by Julie Janson
…
Later, as Mary tries to sleep in a locked chicken shed, she can smell the hens and horses and the men smoking pungent tobacco. She can hear them laughing. Her chest trembles, her mouth is dry and a creeping terror shows itself in her sweating hands. She imagines a knife in her fist, to work it into her prison wall. The straw pallet scratches with insects. It rains and the dirt floor turns to slush.
In this cold, terrible night, Mary looks through a chink in the clay wall and sees Henry walking in the mist towards the shed carrying a jug of whiskey. A storm is growing and thunder erupts around her cell. Henry opens the door with a key, enters, then locks it from the inside. Squatting on the dirt, he swigs from the jug, his eyes never leaving her body. He hands the jug to Mary but she shakes her head.
‘You never drank before,’ she says.
‘I do on occasion, and this is one such occasion,’ he says as his fingers run down her arm.
‘I’ll come back, and burn down this house,’ she whispers angrily.
‘No, you won’t, because you would be hung and then there will be no-one to care for little Timmy,’ he slurs.
‘Let me go, naiya whu karndi, you can be kind Henry,’ whispers Mary.
‘But not brave enough to disobey. I lack a steadfastness. I hope you are warm enough?’ he asks, even though she has no cover and it is obvious she is freezing. He hands her his coat.
‘One must learn how to obey – that is what you must do for your whole existence. It is the consequence of thy servitude. Necessary but not evil. You see, people like myself are going to always control your life,’ says Henry, ‘I am, in truth, a terrible man. Cursed if you will. I must confess, I can’t trust myself. I want all the beautiful women I see. And I see you, dearest … My father spent all his time praying in the church. He ignored me and my suffering mother and I am eternally angry with him. But I am not like him. Save the Lord! I desire to be a good man. I sincerely pray for this. I want to be remembered by any children that God may grace me with, as a moral man. What happened to our child? You must help us.’
‘She’s lost. I don’t have to listen to your rubbish talk. Kaundi, go on, get out!’ she spits.
Mary turns away. She doesn’t want to look at his earnest, lying face. Henry squats in his long black gown on the muddied floor and brushes the hair from her eyes; he strokes her cheek. She snaps at him with her teeth.
‘Now, now. I’m sorry but I can’t disobey my superior. I find I am in a position of subservience. I am so very, very sorry,’ he says.
He looks mournfully at Mary as she sits in the dirt, chains around her ankles and wrists.
Mary wonders how she could ever have felt anything for him. Henry takes once last look and shakes his head as he unlocks the door and stumbles out of the barn.
‘I trusted you, for a long time!’ Mary hisses.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1835: ON THE MOUNTAIN
King William IV of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland makes a proclamation that is reported in the Windsor Gazette: The King recognises the continued rights to land for Aboriginal people in South Australia in the ‘Letters Patent’.
This promise of legal entitlement will not be kept.
A massacre of Aboriginal people occurs at Gravesend in New South Wales with two hundred killed. Countless Aboriginal massacres happen everywhere including in New South Wales. There have been fifty-five massacres since the arrival of Captain Philip.
…
One early morning, the troopers march out of Windsor town. Yellow-tailed black cockatoos swoop overhead and a strong breeze blows the eucalypts in grey-green waves. Mary is ashamed of her position of subjugation. People line the street and one waves a small British flag as children hold their mother’s hands and point and cheer. In front are twenty soldiers on horseback, wearing red uniforms with gleaming silver buttons. She is tied behind the last brown horse and must run to keep up. She is sweating and miserable; the rope is pulling at the metal chain and rings around her hands. She has never felt such unbearable humilation, and such rage.
They march for days along the rough roads and into bush towards Wonnarura country in the north where she will be required to lead them to kill the native people. White people from the small villages are standing by the road, laughing and jeering.
Captain Woodrow stops his horse near a settlement and doubles back to stand near Mary. He unfurls a rough map.
‘Mary. Use your wits to live. Where to from here?’ says Captain Woodrow. She stands there with her manacled wrists and her throat is tight with bitter rage.
‘The colonel tells me that I have not excelled in finding miscreant natives. I am no longer essential to the current authorities,’ says Woodrow. ‘But today is my last chance, the day I shall excel. You will escort us to find your countrymen.’
‘Don’t force me! Let me go! I know nothing,’ hisses Mary.
‘One last expedition into the wilderness and I shall return to the hill station of Naini Tal to catch fish.’ He clips her backside with his riding crop and they continue along a bush track.
After a few more hours, Captain Woodrow turns his mount around and rides back to Mary. He has a flash of pity and leans down to take her chin in his white-gloved hand. He gives her a sip from his water bottle, wipes the top and then takes a drink himself.
‘I have a pretty Indian cotton dress for you on our return. And you can play us some violin music and be rewarded with goods. Would you like that? Don’t be afraid,’ says Captain Woodrow.
Mary trembles at this unexpected kindness. She nods, but cannot look at him. She will need his protection from the evil ways of the soldiers – the soldiers that jeer with pure lust at her. Mary can tell that they hate Captain Woodrow.
They stop for the night on a stone ridge in deep forest. The mist rises above miles of birds-nest ferns and huge gum trees with girths so huge that ten men holding hands together cannot encircle them. The night is full of crickets and night birds. Making herself small, she curls up next to a thicket of bracken fern with a thin blanket.
‘This chain hurts. Take it off. Give me water,’ she croaks to Woodrow. She can hardly speak.
Woodrow uncaps a water flask again and hands it to her. ‘Here, drink. Keep it. I have another,’ says Woodrow. ‘You have fallen, but don’t despair; it’s not your fault. Reverend Masters preaches about God’s neglect. You are born to be Eve, the temptress. Are you a temptress?’ he asks.
‘I want to go back to Windsor, Captain. I cannot help,’ she whispers so faintly he can barely hear her.
‘You have skills in tracking and, by jove, you will help. You co-operate with us and we will do the same for you,’ says Woodrow. ‘You will explain to us about the tribes. We need to know more about the Awakabal in the north-west, the Worimi in the south east and here also the Woonarua. Your countryman Bowen is a Guringai, I believe.’
‘I’ll tell you nothing,’ she says.
‘We must follow native tracks to the Hunter region. You will show me the way. We need to punish them for some trepidations against settler families,’ he prattles on.
‘I want food,’ she mouths.
‘So be it, food in return for leading,’ he says.
‘You are like little lost babies,’ she finds the strength to speak. ‘You don’t know about this place where, behind every tree, native men are waiting to murder you. When you eat, when you piss, when you sleep. The mob have hook spears. When that spear goes into your body, you can’t get it out. You push the spear through muscle and skin. You have to saw the spear off. But a tiny bit of stone will stick in that wound and make poison.’
‘I have fought savages on the Indian frontier and I know that no honour exists amongst savages,’ he says.
‘We fight for our country and, if we die, we go up into the sky, with Baiame. We are spirits. You just rot in the ground,’ she replies.
‘We go to greet the Lord,’ says Woodrow. ‘You must prepare yourself, Mary. Pray to God that yo
u find them before we are attacked because, believe me, I will shoot you if you betray us. I want this journey to be a success. I need this expedition to succeed to ensure my promotion and pension.’
He takes hold of her shoulders and forces her to look at him.
‘I will never help you!’ she says.
‘Well, be warned, I’m a man of my word. I will not hesitate to strip you naked, give you to my men for pleasure and then leave you to bleed to death,’ he says as he strolls away.
‘I will kill you first,’ she vows to herself.
They walk all day in terrible heat. She watches the soldiers eating, treacle dripping down from their mouths, and she drools. She looks at trees to climb or hang herself from. She imagines the rope, the knot, the crack of her neck. Squatting by a pool that is before a cascading waterfall, she can see her reflection and she is all haggard, dirty and in rags.
Later, they give her a little salt beef and water.
As night falls the sky is full of ancestors. Mary lies back and hears her father telling her the stories of the beginning. The captain walks towards her and she sees that he is holding a pannikin of tea for her. For a moment she is happy.
In the cool, dark bush, Mary hears the sound of a cork popping. The captain drinks rum from a stone bottle with a young corporal. The young man scrapes mud from his long boots with a dagger and then cleans it against a tree. His hair shines red in the firelight.
‘Don’t drink too much, it has to last,’ says Woodrow.
‘Much appreciated, Sir. Doing me good,’ he says.
They laugh like old friends and it makes her shiver. The red-haired corporal is whispering and Mary can see his outline against the firelight. Red coats are pulled closer against the chilly air. Her teeth chatter.
‘Let me have her, Sir,’ says the corporal.
‘Don’t be a fool. Leave her be, on my orders,’ says Woodrow.
Her palms sweat and her breathing increases. A bird of prey hovers. A snowy owl. An omen.
Mary sees the corporal licking his lips and smirking at her. He even winks as though he has dibs on her, like he has won her in a game of dice. She imagines the laughter and clicking dice.
She watches to see where he keeps his pistol – wrapped in an oilskin in his saddle bags.
‘Out here in the wilderness there’s nothing but savages. We could have a taste. Just sneak her over the hill there. Tip her over and rumpity, rumpity,’ he says.
‘She is our guide,’ says Woodrow. ‘Turn your mind to some useful thoughts, such as navigating our way back to Windsor at the end of this.’
‘Yes, Sir. Just a joke, Sir, pulling yer leg. Wouldn’t dream of it. Against regulations,’ replies the corporal.
Mary leads them on a native track in the morning light. She has no choice. The terrain is rough with sandstone and she takes them down small ravines that will surely break a horse’s leg. She stumbles over round stones near a creek surrounded by ferns where they stop to drink the cool spring water and refill drinking flasks. She nibbles at sarsaparilla vine leaves and the sweetness slakes her thirst. The captain puts out his hand and she places one tender purple diamond-shaped leaf on his palm. She motions to him to eat it then spit. He chews with a smile and spits like her.
A while later, the captain brings her a blanket and some water to wash with. He even gives her some perfumed soap. Mary, however, waits for him to leave and she uses the soap to work on the metal manacles that bind her wrists, but the iron bolt is as thick as her finger and will never be loosened.
After the rest, Mary refuses to move on. She is pulled upright and stands rigid.
The captain takes her neck and chains it again. She is pulled along by a horse, its arse and its twitching black tail in her face. Flies flick from its tail to her mouth.
‘Keep up!’ the corporal shouts and giggles as they move on. His eyes are on the breast that peeks from her torn shift.
When they next to stop for the night, she sits down on a grassy verge with an outflow of breath and sighs. The captain tips sugar from a cloth bag onto her hand and she eats it but does not look at him. He strolls away to lean against his mare, sipping tea.
The corporal walks up to her and whispers, ‘Black strumpet, fit for nothin’ but fuckin.’
She can smell him – the stink of tobacco, blood, urine, shit and semen. The leather boot scratches in the dust in front of her.
Later, Mary hears men snoring and snuffling in their sleep; some cry out. She looks up in the gloom and sees the blue-eyed corporal close to her and blowing kisses. She throws off her blanket and kicks his stomach with all her strength until he falls backwards and lies in the dirt breathing hard. His face is pink and the blue veins in his neck are throbbing. She stands up and kicks him again. It feels so good.
She will fight rather than succumb to the waibala against her will. Her stolen country is somehow all bound up with the man who would try to rape her.
His boot kicks dirt at her face and she retaliates with another shove. The corporal swings his fist into her head and she feels a lightning burst of pain in her temple. He has acne with yellow pus dotted in his dirty face. His hair straggles to his shoulders, reddish and lank. He has bright blue eyes and white eyebrows. She sucks a tooth that is loose and lowers her head.
Mary lies back against the tree, and feels her back aching from the punches. Her fingers are black, her nails caked with dirt and she claws at the manacle as if sheer will can cut through the iron.
‘Get it over with, you stupid fella, then I’ll kill you!’ she hisses.
His eyes widen as he hits her with the butt of his gun. The pain shoots through her head. She rolls on the ground and waits. She can hardly breathe. It hurts to move. She imagines she is turning to flame like Satan in a picture in the Bible. Fire coming out of her eyes and mouth. If she was shot now, surely wild devils would pour out of the wounds. She hisses at her attacker and he walks away.
Some time later, the captain returns to talk to Mary.
‘That corporal bashed me and you do nothing,’ she spits through swollen lips.
‘He will be punished if indeed he has harmed you,’ he says, ignoring her obvious injuries.
‘Where are you going? You’re lost,’ she says.
‘Come. Lead us again, Mary. The renegades seek our utter destruction. I do need and expect your co-operation. Do you sense where the renegades are camped? he asks.
‘You can follow me but please, Captain, take off the chain,’ she pleads.
The captain shakes his head, but there is a glimmer of kindness as he says, ‘I can’t, because you might run.’
As they continue and the track becomes rougher, she pictures herself as a child in her true country by the Deerubbin.
‘Hey, blackie, I’ll shoot ya. That captain can’t protect you if I’ve shot you while trying to escape. But I won’t do that. I like you,’ leers the corporal.
Mary looks at this man, spit drooling from his curling lips.
He mimes kissing her with his musket.
‘Go on,’ she thinks, ‘Shoot.’
She is fading.
‘Which way? I can hear something ahead. Did you hear that shout? Quiet everyone … Mary, can you follow their tracks?’ says Captain Woodrow.
‘I’m not a tracker! Just woman,’ she says.
But she knows the tell-tale signs, the stone upturned, the broken twig, the bracken fern brushed footprints. Boothuri taught her well. She sees a heel print. She knows that they are not far ahead and panic is rising in her. What can she do? She is at the end and can hardly see.
‘She has tricked us! We have been puffing up this ridge, for what? The heathens are comin’ and will surround us, tear us apart and eat our livers,’ shouts the corporal.
The next day, Mary is manacled but no longer chained to a horse. She smells the smoke that draws the troopers onwards to her people. The message beacons are lit and she can follow them. It might be the Wonnaruah people. But this is betrayal.
&nbs
p; Suddenly, a thin warrior chief stands before her, and he recognises her. Mary grits her teeth in a grin and he sees her hands and their metal prison. He is silent and stands still in the shadows. Only she can see him. He whispers to her in his language and she can barely understand. She holds up her shackle and he nods because it is a commonplace thing.
‘Yalingen, get captain, barrao,’ says the chief.
Mary uses her last breath to catch up to the captain’s horse and reaches him on the edge of a fern-lined creek. His horse is drinking. He looks down at her with a grin.
‘What is it, Mary?’ he asks.
‘The renegade chief, he’s here. Come! Not soldiers, just you. He wants talk with you,’ she says.
He motions to the others to stay, then loads his musket and walks his horse towards the dark trees. As he moves, the other soldiers load their rifles. An echoing click of powder and shot can be heard. The chief steps lightly onto the track. He is adorned with eagle feathers and a possum-skin cloak.
‘Sir, you have come to surrender? We are well armed and you have your spears. Not a match at a distance for a Brown Bess with a range of six hundred feet. Hmm?’ The two men eye each other, then the captain looks around the trees for signs of an ambush. Slowly, he takes tobacco from a pouch and offers it to the warrior. He fills a pipe, which the captain lights with a flint. The Aboriginal man inhales.
The captain pulls Mary in front of him and asks her to interpret the language of the warrior but she is ashamed to face such an important man and shakes her head.
‘Tell me what he says. You understand his lingo? I know you can do this,’ the captain implores Mary’ She interprets as best she can.
‘Wirra native? Wirra ? Burruberongal wah? Warmuli wah? All finish? All about, no bulla bingie. No food. Talkem Governor,’ he says.
‘He wants to meet with the Governor and talk peace. He wants coins for his land and for food. He wants you to give help for native people. They are starving. He wants land for his people. He asks why are native heads cut off and given to the King of England? He wants to know, is the King a cannibal?’ she says.