by Julie Janson
One day when Mary is at Spencer, she sees the blue-eyed, red-haired corporal who has wandered into this tiny settlement and is buying bottled bung-head and rum at the makeshift store on the wooden wharf. It is him.
Mary has a reflection upon the consequences of actions but she can recall her own resistance to the men’s attack. She can almost taste the corporal’s bloodied lip. She takes pride in that, and how she stabbed the man’s shoulder with a blade. It felt powerful. She has warrior ancestors.
She slips into the only store with its sacks of flour and tins of Chinese tea and asks about the purchase of a flint-lock musket and cartridges. The storekeeper knows Mary well and is not inclined to offer her credit. She produces her violin and bow as payment. Her need is great.
‘What would I bloody be doing with that?’ He laughs and digs beneath the counter to lay out an old musket. He places the twists of paper cartridges beside it.
‘For hunting kangaroo, to feed my little one,’ she says. He nods with a doubting expression but can see no harm.
‘You know how to prime it? You take the paper cartridge with its musket ball and gun powder and pour a little into the pan. See the touch hole? The hammer is half cocked but when you draw it back then you are ready to squeeze the trigger. You got that lass?’ he asks.
Mary nods and takes the heavy musket and ammunition wrapped in sacking.
‘You got an old suit of men’s clothes for me? I can pay later.’
‘Never knew a blackfella who paid later – I don’t know why I have such a soft heart for you lot. Take my worn-out coat and the bloody hat with it, for free!’ He laughs. ‘Don’t you go shooting your foot off!’
Next day, she covers Timmy with a blanket and creeps up the riverbank in her disguise. The sun is just rising and nobody is about except the sleeping corporal. Seagulls and cormorants fly over the wharf. Sandstone pillars are covered in old oyster shells and yellow sun glints on the waves. It is a pretty scene. The corporal is snoring on a pile of blankets; he mumbles drunkenly alongside the trees by the empty Spencer wharf.
‘You, Corporal ! Wake up!’ whispers Mary as she pokes the musket into his side. The man cries out in alarm and stumbles to his feet.
‘What the hell?’
‘Quiet now!’ she says as she moves out of his reach.
He sits up, rubbing his head and, as he focuses on Mary, he whimpers and attemps to stand but staggers.
‘Stand up and follow me. I have something for you,’ Mary hisses through tight teeth.
He stands and shakes. She cocks the hammer of the flintlock musket and without hesitation blasts him with the gun. The ball hits his hand. His fingers are smashed and he screams as if he is about to die. Blood gushes down his arm but she thinks he is barely wounded. Mary lowers the weapon and throws it far out into the river and runs to her canoe where Timmy sleeps. She must escape recognition. She will not return to the stone house on the riverbank.
Mary paddles ferociously down the river towards Marra Marra Creek. She has heard rumours of a settlement amongst orange groves and her cousin’s home – a mythical world of peace and plenty. But she will still have to live in fear of arrest. Her home at Gentleman’s Halt has to be forgotten.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
1839-43: MARRA MARRA CREEK
Governor George Gipps has served with the Duke of Wellington but missed the battle of Waterloo. In Australia he helps set up ‘The Protectorate of the Aborigines’ in 1838 with the object of rescuing the Aboriginal tribes from misery and saving the whole race from extermination.
Mary hears the rumours of a rising up amongst the clans to the north, south and west. The Myall Creek Massacre takes place when twelve heavily armed settlers round up and murder twenty-eight Aboriginal people at Henry Dangar’s station at Myall Creek. The killers are caught and put on trial for the massacre of the Gammeray tribe near Terri Hie Hie in the far northern district. The colony is alive with the scandal of a court finding those men guilty of murder. There are good reasons for waibala to be silent about such things.
…
Mary and Timmy take a day to reach the hidden valley of the Marra Marra Creek that exists as a tributary of the Deerubbin. It is a hidden meadow of rich soil and orange groves with small slab huts. Timmy is delighted to be on the river again for a long journey and he lets his hand splash in the water. The river ripples with fish and ducks dive beside the canoe.
Paddling along the side of the Deerubbin to escape detection from fisher folk, Mary has a wallaby skin to keep warm and she sings to Timmy to make him smile. She hides her growing fears of being followed.
The silvery water is calm around them and she watches the high cliffs of yellow sandstone with the dense green forest of gum tress. Mist is wafting from the northern shore, streaming upwards like spirit smoke. The river is peaceful now with pelicans lumbering overhead. Timmy feels droplets of rain and he holds out his hands to catch them.
‘Don’t put your dhummar hand in there. Lots of eon. Might bite you,’ she says.
Mary is not sure where the Marra Marra settlement hides and she waits near the shore for the ebb tide to turn. She waits for the current and it takes her skimming across the expanse of the great river. She lands at Bar Point and makes a fire of driftwood on the oyster-covered rocks. She can see Coba Point and Berowra Creek in the distance and nearby Marra Marra Creek where a woman is wading with her mootin fish spear and cotton shawl, a dillybag of fish on her back. A small child is wading next to her with a shark liver in her hand. It must be for lighting lamps.
She can make out eucalypt slab huts with bark rooves tucked under the hill, with tiny chimneys blowing wisps of smoke into the peaceful scene. Mary has heard the stories about this settlement, hidden amongst the mangroves.
Mary sees the river bend and she remembers coming here long ago with her father, to a place where piles of oyster shells heap on the riverbank and fires of lime are scattered amongst the trees. Mary follows the creek at high tide to the houses.
It is a fine summer’s day and the wide Deerubbin dances in the sunlight as Mary paddles into the mangrove creek. Green seed pods float in the water and long tendrils of mangrove roots curl into grey mud. On the riverbank, crabs scuttle and the sandstone rocks are thick with bittongi oysters. Cormorants sit on branches drying their wings like flags.
With the sounds of singing children echoing in the morning sunlight, Mary has found this secret place, where the sheer distance from white men’s towns protects the families. The children grow here, hidden from colonial authorities.
As she paddles across the oyster beds, she holds Timmy tight.
A small sailing boat is anchored near the riverbank and Timmy calls when he sees other children dressed in torn cotton bonnets. The children run up and down calling to the newcomers.
At Marra Marra Creek, Mary is greeted by Bowen’s sister, Sarah, known as Biddy. She bought three acres of land here for fifteen shillings at a public auction. The teeming group of children help Mary pull her canoe up on the riverbank and grab hold of their new playmate, Timmy.
‘Welcome Mary, we hear all about your troubles, you safe here. My children are Elizabeth, Mary Ann, James, Tom, Catherine and Louisa Lewis,’ says Biddy.
The children cling to their mother as their names are called.
There are hugs for Mary, and the family immediately sets about finding a bed for her in a shack. They show her where to spear the best fish. She watches the men burning lime from oyster shells and marvels at their skill in building a boat. Timmy runs after the older children and competes at gathering oranges and peaches from the orchard. Surely here she is safe.
A majestic old man with a white moustache walks towards her, his hand out in welcome. He wears an old military jacket, braided and with tarnished buttons. At first Mary is unsure, but the many brown children and smiling women put her at ease and she feels as if she has come home. John Ferdinand Lewis is an old Prussian ex-convict who was in a war with Napoleon. He has a long blonde moust
ache, which he twirls with wax, and wears white shirts with lace collars. He smokes a Dutch pipe. The men in the Lewis family burn oysters to make lime and they are ship builders. The mother is Biddy, the sister of Bowen and a granddaughter of Chief Bungaree, who is now dead. When Ferdinand laughs, he tilts back his head and his teeth are yellow.
‘Welcome, cousin. You can help with the children and protect the corn. Ja? I am shooting twenty crows every day. They are a plague. Another fifty hanging from the trees,’ says Ferdinand.
Mary has never felt so happy. This sandstone country sings to her. The smell of eucalypt and wattle blossom summons the winter to end as does the crackling noise of bush beneath their feet as they run through tracks and skip over black snakes. They gobble shellfish from the rocks and catch wirriga, goanna, to bake on driftwood fires. Mary plays with little Timmy and the children. With his bare brown feet he runs and plays wild games like jump-a-rope. Bickering squabbles erupt over knuckles, marbles and string. Timmy is only small but he loves playing with these new cousins. Mary makes string games and creates bridges and boats and spears that tell stories about the ancestors, the eaglehawk and crow and how they chased each other and made the great rivers in New South Wales.
The children sleep in the dark night, piled like puppies stretched over three old beds, top to toe. The adults talk beside a stove alight with hardwood. They drink endless tea and laugh at stories of the old times. The cracks in the slab hut walls are plastered with lime wash and old newspaper, and Mary stands in front of them reading news that is many years old. The old people are impressed with her ability to read and they ask her to read these stories from the Sydney Gazette aloud.
Some of the women knit or sew in the candlelight. Biddy makes a bone broth, with every bit of precious meat in the pot, like wombat, kangaroo and echidna.
One night they hear the lone song of a piper across the mistfilled river, with a distant flute. Who can play like this? Mary longs for her violin.
…
Time passes in this contented existence and Mary thinks this quiet valley might remain her home. She could build a house and plant vegetables – raise seedlings in a box on the windowsill. They feed chickens with worms and collect eggs to make cakes, using the flour and sugar bought from the small village along the river.
The children shout that Mary’s cousin, Bowen, has come by boat to trade flour for lime. He is a frequent visitor and makes camp by a clearing amongst gum trees behind the houses. He has his own fire and gunyah, complete with pots and pans and some guns that are cleaned and hung up high. He is well turned out in a government police uniform but does not bother with trousers. His hair is strung with fabric and feathers and ornaments of shells. Everyone rushes to see him in his blue military coat. The little ones touch his precious rifle and he demonstrates its firing. Mary knows about his great adventures like that of his famous father. The men gather at his camp for long discussions about lime burning, boat building and catching runaway convicts. Mary, however, keeps her distance as he is, after all, now a Police Tracker.
Mary has some peace in this secluded creek community, but her feelings of loss for her daughter and father never leave. Each morning she takes mootins to spear little fish in the creek. Timmy and all the children squat by the fire while they cook them with salt on the coals.
One day, Ferdinand brings a letter from his brother that he has collected from Spencer. It is addressed to him but is a story about Mary James. She reads it aloud and is horrified. The letter asks Ferdinand to inform Mary that Masters is coming to collect her child to educate him. He offers to perform all sorts of Christian services for the inhabitants of Marra Marra Creek.
‘We are pleased that a man of the church is coming. We have so many children unbaptised,’ says Biddy. She holds out her hand to Mary but she looks away.
‘I will run away if he comes here; he is a monster and not afraid of hell,’ says Mary.
‘Don’t you want us to be saved? Christened?’ says Biddy. ‘We have not been to a church for years and seven babies have been born. They will not be able to enter heaven. Your own boy …’
‘Will not be taken by them. You see, there is no heaven,’ says Mary.
‘Mary, you will be damned. Take care. I will not let you fall.’
‘You are ignorant about these fellas. I know them. They tell you sweet words but eat your heart. They will bring terror here,’ says Mary.
As she goes through the day, making tea, pouring water into flour for damper, Mary wonders where else can she go. It is becoming clear to her that she must leave and start yet again. She is scared that loneliness might kill her this time. If only she had both Timmy and Eleanor to share her life.
She packs a bag and folds and refolds Timmy’s clothes. She presses their cleanliness to her face. But she is stalled. She realises she does not have the strength to start again and will stay here with old Ferdinand to protect her. She goes to sleep thinking about Eleanor.
…
One morning, in the white spring mist, Mary thinks she hears a whispering from the river, the splash of waves and the sound of sea birds. She turns to the west where smoke drifts on the breeze, then, a terrible vision appears on the river. A sailing boat is approaching on the high tide. On board are several waibalas and an Aboriginal woman. A boatman is in charge; a policeman and two ministers in black lean into the wind.
A sea eagle drifts on the wind, a warning to them, this clarion cry. The world is about to be turned inside out.
As the boat sails closer, Mary recognises Masters. He is holding a huge wooden cross, like a skeleton. She can see him begin to stand up as he calls out. His piercing voice breaks the peace. Beside him is Henry Smythe and behind them both stands Mercy, in a red billowing dress. She fans herself with a Chinese fan.
The boatman hauls down the sails with the constable’s help and they let the anchor out. It is shallow enough to wade ashore.
‘Eve that hath tempted Adam. Behold, the Lord hath come!’ Masters bellows out to the women and children on the shore. The men are busy lime-burning but come running through the smoke and mist to see who is causing the commotion. The ex-convicts are wary of visitors and look uneasily at each other, noting where the one shotgun is sitting behind a tank. Mary hides in Biddy’s lean-to bedroom amongst the bark shingles and newspaper. She wants to grab Timmy but she cannot see him.
‘What is it? Who is it? Why have they come here?’ Biddy is babbling in joyful anticipation. Mary is nodding and can’t speak. She knows they can’t hide all the children, who line up with their bonnets as their mothers wash their faces with spit. The women want to welcome him like the saviour, this reverend from hell.
‘He might Christen them all, save them from whiteman’s hell.’ Biddy is excited, tucking in children’s shirts and sponging grubbiness from shifts.
Masters has aged considerably and his girth is massive as he sits comfortably on the shore to catch his breath, the cross poking from his crotch.
Biddy will fear judgement by these men. Judgement of the dirt and poverty. The Ferdinand clan line up nonetheless, lambs to the slaughter. All the children stand along the muddy riverbank, while the men and women welcome this man of God, together with his hapless companions. Ferdinand is smiling and bowing to receive them.
The boatman helps Mercy step down onto makeshift stone steps near the beach. Mary watches her friend through a slit in the wooden window – she teeters in silk slippers.
‘Wilcommen, your highness majesty, to our house. We can make you a bed for the night,’ says Ferdinand. He is bowing but his piercing blue eyes never leave Masters’ face. Mary watches the women bobbing up and down like puppets.
‘We have applied for permission to marry from the local reverend, but we hear nothing. You are so very welcome to baptise us all,’ says Biddy.
‘Come, you must eat; come inside our house,’ says Ferdinand.
The river air billows around them. Seagulls dive. And the settlers dance like bags of bones.
She must warn the others of the peril they face. These men will steal the children, steal them all. They will take them in the pretence of schooling, steal their peace, steal them away from families, and take all the love from their Aboriginal hearts. They will steal her boy. Her panic rises like a storm but it is too late – the family is excited as they bring the visitors into the house. Like a second coming.
Even though years have passed, Mary knows she will be recognised as the felon who stabbed a man and the woman who defied a magistrate. As memories of betrayals, beatings and humiliation crowd Mary’s mind, Biddy smiles at some joke by the Reverend.
‘How lovely to see you, what a nice surprise. Would you like tea? We got damper and we have oysters to eat, and fish. We are so honoured,’ says Biddy.
They crowd into the house and Biddy wipes the chairs for the visitors to sit. She busily lays out china plates full of fish cakes and scones and puts the kettle on the wood stove. Mercy sits primly on a box and watches the meal being laid out; she does not look at Mary.
‘We have brought lovely gifts – some hymn books and pictures from the life of the Lord,’ Henry says. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me. Do you know me? I am the Reverend Smythe,’ he continues.
‘To assist in any Christian services that may be needed,’ says Masters, ‘we do weddings, christenings, funerals, whatever you require. We also come to see if you have drunk of the bitter broth called Hell, and if children shrivel because of his dark presence.’ Masters pokes at the damper on a plate and there is an intake of fearful breath from Biddy.
‘They know not when the Sabbath comes, forgive them,’ says Smythe.