Stopping at the edge of camp she studied it carefully, as if this might be the last time she would see the place. It was almost a daily ritual, and with good reason; every morning might be the last time she saw that camp. Already there were rumblings from some; it was time to move, they said.
She agreed with them on one thing: the camp was no longer safe. The Settlers were getting closer and when they arrived it would no longer be safe for Esperance’s people. People would die, others would be enslaved, their children taken. So far they had escaped notice, not been discovered; that would not be true forever. They were becoming lax in their secrecy – the presence of booze was proof of that. It was time to consider moving the camp, or if she couldn’t convince anyone else to move, she and Grandfather should go at least. Unfortunately she did not like her chances of convincing him to leave.
There were people in the camp who had come there from other Native camps, and the stories they told were terrifying. Every story ended the same: people died, many of them, and those that survived were herded and collected and taken to fenced camps, to so-called missions. Once there they were used as cheap labour, or just allowed to die.
They called it protection, these Settlers, ‘protecting the Natives’, although it was hard to imagine what they were being protected from. The only danger they were in was from those doing the ‘protecting’.
‘Conservation’, it was a word in the newspapers that turned up in camp from time to time. The only things Esperance had ever seen ‘conserved’ were already dead – fruit in jam or pickles. Maybe that was the plan – to pickle her and her people. In spite of herself, she laughed at that.
That was not what she wanted for her or for her grandfather.
The camp was not her home; she had no home, no sense of belonging to a place, she knew no life but that of a refugee. It was, however, as close to a home as she had ever known, would ever have. She did not want to leave it.
Chapter 4
Natives, you can’t live with them, killing them all creates too much paperwork.
– Captain Black, Colonial Troopers
Sergeant Rohan held the letter in his hands as if it was a piece of stinking filth, as if it was one of the venomous animals that infested the forest around his office. Animals – venomous, Native, filthy – they even infested the cracks in the walls, crawled under the walls through the countless gaps.
The letter had started normal enough, with the standard greetings and enquiries about his health and the state of his station. Both were excellent, he would be proud to reply – he had continued to maintain law and order in this town, as he was required. There were no Native problems where he was, none that he couldn’t handle anyway – no drinking problem, no fights, no crime – his was surely one of the most orderly settlements in the colony. Even the Settler boys, who never seemed to do anything other than drink, then fight when drunk, were sensible enough not to do so when he was in range. Not that they fought much; it interrupted the drinking. He could say in all honesty he did his job.
It was the second part of the letter, the part that traditionally dealt with the problem at hand, that was causing him some serious distress.
In mounting apprehension, in the certain knowledge that his upcoming leave, his chance to travel to the city, would need to be cancelled, he skimmed the letter again. ‘Absconded . . .’ his eyes read, ‘on the run . . .’ he wished his eyes did not see, ‘headed your way . . .’ was almost the worst part but the worst was, he knew, next.
‘He must not make it to the deep desert; you must in your capacity as local representative of the department, as a local Protector of Natives, ensure he does not make it past you.’
He was deeply and thoroughly understaffed, his office consisting of basically, well, himself and whoever he could deputise among the local Settlers. This had long been enough to maintain order, especially when the entire town was terrified of his infrequent yet massive flights of temper. He had long been proud of his ability to terrify the town into maintaining order despite an almost complete lack of help.
Now, surely he alone would not be enough. His mind, known for thoroughness if not for speed or for dazzling flights of intellect, flicked rapidly through the files in his head. He needed help, needed a posse, needed a lynch mob if he was to be honest and he needed it fast, if the Native called ‘Jacky’ got past them they would be forced to pursue him into the desert or face serious reprimands. Only a madman would pursue a Native into the deep desert if they could avoid it. Rohan did not want to go into the deep desert.
It had been a long time since a Native had absconded from a settlement – well, a long time since one had made it far enough to be a concern. They were afraid, these Natives, and Rohan was part of the apparatus in place to keep them afraid. Efforts to integrate the Natives were working, they were doing their job, they were staying put. Yes, it had been a long time since he had been forced to chase a bloody Native.
He looked again at the name of the station from which the Native had run. Yep, he knew it all right, owned by one of the Governor’s friends. He would have to be careful to succeed, this Native must be found.
From the outside his station appeared to be making a serious effort to disappear into the alien forest behind it. The Native timbers still had some of the bark on them; it peeled off and hung, never quite falling to the ground, making the building look like a filthy Native who needed a haircut. The roof of sheet-metal had long ago started to rust into the same colour as the red-brown dirt surrounding the building. In the harsh yellow sunlight the entire building stood slightly askew, built straight and true but so poorly it was beginning to fall over.
At least things were looking up, even if only slightly. Five years ago his police station was not even a building, all he had was a droopy canvas tent. It had cracked like a stockwhip in the wind, it had leaked at night, worst of all it was infernally hot in the sun – the dirty white fabric seemed to think heat precious, holding on to every fragment it got hold of. Every moment he had spent campaigning for a real building was worth it even though the place he received was only a building by the loosest definition.
Surely the authorities understood that you cannot keep order if everyone is laughing at you for trying to police from a tent.
Sergeant Rohan emerged walking briskly, his uniform clean and neat, contrasting profoundly with the building he had just left. He walked purposefully, shoulders back, throwing all his arrogance into his walk: someone might be watching. He was a representative of the Settler government, out here he was the only representative of the Settler government. It was important to keep up the appearance that everything was under control, all was well.
Mounting up he wished there were enough roads, and good enough roads, to allow him to have a car. No matter, if he had to ride, then ride he would although being from the city by nature it did not come easily to him. He did not wish to be seen to be rushing in an undue manner so he rode off calmly, cautiously in the direction of the centre of town, hoping some young men from the surrounding farms would be available.
Only half an hour later saw him riding back out of town towards what the letter told him was the last known location of the fugitive. There would be, of course, no need to go all the way there. He planned to pick up the trail well before that – last location and direction of travel of the Native was known – it should be easy enough. With luck they could catch the Native immediately, and he could be away on his delayed trip to the city.
Neither the sergeant nor the four young men with him had the slightest notion where Jacky was going. Nobody could have expected them to have a clue; the motivations of the Native were opaque, and often made no sense even if you asked them.
Surely the life they were given in the settlements was better than living pointless, aimless lives in the dirt like they always had. There was no purpose to their lives now and had surely been none before the Settlers had arrived
to help them. They lacked ambition, lacked energy and drive, seemingly their only direction was towards alcohol, their only desires to drink, to breed and, unfortunately, to escape. Those first two desires had little bearing on Rohan’s life, except when he needed to break up drunken fights over women. The third desire had disrupted his life a lot in the past, dragged him into the disgusting bush, far too often. He did not want it to happen again.
At least one of the young men, known as Mick, was a hunter by way of employment, and a skilled tracker by reputation. Rumour had it he had learnt his skills from a Native servant at his father’s station, that he was as good as the Natives, maybe even better. It was not rumour but rather simple fact that his family supplemented their income with the animal hides he collected and sold. It was also fact that often his family were the only Settlers in town who never went completely hungry.
Rohan was glad to have him along; experience had eliminated the illusion that he would ever be able to trust a Native tracker. Other troopers used them, he mused, but they must like being led astray, lost on purpose and then robbed by the trackers who were so good at disappearing just when you were starting to trust them. No, a Settler trained to track by a Native was much better than a Native tracker, at least a Settler would not abscond with a mount and all their supplies in the middle of the night.
The last thing he needed was two Native fugitives to deal with. The one he was ordered to find was bad enough.
The other young men were merely muscle, of the kind you can never have enough of when tracking a Native. Everybody knew the Natives were cunning, and although they were never really organised could be dangerous. More at home in this place than the Settlers, they could attack with surprise and, even armed with their primitive weapons, kill the unprepared. They had survived with nothing but their ancient weapons for a long time before the Settlers arrived; that should be warning enough that they could be hard to capture.
Still an hour before noon, the scorching yellow sun not yet overhead, it was already hot, too hot for Settlers to be comfortable having come from a much cooler, far damper, place. The Natives had no such limitations, although in their animal intelligence they tended not to travel in the hottest part of the day if they could avoid it. With the sun scorching into their skins and burning into their eyes, Rohan called a halt. The Settler boys gratefully, gracelessly, slumped from their mounts and into the shade of a tree. It was the only sensible, if not clever, thing Rohan had ever learnt from Natives: spend the hottest part of the day under a tree.
A sun like that, heat like that – it bleached the entire sky yellow-white, nothing like the blue sky one was used to from home. It was that sky that was a warning, the yellow light a warning that this was not a hospitable place. It was the glow of pain, the glow of the end of the world. It was not a friendly colour for a sky to be.
Sergeant Rohan had to show more decorum than the younger men so, despite feeling as hot and uncomfortable as the others, he slid from his mount with intent, control and grace. Walking over to the tree he sat down with a calm he did not feel and took a controlled sip from his water bottle. He was thirsty, devilishly so, but it would not do to run out of water when he had no idea where he would next acquire some.
The others – younger, undisciplined, inexperienced at travel and survival, untrained – were taking great slugs from their bottles, seemingly unaware of the risks out there, drinking as if water was not in short supply. Surely they were not that stupid, even in their settlements there would not be limitless water. If you needed proof of their unfitness to survive in this place, he thought, how they and their families used water was surely all you needed.
‘Lay off on the water, boys,’ Rohan interjected finally, perhaps a trifle too late. ‘We are going out there for who knows how long and water will be short, we will run out.’ Three of the boys stopped, looking sheepish, stoppered their bottles and put them away.
The fourth felt it was a good time to complain. ‘Well, bloody find us water then,’ he grumbled, ‘you brought us out to this hole, you find us water.’
‘I would love to,’ the Sergeant’s voice was tense with the need for restraint, ‘but most likely there will be none to find. We are out here chasing a Native fugitive who knows this environment better than us, is better prepared for it and likely exhibits some of the Native cunning they possess to make up for their lack of intelligence. He is probably smarter than you are acting. For all we know he was not even born in the settlement and was raised wild, then he would be even harder to find. I don’t know where we are going, I don’t know how long it will take to find him and I don’t know where we are going to find water.
‘If we had a Native guide he no doubt would find us water. Yet I cannot trust a Native, last time I did he stole all the food and mounts and buggered off.’
He took a deep breath, showing his exasperation despite himself. ‘You volunteered for this job, presumably to have an excuse to hunt and kill Natives. It’s risky, dangerous, and frankly running out of water is one of those risks but it’s a risk you chose to take.’ His hand touched his gun lightly, he was barely aware he was doing it. ‘You chose to be here, you can do what I say or you can go home to your safe little houses and pray the Natives stay in theirs.
‘Any questions?’
There was silence around the tiny group as the boys realised the gravity and danger of the situation. Wind shook the leaves of the ugly Native trees, a light hot wind, bringing thirst, sapping what strength they had left. Despite being in the same situation they were different men and had different thoughts but they all had at least one thing in common.
All of them had relished the thought of the sanctioned killing of one or more Natives. Every one of them passionately hated the Natives. Not one of them had considered that hunting Natives could be dangerous. They had forgotten that Native men, unlike the other despised wildlife, had a tendency to fight back.
Rohan ignored them, deeply engrossed in his map. He alone was completely aware of the danger they were in. Along the track they must take, to hopefully cut off the fugitive Jacky, there were a few waterholes but not many and he knew that the water supplies marked on the maps were often unreliable. Settlers had died looking for water out there, not the Natives though, they must have hidden secret sources of water because they survived where the Settlers died. It was the start of summer, so while there would be no rain, at all, there would still be some water left in waterholes. Soon they would be all dried out and only Native knowledge could keep them alive.
Native knowledge they lacked, for they had no Native tracker.
It was heartbreaking, skin-scorching hot, the white heat that drains your energy, consumes your will to live. When they moved on after a too brief rest, as painful as it was, they did not hide, did not stop. The faster they did what they had to do the quicker they could go home to the settlement.
There was no complaint, no grumbling, not the slightest noise of protest as they rode out into the sun. Rohan thought they must have been cowed by his monologue or they were too tired, too hot to talk. He didn’t care in the slightest which was true.
They, like him, would soon learn to hate this place. Nothing like the green and pleasant land from which they came; this land was grey, this land was washed out by the sun. The sky bleached yellow and far too bright. The light like blades of ice in their unprotected eyes.
The council were meeting again: for all the good it would do them, it would do the camp even less. Even from her humpy Esperance could see the bobbing of heads, the whooshing of tangled grey hair, the wagging of long beards. It was futile, she knew, but she put on the billy for tea.
Tea was important; not only was it a social activity that did not involve booze, it was also a way to make water safer. She was not sure why but people who drank their water as tea got sick less often than those who did not. Yes, tea was important.
She owned nothing unnecessary, nothing
superfluous to her survival except for a spare mug, a tea-mug for Grandfather. The water boiled and, carefully, in silence, Esperance made tea for both of them.
As she suspected, the bobbing of heads, the talking of the old men and fewer old women, stopped as soon as she approached. The group was silent; whatever they had been discussing was not for her, or for anyone outside their circle. Grandfather took the tea, turned and sprayed her with a wide grin, a smile that lit his whole face. Even his beard seemed animated by it.
Esperance stood there a moment too long in the futile hope that someone would talk when she was there, that she would have some inkling of what they were thinking. Turning she strolled away as if nothing mattered, hearing the first muttered return to conversation while she was still in earshot. They had done well, she was not close enough to hear them.
Grandfather indulged them, she thought. He founded the camp, he had always led them, they had pulled together as a community behind him, not the elders. The only criteria for their leadership was age; when they got old enough that the others didn’t remove them they got to stay. That was what Esperance thought anyway.
They had just gathered over time, mounded in place like blown sand collecting against the wall of a hut.
Jacky lay in the deepest shadows he could find, flat on his groaning empty belly as he studied the cluster of buildings before him. The shacks, sheds and boxes huddled together in the middle of a cleared space in the forest as if scared of the trees. He knew that place well, it had once been the closest thing he had ever known to a home.
It was not the place where he had grown up, he had grown up at the farm, where he had been a slave. That hadn’t been his home either. He could not remember his home, for all he knew he had been born as his parents camped on a riverbank, fleeing from the Settlers. He had heard that story, or stories a lot like it, from many in his life; he had no reason not to believe it true for him as well. He barely remembered arriving at this place, so alien to him at the time; he remembered all the shapes had seemed strange, the buildings bizarre.
Terra Nullius Page 4