by Judy Nunn
Thomas had been dismayed to witness the degradation of his old friend’s son. Yenerah was Wolawara’s only remaining boy, his other two having died of the smallpox many years previously.
It must be breaking the man’s heart, Thomas thought; but recognising Wolawara’s shame, he did not pursue the subject.
‘I have not come to you for sometime, Wolawara, but when I dream you are there.’
‘When I dream you are there, Thomas.’
The men conversed in a mixture of pidgin and Dharug. These days it was rare for even Wolawara himself to converse purely in the native tongue of the Gadigal people. The language was dying out and, to his shame, much as he encouraged them, his own grandchildren spoke little Dharug.
‘Wiriwa, she is well?’ Thomas asked.
Wolawara nodded. ‘Wiriwa, come!’ he called to his wife. ‘Thomas our friend is here.’
Wiriwa appeared at the door of the hut. She was dressed in a white cotton garment and carried an infant on one hip, her latest grandchild. She had known Thomas was there and had been waiting for her husband’s call.
‘Gumal, Wiriwa,’ Thomas said. He smiled his greeting but did not rise.
Wiriwa smiled in return and nodded shyly before sitting on the ground at the opposite side of the entrance to the hut. She remained silently rocking her sleeping grandchild in her arms, pleased that she had been called into the presence of the men.
Thomas leaned forward and fingered the tattered lapel of Wolawara’s coat. ‘You have a jacket of fire,’ he said. It was a personal observation and they both knew it. Wolawara had always loved the colours of fire. In Thomas’s mind an image flashed briefly. The image of an excited young Aborigine with his new headband of yellow and red. ‘Guwiyang,’ the young man was saying. ‘Guwiyang.’
Wolawara, pleased by the comment and proud of his new attire, explained that his daughter, who now served a military man’s family, had brought home several articles of the soldier’s old uniforms.
‘And from his wife, dresses. Dresses white like the summer clouds for Wiriwa,’ he added.
Wiriwa touched the lace yoke of her dress, which in actuality was a nightgown, and smiled back.
Emboldened by the fact that his grandmother and baby brother had been called to the company of the men, a ten-year-old boy had crept to the door of the hut. He had intended waiting until he too was called, but he had noticed William and James standing patiently at the edge of the clearing and couldn’t resist.
Turumbah knew better than to run to the boys and make their acquaintance. His grandfather’s rules regarding the meeting of menfolk were strict. But Turumbah also knew that he was his grandfather’s favourite and that, if he pretended a patience he didn’t have, his grandfather would eventually give in. He sidled out the door.
William and James watched as the boy crept up behind Wolawara. He was dressed in baggy trousers cut off above the knee and held up at the waist by twine from which hung several implements. He stood just behind his grandfather and gave them both a cheeky grin, but William nudged James, warning him not to react.
Fully aware of his grandson’s presence, Wolawara continued his discussion with Thomas.
‘Wiriwa holds my new grandson,’ he boasted proudly and Wiriwa nodded once more, acknowledging the child as if he were her own. ‘Four grandsons I now have. And three granddaughters.’
Thomas’s eyes flickered to Turumbah who was shuffling in the sand behind his grandfather. The two men exchanged a smile.
‘Two of my grandsons are now grown to manhood,’ Wolawara continued. ‘The fourth, I am not sure where he might be. Shall I call for him, Thomas?’
Thomas appeared to deliberate for a moment before agreeing. ‘Yes. Call for him, Wolawara.’
Wolawara turned and pretended surprise as he bumped into the bare knees of his grandson.
‘Ah, Turumbah. You remember our friend Thomas?’ Turumbah nodded, but his eyes kept darting towards William and James. Particularly young James whose hat was becoming more fascinating by the second.
‘Five years it has been,’ Thomas said. ‘You were a boy when last we met, Turumbah, now you are nearly a man.’
The boy shuffled about impatiently. When would the formalities be over? When could he play? He wanted to talk to the boy with the hat.
‘These are your grandsons.’ Wolawara indicated William and James. ‘One I have not met.’ It was the first time Wolawara had acknowledged the presence of the boys standing immobile at the edge of the clearing. ‘They have fine manners,’ he said approvingly, then glanced up at Turumbah. Turumbah, however, appeared not to have heard the admonishment, he was too busy grinning at the boys.
‘May I greet your grandsons?’ Wolawara asked.
‘They would be honoured,’ Thomas replied, and beckoned the boys to come forward.
After formal greetings were made in pidgin English and after much shaking of hands, it was finally time for Turumbah’s introduction.
‘Turumbah, this is Grandson William, and this is Grandson James,’ Thomas said.
‘Gran’sun William, Gran’sun James,’ Turumbah repeated. There was more shaking of hands, and the boys were told they could go and play. Turumbah let out a whoop of excitement and started to skip about, until a sharp word of command from Wiriwa stopped him in his tracks.
All heads turned to her, it was the first time she had spoken. Her eyes met Wolawara’s. She held his glance for a second or two until he nodded, then she returned her attention to the baby who had awoken at the sound of her voice.
‘You are not to swim, Turumbah,’ Wolawara commanded. The boy was about to argue back, but his grandfather continued, ‘You have been sick, your grandmother says you are not to swim.’ It was obvious that, for all her apparent compliance, it was Wiriwa’s word that was law when it came to the health of the children.
Turumbah did not appear too upset. Instead, he grabbed James by the hand and dragged him in the opposite direction of the water. ‘Gran’sun James come. Come, Gran’sun James.’
James was unaccustomed to such boisterous familiarity, but there was something so cheeky and likeable about Turumbah that it seemed pointless to resist. William followed after them with a regretful glance over his shoulder. He had hoped that he might be invited to join the men, but they were once more in deep conversation and took no note of the boys’ departure.
‘It was the …’ Wolawara was saying, searching for the word, ‘… the croup. Deep in his chest. Another white man’s sickness.’
Talk of Turumbah’s recent illness led Wolawara to discuss the plight of his people. He lowered his voice so that even Wiriwa might not hear but, intuitively, she knew what her husband was saying. Wolawara told Thomas that he should not have stayed so long, that he should have left Eora many years ago, as so many of his clan had. He should have fled inland to escape the white man’s drink and disease.
Eora was the Dharug name for the coastal area which was the home of the Gadigal people, and, like many, Wolawara had found it hard to leave the waterways of his ancestors. ‘We belong to the sea and to the rivers,’ he had said when talk of leaving had first started. ‘We are water people. It is wrong to take our families into the arid land.’ And his stubbornness, he admitted now, had resulted in the deaths of two sons and a daughter. As for Yenerah, his last remaining son …
The admission was difficult and Wolawara’s gaze remained fixed on the ground. ‘With your own eyes you have seen him, Thomas. He is possessed. Once a fine young man, now he begs in the streets for the rum to feed his demons.’
Wolawara raised his head and, behind the guilt in his eyes, was an angry resolve. ‘This is not the fate which will befall my grandchildren. While there is strength enough left in this old man, it is Wolawara who must save them.’
Thomas paused for a moment before asking, ‘What will you do?’ He glanced briefly at Wiriwa who was listening intently for the answer.
‘We will leave Eora.’
It was obvious from the fleetin
g shock visible in Wiriwa’s eyes that Wolawara had not discussed his decision with her.
Thomas looked from one to the other. Wolawara and Wiriwa are old, he thought. Like me, they are old. Now was not the time for them to leave the home of their ancestors.
He said nothing. But, as Wolawara continued to talk, the seed of a plan germinated in the mind of Thomas Kendall.
‘I’ve never seen anyone swim like that.’
James and William were lost in admiration as they stood watching young Turumbah’s naked body cut through the water like a dolphin. One minute the boy had been submerged, the next he had leapt to the surface, emitted a squeal and disappeared again, only to reappear seconds later, twisting and rolling and diving like a creature delighting in its natural element.
When he had finished showing off, Turumbah swam closer to the point on which the boys stood and beckoned them to join him.
‘Come massa! Come along! Come!’
For William the temptation was too great. The afternoon was hot, there was no-one about, so he took off his shirt.
‘William!’ James was horrified.
‘No-one can see. Come on, James.’
Stripped to his undergarments, William flopped clumsily off the rocks. He could swim enough to keep himself afloat but he didn’t venture too far from the point. Turumbah joined him and a splashing match ensued.
James wandered back along the point to the reedy shallows. Today had been a succession of shocks to him. From the fearful black man and his threatening dance, to Grandfather Thomas speaking in the native tongue and, finally, to the unashamed nakedness of Turumbah. That had been the biggest shock of all.
When Turumbah, signalling silence, had led James and William in a circle behind the hut to the water’s edge and proceeded to strip to his bare skin in front of them, James’s shock had left him speechless. No-one should be seen naked. For as long as he could remember, his mother had told him that nakedness was a sin. ‘Cover yourself, James,’ she would say when, as a very small boy, he emerged from the tin bathing tub, ‘cover yourself.’
Shocking as today might have been, however, it was exciting and unpredictable, a day like no other, and James wanted to be a part of it. He found a flat, dry rock, sat down and carefully took off his shoes and stockings. With equal care, he took off his vest, folded it with his jacket and placed his new felt hat on top. Then he pulled his trouser legs up to the knees and waded out into the shallows, enjoying the water, cool against his calves and the sand, coarse beneath his feet.
A shadow glided amongst the reeds ahead, then stopped. Too curious to be alarmed, James waded stealthily towards it. Just when he was convinced it was nothing, merely a play of light, the shadow reappeared right in front of him. About a foot in length and breadth, its sides appeared to gracefully curl, and once more it glided ahead of him, only to disappear in a brief flurry of sand.
James was fascinated. For a full ten minutes he followed the small stingray through the shallows until the creature retreated to the deeper water.
When he finally returned to the rock where he’d left his clothes, he found William and Turumbah dressed and sunning themselves as they waited for him.
‘I saw a fish! A fish with a long tail!’ James called excitedly. ‘I followed it everywhere!’
‘Daringyan.’ Turumbah called back. ‘Catch him tows an this place.’ It was only then that James noticed, perched atop the Aboriginal boy’s head, and at a rakish angle, his new felt hat.
James’s dismay must have been evident, and he felt himself flush as William laughed loudly. ‘Give it back to him, Turumbah, I told you he would be angry.’
Regretfully, the boy took off the hat. He examined it briefly to make sure it was unmarked—it was only a little damp inside—before handing it back with a mischievous smile.
James put the hat on and concentrated on the buttons of his vest, keeping his face averted. His shocked reaction had been instinctive. He didn’t really mind Turumbah wearing his hat. He wished that William hadn’t laughed.
As James knelt to put on his shoes and stockings, Turumbah stopped him. The boy repeated a word several times, a word which the other two didn’t understand. ‘Badangi, badangi,’ he said, then beckoned impatiently. ‘Come, Gran’sun James, come along.’
They followed him, Turumbah unfastening a knife like implement made from shell which dangled from the twine about his waist. It was time to shuck oysters from the healthy crop which grew along the rocks of the foreshore.
An hour later, when the boys returned to the hut—Turumbah ensuring that his hair and clothes were dry and that their approach was from the opposite direction to the bay—James’s hands were scratched and bleeding and one trouser leg was torn. The big toe of his right foot was painful where he’d stubbed it on the rocks, and he knew that inside his shoe blood was oozing onto his stocking.
But James didn’t care. He wiped his hands on the once pristine white handkerchief and returned it to his vest pocket. He savoured the sea-salt taste of the oysters on his tongue. The day had been the most exciting and memorable of his young life.
Thomas noticed James’s dishevelled appearance but said nothing.
Wolawara rose to farewell them, and the two men shook hands.
‘I beg of you, my friend,’ Thomas said, taking both of Wolawara’s hands in his, ‘do nothing until I next come to you. I will return within seven days. Until then, please do not leave Eora.’
Wolawara nodded his consent and Thomas and his grandsons turned to go. But Turumbah would not leave it at that. He made a great show of shaking hands as vigorously as he could with William and James. Particularly James.
‘You like Turumbah, Gran’sun James? Turumbah bud-jerry fellow.’
Before he knew what he was doing, James had taken off his new felt hat. He couldn’t help himself. Holding it in both hands, he offered it to Turumbah.
The boy stared at the hat and the outstretched hands, bewildered.
‘Take it, Turumbah,’ James said. ‘It’s yours, a gift.’
No second bidding was necessary. In a moment the hat was on Turumbah’s head, and when Thomas and his grandsons finally set off, the boy was still leaping about excitedly, dancing, waving and pointing to his new possession.
Thomas studied his younger grandson as they walked away from the clearing. There would be hell to pay when his mother found out he’d lost his new hat.
James felt his grandfather’s eyes upon him. He looked up and smiled reassuringly. He had no regrets. He didn’t quite know why he had done what he’d done, but he would weather the storm.
Thomas was pleased. More than pleased. It was a breakthrough. James was not yet entirely under the influence of his mother. It was time for him to learn some truths.
‘Let’s walk to the Common,’ he said, ‘and sit and talk. There is a story I wish to tell you both.’
He would tell them the story of Wolawara. But he would not tell them of his plan. Not yet. The boys would find out soon enough, for it would alienate him from his younger son forever. Now was the time for his grandsons to know the truth so they may judge his actions accordingly.
Much as Thomas railed against the exclusivists and their class system, the truly unpardonable sin in his eyes was the lamentable predicament of the native, who had been stripped of all he’d owned, including dignity. His numbers had been decimated by white man’s diseases and he had been left to beg in the streets, his women to exchange their bodies for food. It was not the way Governor Phillip had wished it. It was not the way the King of England himself had instructed the colony be governed.
Thomas and his grandsons reached the vastness of Sydney Common where cattle and goats grazed and where, on misty mornings, groups of gentlemen regularly held swan-shooting parties. When they had settled themselves on a grassy hillock in the late afternoon sunshine, Thomas told them his story.
Food and shelter were the major priorities in the early days of the settlement. Heavy labour was assigned to the harden
ed criminals and, in chains and leg irons, they were mercilessly worked, their daily misery in the stone quarries and brick fields slowly producing the buildings of Sydney Town.
Those convicts considered less of a threat to the community were assigned work, under guard, at the government farm, and they soon learned that the trees of Port Jackson were tough and unyielding. The work was intense, many men labouring for several days to grub out just one swamp mahogany or one red gum. And when the land was finally cleared and cultivated, the soil proved too poor and too pest-ridden for the tropical plants acquired in South Africa, and the time unseasonal for the planting of fruit varieties brought from England.
Further delegation of labour was proving a problem. Whilst the navy and military were engaged in the navigation and exploration of rivers and terrain, who was to police the colony? It became evident that prisoners of good conduct who had proved themselves hardworking and reliable should be assigned positions of trust. Thomas Kendall, who had received a glowing report from the Friendship’s first mate, was deemed such a man.
‘I was right, you see, Thomas,’ Anne said, gratified by Thomas’s improved status. ‘I told you they would need men they could trust. Who knows but they might even grant you an early pardon.’
Anne had been ambitious for him from the very outset. When, occasionally, Thomas had returned from an expedition, angry at the brutality of a soldier or the unjustness of a situation, Anne had said, ‘Do nothing, my love, do nothing.’
She was wise and cunning and Thomas knew she was right, although at times it had cost him considerable effort to keep his tongue in check.
By comparison to many in the colony whose miserable lives were spent in chains at the mercy of sadistic gaolers or guards, Thomas and Anne led a relatively comfortable existence. A married couple with a baby, both with good-conduct records, they were granted the comparative freedom of the camp’s married quarters, and Anne was assigned daily service at the makeshift military barracks, washing, cleaning and cooking for the soldiers.