by Julie Janson
Masters and Woodrow stand and gesture to the door.
‘We could have done with the skills of Bungaree, to interpret. However, I hear he is dead,’ says Masters.
‘Poor Bungaree. He circumnavigated the continent but all he could do in the end was make a living selling peaches at Kirribilli,’ says Masters. ‘Oh, and apricots. However, his son, Bowen, is held in high esteem. He is said to be an excellent tracker and boatswain. He speaks countless native tongues and, as such, went on the Oxley expedition. Extraordinary.’
‘Before he enters, tell me about this highly regarded native you are about to bring into my presence,’ says the Governor. ‘You see, we have a pressing need to build the roads and get access to the Hunter River to Newcastle in the north, and I do hope he can assist us to achieve this zealous endeavour.’
‘I suspect that Chief Jerungi is guilty of committing depredations against settlers but he begs a pardon from you in return for our military’s safe passage around the new townships,’ says Woodrow.
‘You, girl,’ he crooks his finger at Mary. ‘Does he speak on behalf of all Blacks?’ asks the Governor.
‘He speaks on behalf of humanity, Sir. He seeks justice, a pardon,’ says Mary.
Masters coughs. ‘What nonsense, a pardon indeed. Off with his head! I know for a fact that Mrs Masters almost had an abomination committed against her.’ He looks pointedly at Mary as if she is to blame. ‘She was assaulted by one of Mary’s heroes. In Mrs Masters’ own bed, in her own house on a Sunday afternoon, when I was detained with my church obligations. Not nice, is it? Terrible. I am beside myself with guilt for not being able to protect her. Why, she has gone home to England, just like that, and I am all alone.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Reverend. Now, however, we must cordially receive this servant’s countryman,’ says Woodrow.
‘I desire revenge for my wife but I am forbidden by the church. Henry Smythe took some of my muskets and he has been practising his shooting,’ says Masters.
‘This assault on her is indeed an outrage,’ says the Governor.
‘Do you wish to still see Jerungi?’ asks Woodrow.
‘I will allow Chief Jerungi to approach my person as I am eager to make friends with the peaceful natives. We can’t take offence at every native in the whole country. Some must be tamed so that they can be used as ambassadors for their people,’ the Governor says and grins benignly.
Captain Woodrow beckons the aide to fetch the visitor. Mary is straining to see the visitor.
Then Chief Jerungi is led in by Rodney. He is tall and imposing and wears a topknot of white feathers and military trousers. The warrior has cicatrices carved in his chest and shoulders and large muscled arms. He has a strong brow and no shirt or shoes. He lays down ten sharp spears with flint tips and a carved hardwood woomera by the hat stand. He strides forward as though he is entertained by a governor every day. He stands by a plush green chair as the Governor takes a monocle and examines him like a specimen.
‘Welcome King Jerungi. I take it that you wish to bring peace. Take a seat. I believe that you speak some English. You were educated at our Native School, is that correct?’ says the Governor.
‘They call me Teddy. But I run away.’ He does not sit down but walks about the room nonchalantly and lifts glass paperweights to look through them.
‘Of course you did,’ the Governor says. He grins and indicates for Mary to pour some tea in a cup for him. Jerungi pushes the cup away and pours himself wine in a glass. Mary nods at Jerungi and he smiles at her and winks.
‘Talk now about my mob. No more killing,’ Jerungi says and stares directly at the Governor, as an equal. No-one seems to be sure of how to proceed. Everyone is tinged with nervousness, except for Jerungi, who is at ease.
‘You are safe here. I see you as an esteemed envoy for your people. Be assured, you will not be harmed,’ says the Governor. ‘I am a man of my word, and I believe you can be the man to lead your people through these challenging times.’
The Governor is holding his chin and continues to stare with fascination. There is a tension in the room, as though something will break. And it does. Jerungi breaks a crystal wine glass and Masters jumps up and shouts.
‘Take care, you barbarian!’
Captain Woodrow also rises and stands to attention by the Governor while Rodney reaches for the broken glass.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Jerungi, there will be an excess of such glasses, all shipped at great expense from London,’ says the Governor.
Jerungi pushes up his kangaroo skin garment and sits down at the table opposite the Governor and the aide-de-camp moves to his side.
‘Governor, you trust captain?’ asks Jerungi as he looks at Captain Woodrow.
‘He will be made a major, because of his discoveries near Coal River,’ he says.
‘You want peace, for our mob not attack English?’ asks Jerungi.
‘That would be absolutely correct. How can we achieve this?’ the Governor asks as he nods his head.
‘This captain kill lotta mob,’ says Jerungi, glaring at Woodrow.
‘Of course, I understand. Out you go, Woodrow. We can manage quite well in these delicate matters without you. They must have good memories of you,’ says the Governor, not concealing his sarcasm.
‘Tiddle off, Woodrow, there’s a good fellow,’ adds Masters.
The captain walks out of the room. He is furious.
Mary looks through the window and feels the strangeness of Jerungi sitting on a red velvet chair at the table with the Governor.
Masters looks uncomfortably hot and is pulling at his collar and rubbing his face. The air is as thick as jam. Suspicion dribbles from the walls.
‘If I may speak, Governor. This savage is not to be trusted,’ says Masters while Mary waits by the table with intense interest.
‘Well, Mr Jerungi, you have all managed to bring insurrection despite our trust in your chiefs,’ says the Governor, and continues. ‘The old governor had promised you a generous feast day and I expected on my arrival in the colony to also have a harmonious co-existence with your fellow natives. Is it not so?’
‘That old governor sometimes good. Sometimes not,’ says Jerungi.
‘He remembers the punitive expedition of 1817. He won’t look upon colonial authority with any acceptance,’ says Masters.
‘If I am ignorant of the apparent motivations for the attacks against us, how can I understand?’ asks the Governor.
‘He is a natural killer. White women and children have been butchered by his band of savages. What on earth can we hope to gain by simply talking to him, a heathen? I pray to God you know what you are doing, Sir,’ says Masters.
Mary feels a rush of fear and clutches the window sill and can sense a terrible thing may happen.
‘Peace. It is my personal wish to have a peaceful settlement under my guidance in this new world,’ says the Governor. ‘English men and families are coming here in thousands – not just felons, but respectable immigrants with considerable assets. We must offer security. Trade, Christianity, all will flow if we can come to some peaceful arrangement with the hostile natives.’ The Governor is passionate and loud. He faces Jerungi with an imploring look and Mary watches with growing anxiety.
Suddenly, Jerungi moves in his seat. He reaches forward and strokes the Reverend Masters’ collar. Mary holds her breath. Jerungi takes hold of this collar and pulls Masters’ plump face up against his own. He seems to breathe in the waibala’s air. The Governor is alarmed and the aide-de-camp rushes forward to seize Jerungi’s arm and squeezes it to make him release the now-choking Reverend Masters. There is loud coughing and Captain Woodrow bursts into the room, cutlass drawn and Mary ducks to the floor.
‘Unhand him!’ demands the captain, and Jerungi laughs like a storm.
The captain, Rodney and the aide-de-camp grab Jerungi and drag him from the room. As they do, he reaches out for his cup of tea and sips it as he is pulled away. The tiny china teacup is cov
ered in pink roses and he hands it to Mary who is kneeling, dumbfounded. Mary looks at the cup. She is awfully fond of pretty china.
‘Death for waibala!’ Jerungi yells as he is hauled to the stockade outside. Masters is still coughing and trying to regain his voice.
‘Damn scoundrel!’
The Governor wipes his face with a handkerchief and everyone is quiet. Mary slips out of the open door to watch where Jerungi is taken. No-one sees her go.
…
Later that evening, Mary visits the wooden stable where Jerungi sits, imprisoned. It has been boarded up on all sides except at a small door. Mary has no fear, only a need to help this man. The coming darkness covers her and she is a creature of the dusk, a grey kangaroo leaning softly against the wood. She scrapes at the door and finds a hole at the bottom.
There is no guard and she whispers to Jerungi, ‘Bobbina, karndo.’ She pushes an orange under the door and some damper. A black hand takes the food.
‘Wiang, help me?’ he asks, then says, ‘Yuin, womra, dig.’
Mary runs to the shed and finds a garden trowel and puts it under the door. She quietly walks back to her bed and sleeps soundly knowing that the great warrior will be gone by daybreak. He will fly through the night on dark wings – no white man can hold him long.
In the morning, Mary wakes and Captain Woodrow in there. He is standing by the bed with the trowel in his hands. His thumb caresses the rusty metal; it rubs along the edge and his eyes do not leave her face. She hangs her head and supresses a laugh of victory.
‘You did this? You helped him escape,’ says Woodrow, ‘like an Indian fakir with magic at your fingertips. You are a naughty girl. Do you want to end up in the stocks?’
Mary pulls the blanket up to her chin and sings, ‘The grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men, he marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again.’ The captain pulls down her blanket and glares at her.
‘I swear that if I can prove you had a hand in this escape, I will have you tried and locked up for eternity. You know the Female Factory? Well, I will make sure you go to the prison and rot. And we will remove your little girl. I hoped for loyalty from you!’
‘What loyalty? Me, all alone with no tribe. You will not take my girl,’ she shouts.
He turns and walks out of the room and she hides her face under the blanket. She can hear him swearing as he steps with his clean boots into horse shit.
Later that evening, the captain’s plans are being discussed. The gathering of white men is sitting by the fire and Mary is listening, but invisible to them.
‘I have a splendid notion that is as simple as the Blacks themselves are. I will offer this renegade Jerungi power – everyone likes that, even the primitives,’ says Woodrow. ‘We as colonial authorities will appear to be conciliatory, to want to keep the peace between our black brethren and ourselves, the superior race. I will offer conditions for their surrender. Modest ones, mind; the man is not stupid. Then, there will come a time when this treacherous leader will want to barter with us. They do like to trade. We will quarrel and there will be an accidental skirmish and a shot and that’s the end of it. The land is quite ours already, anyway.’ The captain is puffing on his pipe and he leans forward to stare at Masters.
‘A bit ruthless, isn’t it? Smythe would say: where is God’s word in this? How can we bring the natives to the faith if we keep killing them? Surely, a gentle coercion is what is needed, the taking of children to train for service. Some kindness and the love of God. They are useful for farming workers and we require them if we are to grow the colony,’ Masters says, all this while thoughtfully picking his teeth.
‘You have a righteous belief in our conquering a lesser race of mankind,’ says Woodrow. ‘Of course, Jerungi can lead his people to your church, you will offer tobacco and blankets, and that always works. Of course you have noticed the decrease in their numbers? Disease such as measles and whatnot.’
‘And bung-head or bool, it makes them daft as a dill brain,’ says Masters as he crooks a finger to Mary and she pours another sherry into the captain’s glass.
‘I often wonder what we are doing here. We deserve some medals for this service for King and country,’ says Woodrow, ‘but I tire of medals; I have a pile from the European wars. What madness made you leave your comfortable living in Cornwall to come to this shithole, anyway? And don’t say God told you to come. Because that is bunkum.’ The captain is now standing and poking his finger into Masters’ chest. He is drunk, or they both are.
‘C’est la vie, eh? No, I will not make a trite answer, although the Lord did appear once with a demand that I give up my life for Him,’ says Masters. ‘Don’t you laugh at my deep and abiding commitment to religion. Mary, more wine!’ Masters yells and she obliges.
‘I am waiting,’ says Woodrow.
‘I was drawn to my great work ordained by God because of some unfortunate occurrence back home.’
‘I ascertained as much. We are nearly all on an adventure to escape from something, we New South Welshmen.’
‘You must promise not to divulge any information, no gossip please, I beg you. I was caught doing something,’ says Masters.
‘Ah, an indiscretion of a moral kind?’ asks Woodrow.
‘I was cruel. I beat them. Badly. Oh, we are not nasty folk. In fact, my family treated our slaves well in Jamaica and I now regret slavery,’ says Masters. ‘My black butler is here of his free will.’
‘I see. Disgrace,’ says Woodrow.
‘I had no choice but to take up the Bishop’s offer of this position in a far-off colony. It was either here or Patagonia and fever,’ says Masters as he coughs into his handkerchief. ‘But now, I have damned gout! Is that right, Mary? Gout? More wine girl!’
Masters has his face in his hands and Mary is standing nearby pouring wine. She pushes a handkerchief towards him on the table. She wishes she could jump on his head, push her fingers into his eyeballs until they pop out.
‘Yes, I see. Have another drink,’ says Woodrow. ‘That impenetrable forest is our insurmountable enemy. But we have ongoing coal extraction and perhaps even gold. We have a lust for it, do we not? But that northern forest exhausts my attempts to find safe passage to Coal River. A place of murder and rapine. Too many myall natives.’
‘The good and the bad,’ says Masters.
‘I go with my armed men but even the trees are homicidal. They fall in the wind and are hundreds of feet tall. The timber cutters are going at it, day and night. I have taken shots at fleeing Blacks and seen them drop after one shot. A crack shot. Once we were surrounded by forty of them, armed to the teeth. A fearsome sight, bones in their septum, hideous war paint and a fearful drumming of spear thrower on shield. But we can strike terror in their hearts,’ says Woodrow.
‘And you have no conceit,’ says Mary.
‘Mary is always here with an uncalled-for opinion. It is extraordinary to hear her apparent intelligence. Lots of English words. And damned musical. And I agree that some of the warriors have valour. Pemulwuy was an extraordinary fighter; it seemed he could not die. He had but one eye but could see for miles. Head in a bottle in London now,’ says Woodrow.
‘Oh yes, pickled Pemulwuy.’
‘There was a battle, reported but briefly in the Sydney Gazette,’ says Woodrow.
Mary leans against the table to listen.
‘Move off, girl,’ says Masters.
‘No, let her report this back to her countrymen,’ says Woodrow.
‘We were camped in a small valley and the tribe that came were called Darkinjung. It was before dawn, towards Coal River and, other than one killing of a native the day before, we hadn’t seen any. We had left that body with arms asunder, then the Lieutenant had the idea to leave his corpse as a deterrent, as we had done this often before. We hung him on a tree, like Christ. One soldier made a wreath of thorns.’
Mary’s face turns pale; her hands clench her smock.
‘Blasphemy, I k
now. Don’t be shocked, Mary. It is, after all, war.’
‘No Governor proclamation will protect settlers and shepherds out there,’ says Masters.
‘I didn’t want them to follow and ambush us. I was of the mind to frighten them,’ says Woodrow, ‘to show them who is boss. You see, you don’t know they are there. It’s a superhuman ability to be one with the forest. There were bird calls, loud and piercing in the mist, and we woke up to see the hill above us had a row of silhouettes. Natives in their hundreds, all loaded with countless spears. They kept coming like Zulus. The rattling began, a terrifying noise of spears and waddies against shields. My men were caught unawares and we were in a panic as we grabbed our muskets and shot.’ He refills his glass.
‘Tales of derring-do! You’d like to be one of those warriors, eh, Mary? And cut off our heads,’ says Masters.
‘I held my spyglass up and focussed on the leader as he stood tall amongst the other men,’ says Woodrow. ‘Totally fearless, they tore down the hill as the men fired again and again, and faced our guns as if they were nothing. We scrambled for powder. The hook spears tore through our men and they died in agony, if not on that day, later by infection and miasma. We ran away from the carnage, black and white bodies piled up in that lovely valley. We ran all morning and into the night. Certain that we were followed, we were tortured by the smoke signals and echoing bird cries. It was them, of course, mimicking the wild creatures. We arrived at our destination at the penal settlement of Newcastle. We were all wrecks – only six of us alive. Jolly good thing I was rewarded with promotion, a major now, you know.’
‘Mary, you must play your violin for us now! Go on, fetch it at once,’ yells Masters.
They are both nodding and Mary is sickened. Reluctantly, she takes the instrument and plays a sorrowful tune. When she finishes, she takes the wine carafe away to refill and spits in it. She lets her dribble trickle in a long tendril towards the lip of glass. The spit forms bubbles on the wine surface. She puts her finger in to mix it up. Then Masters’ shadow crosses the kitchen table; he has followed her.