Little by little, the invisible sun sank lower. The leaves of the gum trees floated in a golden haze that turned imperceptibly to grey as night came sifting down. Overhead, the harsh blue of the sky paled to silver and then to pearl. Birds gabbled harshly and fell silent. A solitary star gleamed.
Inside the coach it was very hot. The window was closed tight against the poisonous night air. Lorna, used to the cold clear winds of the north, had suggested lowering the window an inch but the vociferous protests of her companions prevented her.
It would be worse for the men, she supposed. Or would it? At least they had fresh air and could walk about if they felt like it. She huddled in her corner, listening to the sighs and muttered complaints of the other women, and waiting for the night to pass. It took a long time.
She must have dozed eventually for when she opened her eyes the grey first light was beginning to filter through the blackness of the forest. It was still dark inside the coach but she could make out the form of the lady in the silk dress facing her in the other seat. Her head was back, her breath whistled in steady repetition through her half-open mouth.
The coach was oppressive and suddenly unbearable. Moving carefully to avoid disturbing her companions, Lorna inched open the door and climbed down.
Outside the air was fresh. Thankful, she took a deep breath and looked about her. The humped forms of men lay here and there. A ruby glint shone from the fire, almost out now. Hobbled horses stood still as statues on the other side of the track. Lorna walked slowly away from the circle of sleeping men, taking care to keep on the track. The trees closed about her and she was alone in the bush.
She walked a dozen paces off the track, counting each step with care. There were no low bushes, no concealing undergrowth. She hesitated and looked about her again. The forest brooded at her back. It might contain a thousand watching eyes, or none. No help for it. She crouched, hearing the fallen bark and leaves crunch beneath her weight, and relieved herself.
When she was finished, she stood, adjusting her dress. Once again counting her steps, she made her way back to the track, breathing easier when she found it.
There was a gum tree, one among millions. Bark hung in peeling strips from its pale trunk. Overhead, far out of her reach, branches massed their grey spears of leaves against the lightening sky. Lorna laid her palm on the trunk. It was cool to her touch, slightly damp. This is the first living thing I have touched in Australia, she thought, yet it gave back no feeling of life. It might have been made of marble.
It would take time to feel at home here. Too much time, perhaps. Her instinct warned her that this was an old land, indescribably old. It measured time not in minutes, not even in months or years, but in thousands of years. Again she remembered what Andrew had said, the previous day.
We have to be ready to adapt, all of us.
It might be impossible. There might not be enough time in her life to come to terms with the alien trees.
The harsh shrieks of birds greeted her as she re-entered the clearing. A sudden puff of wind set the leaves hissing overhead. Some of the men were wandering about with the weary lack of purpose of those who have spent a wretched night. Andrew was awake, standing a little apart from the rest, his dark and decent jacket tight-buttoned. His pale face with its fringe of black beard shone in the gentle light. He was holding his Testament in his hand.
He looked at her, unsmiling. ‘Did ye sleep?’
‘A little. And you?’
‘From time to time. It made for a long night.’
‘We shall get there today,’ she offered.
‘God willing.’ His hazel eyes watched her. ‘You went for a walk?’
She might have guessed he would have noticed. ‘A little way.’
‘Sometimes I fear the whole country is covered wi’ these trees,’ he said. ‘One o’ the men was saying they’re verra hard. Turn the blade of an axe, he said.’ Andrew turned on his heel, contemplating the immensity of the forest about them. ‘Clearing the ground will be quite a job, if all the country’s like this.’
They had tea, climbed aboard the coach and continued the journey. It was a repetition of the day before: mile after mile of lurching, sickening motion, mile after mile of the unvarying landscape. The only difference was that they were all more tired and irritable because of it.
That afternoon, at the bottom of a long, winding descent, they came out into what to the weary passengers seemed a miracle—open country. They had descended the southern flank of a range of low hills. To the northwest more hills were covered in dense bush. As the coach bumped and racketed along Lorna saw how the land ahead, brown under the westering sun, opened into wooded plains that stretched uninterruptedly to the horizon.
Flocks of sheep were grazing between the trees. Here and there a blink of sunlight reflected from the surface of a river and in the distance she could make out the buildings of a little town, the first sign of habitation since leaving the hubbub of Sydney. This plain, then, was the place towards which they had been travelling all these weeks—flat, without feature, seemingly endless, a distant swell of insignificant hills to the north and an empty wilderness behind them.
Lorna had told herself she would not look back, yet now, breathing the malodorous air of the crowded coach, watching through the smeared window as they approached their destination, she could not help herself. At that moment the small Scottish town set by the forbidding waters of the North Sea seemed infinitely desirable. She could smell the cold tang of the sea air, feel the wind seize her hair beneath her cloth bonnet, see the granite house-fronts glitter like ice in the rare sunshine. The familiar accents of the townspeople, her people, filled her memory. Infinitely desirable yet lost like a dream of longing and fulfilment that evaporates with the morning.
Dear God, she thought, tears that would be forever unshed burning behind her eyes. Why did we have to come here? Why?
The sun was well down the sky by the time the coach clattered into the little town.
Hovels constructed of rough-hewn timber and roofed with what looked like bark lined either side of a roadway that was no more than an extension of the muddy track along which they had travelled so long. The town was very small.
They passed a group of men in yellow uniforms supervised by red-coated soldiers and Lorna saw the glitter of chains.
‘Convicts,’ breathed the lady of the silk dress in Lorna’s ear. ‘I hear there is a convict station here.’
‘Is that so?’ Lorna hated what she was seeing, hated it.
The pink-lidded eyes regarded her. ‘There is no need to fear them. I was told they are well guarded. As you can see for yourself.’
‘I canna help feel how wretched their lives must be. Oh, I know it’s necessary but it doesna stop me wishing it were not so. Do ye no’ understand what I mean?’
The woman’s nostrils flared a little. ‘You would not wish to see them walking the streets, free to continue their criminal careers? You do not mean that?’
‘I’m not sure what I mean,’ Lorna said. ‘It’s only that one can still feel for them, can one not, in spite of knowing they’ve done wrong?’
‘It is no doubt the Christian way,’ the woman conceded grudgingly. ‘But one must be practical, too. Of course,’ sniffing, ‘some people know more than others about the feelings of that class of person.’
Lorna gave her a sharp glance. ‘Aye, ma’am, I dare say they do. You speak with great authority on the subject yourself.’
The lady’s lips turned white. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Why ma’am,’ innocently, ‘I was agreeing with you, just. Nae more than that.’
The coach drew to a stop amid a chorus of yells from the coachman and his mate. The creaking and rocking at last were still. One by one, muscles and bones protesting after such a long journey, the passengers alighted into what was to be their future.
TWO
The group found themselves standing before a long, plain building where several men were waiting, m
ost of them tall and heavily bearded, with sunburnt faces beneath big-brimmed hats that shaded their eyes from the sun.
The two parties eyed each other.
A market, Lorna thought indignantly. All this way and they look at us like we’re a bunch of cattle.
One of the tall men strolled towards them. She felt Andrew’s body tense and squeezed his arm quickly.
‘Lookin’ for work?’
‘We are that,’ Andrew said, and held out his hand.
They shook. The farmer’s hand was dark brown and a lot harder-looking than Andrew’s. ‘Gavin Henderson,’ the man introduced himself in a flat drawl. ‘Gotta run a few miles out of town. What’s your name, mate?’
‘Andrew McLachlan. This is my wife Lorna.’
The tall man cast a brief glance at her. ‘G’day.’ But he was more interested in Andrew. ‘Worked on a farm before, have you?’
Andrew said, ‘I worked on my uncle’s place in Scotland, a year or two yon. He ran cattle on it. Since then, I’ve had my ain business.’
‘What sort of business?’ The man’s eyes were grey, with white sun wrinkles radiating from the corners.
‘Small goods.’
‘Why’d you come here?’
‘To get ahead. There’s mair chance o’ that here than i’ Scotland.’
The man grunted. ‘Not wrong there. Worked with sheep, have you?’
There was a moment’s silence before Andrew replied, ‘Never.’
‘At least you’re honest.’ Eyes thoughtful, he scratched the tip of one ear with his crop. ‘Done much riding?’
‘Aye.’
The squatter pondered. ‘Never worked with sheep, you say. Fancy the look of you, though, that’s the truth of it. Want a married man, too.’ He made up his mind. ‘Right. I’ll give you a go. Ten shilling a week and all found. How does that sound?’
Andrew did not hesitate. ‘That’ll be fine.’
Henderson cautioned, ‘Make a mess of it an’ you’re out, mind.’
‘We’ll no’ make a mess of it.’
‘Be sure you don’t.’
They walked side by side along the rutted track between the wooden shacks that were all the town had to offer in the way of buildings. If this is the town, thought Lorna, what will it be like in the country?
A dray drawn by oxen and piled high with farming implements creaked past. A boy sitting on the tail-board eyed them incuriously, bare feet swinging.
They came to a parked buggy with a canvas top and a pair of good-looking grey horses in the traces.
‘Put your bags inside,’ Henderson instructed. ‘Hop in, Mrs McLachlan. I drive myself,’ he said, addressing Andrew. ‘You want to sit up front with me?’
Andrew gave Lorna a hand up, then climbed up in front beside the squatter.
‘And Sydney?’ Henderson asked, big hands gathering the reins. ‘What did you think of that?’
A pause. Then in a starched voice Andrew said, ‘We’re nae folk for the big city.’
Henderson laughed. ‘No more’m I, mate.’ He clucked his tongue at the horses and they drove away.
Henderson’s run bordered a river that flowed through a fertile and well-wooded valley a few miles out of town. It was almost dark when they arrived and lights were shining from the buildings as the buggy crested a shallow rise and came bumping and swaying down the rutted track to the bridge across the river.
The cluster of buildings looked more like a village than a farm. A two-storeyed house of white stone stood not far from the riverbank. A short distance from it was a long, white building. Other buildings were set further along the valley.
The men’s conversation blew back to Lorna on the breeze.
‘It’s gey big,’ Andrew said. ‘Is it all yours?’
Henderson laughed and pointed with his crop. ‘There’s the stables. Next to it is the blacksmith’s shop. On the far side, we got a store and a butchery. That big wooden building is the shearing shed but that’s over for the year, thank God.’
‘It’s a lot bigger than I imagined,’ Andrew confessed.
‘We’re out in the wilds, here. We got to look after ourselves.’
Andrew pointed. ‘That building at the far end wi’ the cross on it … would that be a church?’
‘It is. My old man built that when he first set up the run.’ Henderson looked at him quizzically. ‘Praying man, Mr McLachlan?’
‘I am.’ A hint of defiance in his voice.
‘Fine by me. We need all the help we can get.’
The horses picked up speed as they clattered down the hill. Hooves and wheels drummed on the timber of the bridge, Lorna caught a momentary glimpse of dark water slipping sinuously beneath them, then they were reining to a halt before the house. Close to, it looked huge.
Lorna climbed down to join the two men.
‘Welcome to Inverlochrie,’ Henderson said.
Andrew looked at him. ‘Inverlochrie? That’s a guid Scots name.’
‘Gavin Henderson’s a good Scots name. The old man came from Dundee.’
They took their bags and followed the squatter’s tall figure out of the courtyard and across to the long, whitewashed building they had seen from the crest of the hill. There were six doors, each with a glazed window beside it. No lights showed.
Henderson pushed open the end door. It was almost dark and they could see little. There was a smell of whitewash and straw. At least it smells clean, Lorna thought.
She heard the scrape of a tinderbox and a tiny flame blossomed in the darkness. A huge shadow reared across the wall as Henderson held up a stub of tallow candle in an iron stick. They looked over his shoulder at what was to be their home.
Henderson gestured. ‘Living and cooking area here, sleeping loft above. Couple of straw palliasses up there. You’ll find they’re quite comfortable. You get your water from the river and there’s an outhouse at the back.’
The room was completely bare. In one corner a ladder connected with the loft.
‘Suit you, does it?’ Henderson asked.
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Are we alone here?’ Lorna asked.
‘One other family. Name of Curtis—husband and wife. He’s the blacksmith. They’ve gone to bed but you’ll meet them tomorrow.’ It was just dark, soon to be in bed, but no doubt they made an early start. ‘Three single blokes, too,’ Henderson added. ‘But they’re away at the moment.’
‘Away?’
‘We got over thirty thousand acres. The sheep have to be dipped and looked after. You’ll be away for days at a time quite often. Your wife will stay here, of course, and give a hand around the house and dairy.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ Andrew said.
‘You’ve not eaten, I suppose? If you come over the kitchen when you’re ready there’ll be something for you.’ He went out of the door, pulling it shut behind him.
Lorna and Andrew looked at each other.
Andrew took a deep breath. ‘It’s exactly what I was hoping for. A living and a roof over our heads while I learn what I need to know aboot farming out here.’ His enthusiasm gathered force. ‘In a year or two we’ll be ready to start out on our ain. We’ve done the right thing coming here.’
‘I hope so.’ Lorna was swimming in tiredness. All she wanted was sleep but there were things they must attend to first. ‘Shall we go across to the kitchen, then?’
Shadows from the candle streamed like gigantic spectres across the white walls.
‘In a moment.’ Andrew’s shadowed features looked more austere than ever in the candle flame. ‘First let us kneel and give thanks to God for having brought us safe to this place.’
A clapper woke them shortly before dawn.
They went out into a world of grey mist tinged with a hint of gold. In the windless dawn the bare gum trunks gleamed, seeming to float above the mist that lay thigh-deep upon the ground and roiled in grey scarves along the course of the river. The air was cool. They stood outside the door of their quarters, uncert
ain what was expected of them.
There was movement from the other end of the building. The Curtises came out. The man appeared first—ruddy-faced, deep-chested, wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up high on massive arms. Black hair clotted in the open collar of his shirt and formed a dense cap on his head. He was clean-shaven. The woman was shorter, also with dark hair, and pregnant. By the look of her, her time could not be far off. She was a few years older than Lorna, in her middle twenties, perhaps, and the man was ten years older again.
The woman came across, the man hanging back a little, and spoke for both of them. ‘Mary Curtis. My husband George …’
They shook hands.
She gave them a keen look. ‘New arrivals?’
‘We docked in Sydney two weeks ago.’
‘You’ll find things strange to begin with,’ she told them. ‘George did, when ’e first got ’ere. But you’ll soon get the hang of it.’ To Andrew’s embarrassed astonishment, she took up one of his hands and inspected it. ‘Hands like a towny,’ she said. ‘What you do, ’fore you come out?’
Andrew was not used to plain-spoken women. Stiffly he said, ‘I had a small goods store.’
Mary Curtis laughed. ‘You’ll need to harden up your hands pretty fast. Not many shop fronts, where you’re goin’.’
‘I’ve nae doot we shall manage very well.’
His cold response did not bother her. ‘Course you will, Andy. Tha’s what I said, remember? Only thing, you might suffer a bit gittin’ there.’
Until now George had not spoken. Now he said to his wife, ‘Best cut your yack and get movin’. There’s breakfast to be got ready. ’E’ll be lookin’ out for ee, ee don’ get on with it.’
He had a home accent, somewhere from the west of England, Lorna thought but was unsure, unfamiliar with English accents. His outspoken wife must be a local girl—she had Henderson’s way of speaking.
They walked across to the house and followed Mary into the kitchen. The room was dark and still with the homely smell of recent cooking. A banked fire was burning low in the range.
Mary took charge, shooing the men out from under her feet. ‘You lot wait outside. We’ll call you when it’s ready.’
The Burning Land Page 2