She was completely different from the others. Girls, that’s all they were. Girls who were in a state of trembling over Ellen’s action. She was older, true – maybe late twenties, Lavelle put her at – but that wasn’t the only distinction. This woman would master her own destiny, the others would not.
He liked talking to her. She pushed and probed with those straight questions. Then, she pinned you with those eyes of hers, while you answered – or sought not to.
Ellen did not feel as relaxed in his company. Lavelle sensed this. She drew comfort in talking to somebody from home, but he did not fool himself. He was merely a link into the past – a reminder of what she had come from and what she must go back to. And he was also a link for her into the future. She had a mission to complete in Australia: to gather sufficient funds to leave here in three years and redeem her children. He was part of her mission, necessary to her because of his knowledge of the environment and the people – who might be her friends and, more importantly, her enemies.
‘The Aborigines …?’ She formed the first part of the question with such simplicity. He waited for the second part to be sprung: ‘… and Mr Coombes?’
The previous night he had glossed over the grisly details which had led Coombes and himself here to South Australia. She had known there was more, and now she wanted to hear it.
‘I thought you were very brave today, saving that Aborigine – Samarara’s – life,’ he answered her.
‘Why did I have to?’
‘It’s just like back home,’ Lavelle explained. ‘Here in Australia, the Aborigines are regarded by those who take their land as savages – not much above the level of the kangaroos they hunt. No one in authority is going to raise more than a token hand of restraint if you shoot them, or drive them further into the wasteland of the interior.’
‘It’s “to hell or to Connacht” in Australia,’ she interrupted.
‘Exactly,’ Lavelle agreed. ‘The Aborigines don’t have any bits of paper proving ownership of the land, so the South Australia Company commissions what it calls “special surveys”, and then declares that the Crown owns the land covered by the survey. It then buys the land from the Crown, cheaply, and sells it to the likes of Coombes, who’s usually in on what’s going on. He, in turn, sells it on to new arrivals like the Germans, and reaps vast profits. Speculators like Coombes don’t want the Aborigines returning to their hunting grounds – now German farms – and frightening the women. So, they look for any excuse to shoot the Aborigines, and drive them away.’
‘What about the Germans – I thought they were Godfearing people?’ Ellen asked, wondering if they, too, hunted the black people.
‘They are,’ Lavelle replied. ‘They only want to work their farms and pay back the big debts they incurred in the first place. They don’t really understand the natives, and are probably a bit scared of them. But, in truth, they don’t raise a musket against any man, be he black or white.’
‘And the missionaries?’
‘It’s the same old story,’ Lavelle said rather resignedly. ‘None of them countenance violence against the Aborigines, but they won’t speak out too much when it occurs. The missionaries just want to Christianize them – it’s “take the soup and give us your souls” all over again. And, sure, it doesn’t make a blind bit of sense to the Aborigines, who were here long before Christ anyway – God forgive me! Their Ancestors created the very ground that the missionaries stand on. Then, throw in the Lutherans, as well, and the blackfellas must be having the last laugh on us.’
‘Except they’re not laughing,’ Ellen interjected. ‘They’re dying, and it sounds like their culture and way of life is dying. The same, shameful thing is happening here, done by the same people, and for the same reasons. Power, and greed for land.’
‘How’s that?’ Lavelle asked her.
‘Didn’t you know that we, too, were called heathens and savages?’ she said, as if it were something he should have known. ‘In the London newspapers, the Irish are drawn with baboons’ faces. I saw it myself – the Shanafaraghaun man brought the picture to … to Michael … before …’ she faltered for a moment. ‘There was no food, no work, no money – only the land being cleared of millions of dying baboons. It makes it all so easy when people are only baboons, or savages. Oh, it’s so inhuman – so unchristian – and yet it all gets passed off. It makes me that upset – sorry it is that I didn’t grab the gun from Coombes, and shoot him with it myself!’ she said, feeling the anger rise in her. She fought against the bitter frustration welling up inside her. Dammit! She was not going to cry in front of this Lavelle, with the strange name, from Achill Island. No, she was not.
‘Oh, God!’ she swore. ‘One day, some way or another, if it kills me, I’ll change the way things are. It’s so … so wrong. So very wrong!’
Then the tears came. An unending, violently shaking wall of tears. Tears for the Aborigines. Tears for the famished and wasted back home. Tears for twisted children, yellowed and putrefied with disease, shovelled into workhouse lime-pits. Tears for the young, mad women who travelled to Australia with her, consigned by night to a watery grave. Tears for her dark-haired, lovely Michael – taken from her, after so little time, so little love together. And tears for the children she had given up – deserted.
She was shaking uncontrollably with the held-back tears of years of being strong, being the survivor. And for what? For this – all the same evils, same injustices. Swap Coombes for Pakenham, it was all the same. It was hopeless! She’d never get out of this God-forsaken land to save her children.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, what a mistake I made!’
She turned her head away from Lavelle, hating herself for this, her hair falling about her in a red and tangled shield, hiding her, protecting her.
Lavelle had seen her anger mount, sensed the struggle going on within her to hold these emotions in check. But, when they did burst forth, he was not ready for the ferocity with which they came, and the pride with which she fought to keep them from him. He moved towards her, encircling her shoulders with his arms. So distressed was she that, for a moment, she didn’t realize they were there. But when she did, she shook her head violently.
‘No, no! I don’t want—’ and beat at him with her arms.
He resisted her blows and, without forcing her to rise and face him, he pulled her to him. Her head lay turned against his stomach, and through it he could feel the sobbing and shuddering, as if it were leaving her body and entering his. He held her there till she no longer resisted. Still her arms lay crossed above her knees – a last barrier between her and the man. A mute refusal to surrender completely.
Gradually, the spasms of grief which racked her grew less frequent. At last, her body, broken by this huge outpouring of pain and anger, subsided into small, irregular tremors and, then, into sheer, silent exhaustion.
Lavelle let her rest there a while without speaking. Then he unlocked her slowly, letting her sit upright again. Unsure of what to say to her, he said nothing. Ellen straightened herself, and then forced herself to pull back her hair so that her face was no longer shielded. Lavelle could see the tracks of her tears where they stained her face, and the blue-green eyes now specked with red. Unflinching, she held his eyes, her two hands holding back the red mane on either side of her forehead. When she spoke, her voice was soft and clear, without a hint of a tremor.
‘Thank you, Mr Lavelle, for your kindness and compassion.’
Before he could formulate a reply, she had stood up, still looking at him, one hand only now holding the hair back off her face.
‘Oíche mhaith.’ She wished him a good night with the merest flicker of a smile.
‘Oíche mhaith, leat fhéin,’ he called after her as she mounted the stairs. For a moment, Lavelle thought she was going to stop, to turn, and acknowledge his words.
Then both the moment, and Ellen Rua, were gone.
31
The autumn air was crisp the next morning when Coombes and Lavell
e, and their five female passengers, set off with renewed spirits. The events of the previous day had been put to one side by all. Today was the day they would reach their final destination in South Australia – the Barossa.
Ellen saw it first. Never had she seen land to compare with that spread out before her now. Her eyes opened wide with delight, as they looked over the valley of the hill of roses – the Barossa. Here were green, grassy plains, stretching out as far as the eye could see, topped with a canopy of blue and red eucalyptus trees. Apart from these gum trees presiding over the vast meadowlands, the land had been cleared of shrub and scrub and planted with fields of wheat and barley. Stock grazed the hillside: cattle, sheep, pigs, and goats, shepherded by a herdsman with staff and horn. This was the Common, Lavelle told them.
Already, along the way, Ellen had seen flocks of white cockatoos, so dense they darkened the sky. The area, not surprisingly, was called Cockatoo Valley. Now, Lavelle pointed out the strange and fantastical creatures native to the Barossa: emus – long-necked birds as tall as a man; giant red kangaroos that bounded away soundlessly on their strong hind legs, covering vast distances. Mesmerized, the newcomers watched as the big reds fled from them, scattering turkey, duck, and other wild fowl, to the safety of the nearest creek.
Ellen’s mind could not fully comprehend all that her eyes saw. ‘It’s … it’s like some place out of the Bible. The Garden of Eden … Noah’s Ark … with all the animals and birds. It’s just wonderful!’ she burbled, almost unable to fit it into words.
‘Oh, it’s like a dream,’ Kitty exclaimed, her young face shining with the wonder of it all.
Sarah and Nora, too, were overcome with excitement. Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined a place like this. Nothing could have prepared them for the treasure nestled here in this paradise of Barossa.
‘Ahead lies Bethany – or Bethanien, as the Lutherans call it,’ Coombes told them. ‘Crockford’s, my estate, is just a few miles beyond. There we shall rest at last.’
This announcement provoked a sense of anticipation, of having travelled hopefully finally to arrive, all of which added to the heady mix of excitement and wonder at the Barossa.
Bethany – dwelling place – was named for the town of Judaea where Jesus resurrected Lazarus. It was unlike any village Ellen had ever seen. And certainly, a far cry from the one she had left behind at Maamtrasna. Coombes explained that it was typical of the forest-farm villages of Silesia in Germany: ‘The Germans call it a waldhufendorf – quite a mouthful.’
The houses, some with two chimneys, were much taller than the botháns of Maamtrasna, and sturdier. Built of stone and wood, and topped with a fine thatched roof, most of them stood 400 links apart. According to Coombes, this was something less than 300 feet. Behind each house was a long strip of land known as a hufen, of about ten times the width of the plot – making 4000 links, or almost 3000 feet. Each hufen was bordered by rough wooden fences.
Behind the Bethany houses, before the farmlets began, were the gardens – each one a beauty to the eye. It was as if they picked up the colours of the blue and purple Barossa Hills and then washed them into the soft and dark shades of peach and plum, hanging heavy on Bethany’s boughs. Flowers of earthen red and cerulean blue scattered themselves as they pleased, it seemed. But, no, it was all part of the order that was the hallmark of Bethany. Each garden had a large gum tree, the dark resinous leaves and oozing trunk giving out a medicinal scent. Ellen liked the smell: it had a cleansing, purifying note to it. Here and there, a pussy willow with its furry catkins broke the monotony of the eucalyptus-dominated landscape.
‘See there!’ Coombes’ excited voice cut across her thoughts.
Ellen looked up.
‘Just below the gardens, before the farm commences – there is the future!’ Coombes proclaimed. ‘And mark my words, one day this Barossa Valley will be renowned the world over for these …’
Ellen strained her eyes to see what Coombes was getting so excited about. She could see no animals, no crops, no flowers, no fruit trees – only some neat rows of small, stunted, trees.
‘Yes, there, Mrs O’Malley!’ Coombes had seen Ellen’s quizzical stare. ‘What Mrs O’Malley now sees, and wonders at, is something none of you will have seen in Ireland. Nor indeed, are we fortunate enough to see them in Mother England – those parts of the Empire being too intemperate for their nourishment. But here’ – Coombes swept his arm round in a semi-circle – ‘here, on every side the climate is most conducive to their nourishment.’
‘But what are they?’ broke in Kitty, frustrated with his melodramatic build-up.
Coombes made a sucking-in sound of exasperation between his tongue and his teeth, and ignored Kitty. ‘These are vines!’ he announced with a flourish. Ellen and the girls looked nonplussed.
‘Vines?’ Kitty voiced for the three of them.
‘Vines!’ Coombes repeated, more loudly. Silly Irish potato-peasants, he thought to himself. ‘Ah, but what would you ladies know of vines? Well, let me tell you: vines produce grapes. Just as your own countrymen sometimes produce a brew,’ he wrinkled his nose in disgust, ‘from the humble potato, so is it possible not only to eat the fruit of the vine, but also to derive from the noble grape …’ he paused for effect before imparting the information which he had been building up to ‘… the nectar of the gods – wine!’
Coombes was pleased with having finally delivered himself of this. He drew a breath, and carried on: ‘This place, the Valley of the Barossa will, one day, become the Vineyard of the Empire. And those of us who are now its pioneers, its first vignerons …’ Coombes seemed to like this word, he lingered over it, pouted it out through his narrow lips. ‘Vignerons, or wine growers, will become the masters of the Vineyard of the Empire. The first will be first as always, not last – no matter what the Bible tells!’ he laughed. ‘Mind, there is much work to be done.’ Coombes shook his head seriously. ‘But there are those, here, who should know better …’
Ellen knew that he had the Germans in mind.
‘Who make out of this noble grape nothing more than pig’s swill – little better than what you might make out of your potatoes.’
Coombes was in his element, enjoying his authority on the subject. He wouldn’t have his wine, his Crockford’s label, derided as mere ‘grocer’s claret’, as other produce of the valley was called by London. No, he’d see to it that London would fork out a pretty penny for his limited vintage claret, Crockford’s Reserve, or for the Shiraz, Crockford’s Gold. They’d see the sting in it all, those who drove him out over miserly debts of a few thousand pounds. Oh, yes, when they lifted their hand-cut glasses and saw the fine, ruby-dark tincture of the Barossa glistening in the crystal light – having paid for it twice over, the dimwits. Once with his unpaid debts, and now again, when they drank to his wealth. The best of it was that they would know he had survived their niggardliness, outwitted them. He would be the toast of London society, though he dare not go back to enjoy it. Jasper Coombes, would-be master of the Vineyard of the Empire, luxuriated in the glow these thoughts brought him.
As for Pakenham, the old scoundrel could keep his rose gardens – if this wild redhead didn’t go back and run him through or put a musket ball through his gut. And she just might, too – she was fiery!
He would have to watch that – and watch it himself, personally. He couldn’t trust Lavelle with this one. He saw the way the Irishman looked at her. Maybe he could foist one of the others on Lavelle. That Kitty – the brazen one – she was sprightly, but not a threat like the O’Malley woman. If the redhead had been English instead of Irish, she might, with a bit of work on his part, have made a fine mistress or even a wife. She was exactly the kind of woman this place needed, tough and spirited, and afraid of naught, save the Almighty – if she was at that. He’d need sons too, and soon, to take on Crockford’s. Sons to leave it to. She’d give a man such pleasure conceiving sons, with that long sinuous body of hers. Not wanting it, but feeling it to
be her duty. Coombes dwelt for a moment on this thought, then, quickly, banished it from his mind.
He had enough to be doing just now, without complications. And anything to do with women, beyond ordinary honest-to-God-whoring, always brought complications.
As they passed through the village, the well-kept main street of Bethany was empty, save for a few goats and some fresh-complexioned Lutheran girls, like the ones Ellen had seen in Adelaide. They wore white aprons over blue skirts, white blouses, and red waistcoats. All were busy carrying pails, pitchers, or baskets, their white sleeves rolled up to the elbows in the style of women at work. Women who were happy at work in this new motherland, as their wide smiles bore witness.
Ellen smiled back at them. How well their brightness and colour seemed to capture the spirit of the place, she thought.
‘“Faith, vision, trust, and hope,” that’s their motto,’ Coombes said cynically, coming out of his reverie as one of the girls pleasantly acknowledged them. ‘All they had when they arrived here were their Bibles, braces and beer-steins! Stein – that’s a German drinking mug,’ he explained for their benefit. ‘Now look at them – half the valley’s been taken over by them, on borrowed money. We let it go too cheaply. They’re like flies on a dunghill, swarming all over the place, calling it New Silesia, trying to change things, bringing their German ways with these hufen and hufendorfs and waldhufendorfs. How’s a person to know what they’re about?’
‘How is that, Mr Coombes?’ Ellen interrupted him. ‘It seems to me that, like the Aborigines, the Germans have done much good for this land.’
Ellen had decided she was not going to let Coombes get away with anything from now on. She did not like him, and the more she saw of him and his prejudices, the more her dislike grew.
‘I’ll tell you what they’ve done,’ he responded tartly. ‘The Lutherans fled here because they could not tolerate their own country, and it was British capital that provided passage for them to this country. Upon taking the Oath of Allegiance to Her Majesty, they have been allowed, without let or hindrance, to build their Lutheran churches and found their Lutheran schools. And how do they repay this?’ he posed to Ellen, and then went on. ‘Well, I’ll set it out for you. They agitate for change in Her Majesty’s laws. They even wish to subvert the role of the Royal Police and the judiciary by themselves conducting public punishment such as bodily chastisements and pillory for those resisting their Lutheran laws!’
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