Vince unsaddles his horse, pleased with his larking about. Jed takes the pup to give it water so it is Poole who unpacks the grog.
He does it slow, like he has his grave in sight.
My mouth feels like dirt.
When Poole has the grog on the ground, I don’t go for it. Doesn’t do to show want to any man, most especially to a spineless one, for their cowardly hearts are easily swayed to betrayal. Poole carries the grog into the hut but before I can follow, Vince orders me to join him. The rising moon spreads light across the land. Vince wants to take advantage and appraise the labours done in his absence. We stride the boundary of the first field. Vince eyes the corn but he has no nose for when it’s ready. Cannot even spy the difference between what I seed here and what they seed at Appin.
‘This crop should be harvested by now.’ Vince speaks with the flattened tone of a born-here. A tone that tells of the true meeting between English and native.
Before I answer, I want to tell Vince a thing or two. Like, I’m not a dog. Like, don’t call me the way you call a dog. But that would lead to trouble. I have to force words from my mouth, but it’s not the ones I want.
‘This is Indian corn,’ I say. ‘This crop needs two more days of sun. Got to dry out from last week’s squall.’
The lie is not a lie because there’s truth under it. I might have harvested yesterday but for visions of my future so unsettling I stayed indoors. It will take two days of grog to get me steady again.
‘And I’ve got Lambskin to deal with,’ I add.
‘I’ll tell Lambskin to pull his weight,’ Vince says.
‘Good.’
‘I’ll let him know it’s you he’s to listen to in my absence.’
‘Thank you.’
Lambskin is the malingerer, not me. Vince knows it. I know it. The only person not to know it, is Lambskin.
‘There is trouble up at Appin,’ Vince says. ‘Natives stealing the crop. My man there, Kent, cannot contain it.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
‘Kent’s too friendly with the natives by half. If they’ve no fear of retribution nothing will stay their hand. If the crop today, what tomorrow?’
At Appin they have cool breezes, good grub (a cook to go with it) and straw beds. Kent does not know how favoured he is.
‘I’ve nothing against a shift to Appin. Kent might serve his time better here at Exmouth, where the work is clearing land.’
‘Captain Brooks is set on you staying,’ Vince says.
My blood heats at the swift denial. Brooks is the cocksucker forging his fortune on my labour. A crooked captain who scored land grants by soft-soaping Macquarie – that boot-licking cussed imp of a governor who would give away his blessed wife if you named a river after him. I hold back my temper. Scoring the Appin role will take some persuading and evenness is all.
‘You’re the man to help him see different,’ I say.
Vince eyes me. ‘Kent shoulders a rifle but he’s frightened to pull the trigger. What about you?’
‘You’ve seen me hunt.’
‘I need a man that can hunt then forget what he’s hunted,’ Vince says.
‘Look no further,’ I say, but I can tell Vince is not convinced.
‘There’s a native buzz at Appin that needs to be quieted,’ Vince says. ‘You weren’t even in the country last uprising. It took men from our fields. Brooks don’t want that repeated. We need to stamp sparks out early.’
Vince stares across the field (that looks less than it should for our time here) and up above the trees to Mount Hat that shimmers in the starlight, appearing more liquid than matter.
‘Jed, Poole and me leave tomorrow to muster at Kangaroo Ground,’ Vince says.
‘Why not stay a day or two?’ I ask, feigning ease.
‘Brooks wouldn’t like us staying longer than a night.’
‘I could shoot a kangaroo. We could have a decent feed.’
I know one thing about Vince Byrne. He’s a man who likes to eat.
‘Brooks would never hear of it from these lips,’ I add.
Vince laughs and cocks his head on the side, pretends to talk to the Captain himself. ‘Captain Brooks, sir! When I were down Five Islands way my horse took lame, requiring me to delay two days instead of one.’
‘A kingly performance,’ I say and clap my hands.
Vince says he is of a mind to stay but his conscience pricks so he has me report about the peach trees and the potato field and the pumpkins growing at the back of the hut. I’m all thirst but he keeps me yapping. My hands begin to shake. Whether disquietude at the prospect of convincing Vince to get me to Appin, or lack of grog, I cannot tell. I push my hands into my pockets and continue my report.
As I finish, I spy Lambskin in the distance, walking out from the blackened trees, bare-chested, with a red cloth tied around his neck.
‘He’s like a native man,’ I say to Vince.
I need Vince to know that the fieldwork here is the labour of one man, not two. Lambskin is full of ruses. Yesterday morning he complained of shocking cramp. Spent hours squatting behind the trees. Then he could not till the potato field because his left toe hurt. Described the pain as if he were a ruddy physic. Lambskin is worse than a Black. Blacks do not pretend to work.
‘Lambskin is a skulker,’ I say. ‘Everything you see here is my doing. It is no easy feat to clear and till a field with a simpleton for your partner. There’s no telling what I could do at Appin.’
Vince is silent but I spy the shift in his eyes. We walk back to the hut, do not wait for Lambskin, who trails behind like the servant he is.
The hut is one room with a fireplace, built by Lambskin and me in our first weeks here. It was our protection from all that surrounded us, not just natives, the forest too. For the forest is thick with giant trees and ferns and vines, and also with unnatural animals and birds that screech and fight all through the night. I never feared a forest before. Back home I spent my youth trapping and hunting in one. It was the streets of London that took me down, not the forest. But this forest is different. I had not reckoned on its fevered nature, all sweaty and shaking. Had not reckoned on it whispering to me of a night. Had not reckoned on the dark days it gives me, days when I go out with a stirring to shoot everything in sight; a stirring stilled only by grog. This forest grows a part of me I never knew.
Hardly knew.
Except that one time in London.
There was that.
There are other spooks about this place I had not reckoned on: Lambskin’s delirium that sends him bounding through the forest like a wild goat; birds that fly down and stare with so forceful a gaze that I feel a stranger on this earth; my yearning for the smooth run of English voices that let you know the path being taken ahead of taking it.
Poole has boiled pork to go with the grog. The man can cook. Two steadiers and the hut takes on a new shine. After we eat, I spread skins in front of the hearth and we lie listening to the spit and hiss of burning wood.
Vince tells tales of his time tracking bushrangers in the Hawkesbury.
Rain taps on the roof like it’s asking permission to come in.
Lambskin rasps and we laugh. There is something in companionship. I look to Lambskin who plays the joker. He’s a different kind of man now, softened by grog. I regret my turning Vince against him. I hear my father’s voice storytelling – There’s land enough for every kind of tree, even the scrawny ones.
Jed sings the ballad of a lass who longs for the sea.
‘He has our ma’s voice,’ Vince says softly. ‘Our ma who was once an actress, yes she was, on the London stage and all.’
They make much of their elder half-brother who accompanied the adventurous Flinders on his explorations, back in the days when no one ventured far beyond Port Jackson. After his return to London, this brother pined for Sydney Cove, and so brought his ma, uncle and sister back to settle here. This half-brother’s ma had two dead husbands (or so Vince claims) and soon married Tho
mas Byrne. Vince and Jed were born in a house with seven rooms and two parlours. They bear their father’s name although he died when they were young.
I find no envy in what I hear. Listening is sweet. Night, with the fire, with grog; this land is not a gaol then.
Through the window I spy the stars, bright against the dark sky. Beneath their twinkling my hut does seem like the grandest palace. Tonight I will slumber as a king.
If I get to Appin, get my freedom, maybe I’ll not return to England. I could score a land grant, work the soil myself, and wed a lass who longs for the sea. But I must first persuade Vince Byrne. If I can prove hardness, the rest will play itself out.
My turn to yarn and I tell my friends of the Surrey estate where I grew up, of my botanist brother, and of my time in London working at the paper press. I do not tell about when all went bad.
The cockatoos jolt me from slumber. I push myself up and hurry outside. Picking up the flag I have left by the door, I run with it through the cornfield to scare the birds. None can settle and I keep at it until the pests take flight. When I’m sure they are gone I return to the hut and stoke the fire. Snores and rasps but no one wakes. Weighed down by last night’s liquor, perhaps. The effects never last as long with me as with others. When the fire is crackling I pick up Jed’s gun and step from the smoky hut into the light.
A raven struts the patch of grass near the stringybark. A python twines the trunk, slithering to where the birds like to rest. Wagtails dive at the python, make a racket to scare it away. I yawn and stretch, call my dogs, and take off through the grey trees, gun cold in my hand.
The forest is alive with insect hum. My mutts sniff around. They know how to hunt. When I spy movement to one side, I twist to face it and the dogs bark, but I quickly lower my gun.
A bush quivers. I watch and wait. Feel like I have air under my feet.
Could it be her?
A brush turkey shoots out from beneath the silvery leaves. No one there.
I used to see her some mornings, fossicking about. But not since the day the deal with the chief’s nephew went sour. Corn for women – that was our trade. A full peck was handed over. Lambskin had his woman picked, I had mine, but when we went to the native camp to collect what was rightfully ours, the men stood and raised their spears. They were no more than a few yards from us. I’ve seen natives kill kangaroos from a longer distance and I did not have my fowling piece then.
‘We had a deal!’ Lambskin shouted.
‘Women stay here,’ the chief’s nephew announced.
He knew our ways by then, our vulnerabilities. The chief, who had a better sense of justice than his nephew, was elsewhere and would not return for some time.
‘They never intended to complete the trade,’ Lambskin whispered, disappointed.
My eyes were still on the spears pointing right at us.
‘Why did you give them the corn?’ I said. ‘You should have waited till we had the women.’
Lambskin groaned. He ached for a woman but had done the deal the wrong way about.
The women were in canoes on the lake, watching us men on shore. I saw my one laugh. Had she never intended to come? Her wild sister laughed the loudest.
The men took another step forward, brandishing their spears.
‘I want her,’ I said firmly and pointed to the farthest canoe where she sat, her curly hair glistening in the morning light.
‘No!’ yelled the chief’s nephew.
The native men ran at us and we had no choice but to back away.
We left the camp, empty-handed. Since then relations with the natives have been strained and we do not let them near our place. From now on they will not be getting our corn, not even one husk. I will get a full crop in, Vince Byrne will convince Captain Brooks of my worth, and I will leave for Appin.
I do not shoot a kangaroo, my steps are too heavy, but I down two pheasants. The heads for soup, bodies for stew. The meat is sweeter than kangaroo. On the stroll back to the hut, with the dogs running alongside, I feel myself swell.
‘They’re called lyrebirds,’ Jed says when I toss the birds on the table.
‘He’s into birds,’ Vince says. ‘Has a book on them. Traded a live bird for a book, can you believe it?’
‘Did not know you could read,’ I say to Jed, who sits smirking, thinking he is better because he was born here, because he can roam where he likes, trade what he wants.
‘Jed doesn’t read,’ Vince says. ‘He looks at the pictures. He’s real good at looking at pictures.’
On another day it would irk, Vince speaking for his brother, but Vince makes it right.
‘Good catch,’ he says to me. ‘Hawker, the hunter.’
‘Hawker the hunter,’ I say and go for the grog.
Vince and I stroll to Mullet Creek to wash and get water. We put our buckets aside while we bathe. After, we run to dry off, all the way to where the creek joins the lake. The lake, by my reckoning, is twelve miles east to west, and sixteen, north to south. Shallow it is, but keen loggers can load their wares here if they have the right vessel. Pelicans and ducks abound but we have our dinner.
‘Flinders called this lake a lagoon,’ Vince says.
‘The natives call it Jubborsay.’
‘Look there!’ Vince points.
I turn and see porpoises swimming.
‘The flood tide brings them in,’ I say.
The sight of their play lifts our mood.
‘There are surprises in this place and much delight,’ Vince says.
‘Only it comes at a high price,’ I say.
Vince turns to me and laughs, then again gazes at the porpoises.
‘Maybe it does,’ he says easily.
When we return to the hut, water buckets full, Lambskin and Poole have started on the grog again.
‘No, no, no! I came on the Prince Regent.’ Poole puts his mouth around the word like it’s a ship that carries royalty.
‘Thatswhattasaid!’ Lambskin is still sauced from last night. ‘Princeregent.’
‘Lambskin came on the Larkins,’ I tell Poole.
‘Fuckingbastardofacaptain.’ Lambskin makes his mouth finish each word but the words still don’t separate. The effort exhausts him and he slumps.
‘Fucking bastard of a sea,’ I say. ‘If man was meant to be on the sea he would have flippers or fins. Legs is what we have got and they’re for walking on land.’
‘Give over,’ says Jed.
Normally the boy will not open his mouth but he’s had as much grog as Lambskin.
‘Man should not be moving about as much as he is,’ I say, lightly.
‘We can swim, you saying we shouldn’t swim?’ Jed asks.
His dog is yapping again.
‘Shut that mutt up,’ Vince says.
‘Swimming in a river, walking on land, that is natural,’ I say. ‘Rivers are connected to land but the sea is different. The sea is unknowable.’
Jed scowls. ‘If we all thought that way there’d be no ships,’ he says.
‘He’s a dreamer,’ Vince says.
Vince is shrewd so I don’t get why he treats his brother like a goddamn deity. ‘Got nothing against dreams,’ I say. ‘Dreams are poetry. It’s nightmares that bother me.’
Jed, feigning boredom, picks up his pup and cradles it. Jed is the one to watch. He is the one that could poison my name to Vince. Poison my move to Appin.
‘Tell you something,’ I say to Vince, ‘with all your brother’s animal loving, I would not take too kindly to being in one of his dreams.’
Jed is petting his pup but when he hears what I say he makes a lunge towards me. The dog spills from his arms, squealing. Jed is all shove. I push him back and we start to wrestle. Jed is stronger than I had given him credit for and the grog has fuelled a fiery spirit. I keep my eyes on his, to unsettle his nerve. We hold each other in a rough embrace, the dog yapping at our feet. We trip over it, onto the table, and fall apart. I quickly rise and go in with a blow to Jed’s j
aw. Jed rolls off the table and lands on the floor but bounces up without a bruise. Vince, Poole and Lambskin are cheering. Jed comes careering for me with his shoulders bent and with such force that he lifts me from the ground and pushes me into the wall. My left hand slaps against the timber and I hear the crack of bones. Yelling abuse, I boot Jed in the stomach, push him back onto the ground and come for him with pace. I slam my foot into his face but he grabs my leg and rolls me to the ground. My left hand hits the floor and I cry out in pain. I kick Jed in the leg, then twist onto my knees, go in and strike, my right hand fisted. Blood spurts from Jed’s nose onto me. Vince wades in, laughing, and pulls us apart. He pushes his brother back to the stool.
‘Look after your mutt,’ he says, because Jed’s dog is whining like a woman taken fright.
My hand is busted up and I am in agony but don’t show it.
Vince turns and grips my shoulder.
Have I ruined Appin?
Vince’s eyes are shining. He’s a man who likes the sight of blood.
‘Next fight I’m in, I want you with me,’ Vince says. He turns to Lambskin. ‘Pour Hawker a drink!’
And there it is, hanging in the air like a forming thought, my place at Appin.
Two days drinking with Vince and my head is sore but I want to hunt. Vince and Lambskin come along. Jed stays to play with his yapping pup, aggrieved that Vince and I are carousing like brothers. Poole stays with him. He is so boat-fresh he cannot walk in the forest without haunting himself.
Vince hands me Jed’s gun, as though he is a lord granting me a privilege. Superior attitude can wound. Take away a poor man’s belief in his own potency and there are consequences. But I say nothing. Nurse my left hand that I have bound tightly.
Lambskin carries his precious stone axe, thieved from the camp closest to us. There is good coin to be made in the sale of native weaponry and before I go to Appin I will be making trades with that purpose in mind. The natives have the life. Eat and be merry. The camp has thirteen women for seven men.
‘A waste of honey pot,’ Lambskin says.
‘I would not go it,’ Vince says, as we hike through the forest.
He has his honey pot on demand and three brats to prove it so why would he bother?
Storyland Page 5