run. She can almost taste the salty blood. She wants to rip and tear the hand like a dingo feasting on a bone.

  ‘Governor, she will settle, they all struggle at first, but under my tutelage she will learn to be like the English. Why, under the dirt she is quite pretty,’ says Mrs Shelley.

  Mrs Shelley has a high, white choking collar and her hands flap like frightened birds. She grins at Mary with scary intensity; her yellow devil-devil teeth are sharp.