Beneath the Southern Cross

by Judy Nunn

The work was hard but Anne never complained. She worried only about the health of her baby, whom they’d christened Catherine at an official ceremony conducted by the Reverend Johnson. The birth aboard the Charlotte had nearly killed both mother and child and Catherine had remained weak and fragile.

  Sadly Anne’s fears proved justified and on Saturday 8 March, 1788, Catherine Kendall, firstborn of Thomas and Anne, was laid to rest, three months of age, alongside others who had failed to withstand the rigours of life in the colony.

  Since settlement Thomas had been assigned to working parties on expeditions up the Parramatta River and northward to Broken Bay, and he had even accompanied Captain Hunter’s team on early surveys of the harbour. Furthermore, during each of these expeditions, Thomas had been surprisingly successful in communicating with the natives. Such a skill, coupled with his reliability, made him a perfect candidate for overseeing duties.

  From the outset Thomas had been intrigued by the local people. Entirely naked, of slender build, dark black skin and short curly hair, they were ebullient and friendly. Curious, like children. Most of the men had a fore tooth missing and scars on their bodies—results of manhood initiation ceremonies, it was later discovered—and many wore a short bone or stick through a hole in their nostrils.

  On Thomas’s first encounter with the natives, the men approached the longboats as soon as the working party had pulled ashore and, although each carried a spear or a club, their actions were not threatening. Indeed, they seemed fascinated by the strange visitors. Particularly, it appeared, by their clean-shaven faces.

  They jabbered away in a harsh, staccato tongue and pointed towards the women who remained with their children in a cluster further down the shore—although, curiosity getting the better of them, they were inching gradually closer and closer to their menfolk—then they pointed at their own genitals. It was evident that the men were confused as to the sex of the clothed, and hairless, white intruders.

  It was Second Lieutenant King who issued the order to one of his team and, as the soldier exposed himself, a great shout of admiration went up, not only from the men but from the women also.

  Thomas was carrying the knapsack containing the gifts intended for the natives. He was instructed to open it. As he knelt and handed the trinkets, mirrors, baubles and beads to the various members of the working party to distribute, the natives, both men and women, clustered about like children around a Christmas tree.

  Lifting two bright strips of cloth from the knapsack, Thomas was about to pass them to one of the soldiers when a black hand intercepted his. He looked up into the face of a young man about the same age as himself. The native poked himself in the chest, repeatedly asking for the cloth, and Thomas was uncertain—it was not really his place to distribute the gifts. But amongst the gabble of voices, the excitement of the natives jumping about, and the crew laughing at their antics, it didn’t seem to matter. He nodded.

  The man grinned, gap-toothed, with delight. ‘Guwiyang,’ he said and, with slender fingers, dextrously wove the pieces of yellow and red cloth together. ‘Guwiyang,’ he said over and over as he tied the woven cloth around his head.

  Thomas couldn’t help but smile back. He lifted out a string of bright blue beads, handed them to the man, and awaited the reaction. The man grinned again, nodded, and turned to the young woman who stood beside him. A three-month-old infant was at her hip, hanging comfortably off her naked body, watching the proceedings intently through bright, black, fascinated eyes. The man hung the string of beads over the woman’s right ear. ‘Wiriwa,’ he said, pointing to the woman. ‘Wiriwa.’

  That was the first time Thomas met Wolawara. Several days later, their paths once again crossed.

  On a survey of Shell Cove, again under the command of Captain Hunter, the working party came upon a group of natives in canoes, fishing. The canoes were small and flimsy, constructed of tree bark gathered at each end and secured by strong vine. The natives’ skilful handling of such feeble craft drew admiration from the soldiers and the crew. With a two-foot paddle in each hand, legs tucked under them, bodies erect, not only could the men propel their craft at speed, they could stand at a moment’s notice, aim their cumbersome pronged spears, ten or twelve feet in length, at the target of their choice and generally achieve success. One of the men, Thomas noticed, was wearing a bright red and yellow headband.

  As the working party left the ship and set out in the longboat for shore, Thomas watched, enthralled. A number of women, too, were in canoes, fishing with hand lines. This in itself was not remarkable, but in the bows of several of the canoes burned a small fire. How they kept their fires constantly alight, without damaging their canoes in the process, remained a mystery; but it seemed the native always liked to travel with his fire.

  As the team pulled for shore, the natives abandoned their fishing and joined the men on the beach. Gifts were again distributed. On previous expeditions, combs and mirrors had proved amongst the most popular offerings, and the crew laughed when a native, looking in a mirror for the first time, turned around to see who was standing behind him.

  Thomas watched the man in the red and yellow headband. He had been given a comb. He scratched his arm with it. And when one of the crew demonstrated its use, he grinned affably and scratched his head with it.

  As before, the clean-shaven faces of the white men fascinated the natives. ‘Thomas,’ the first officer commanded, ‘shave one of them.’ Thomas looked back at the officer, uncertain. ‘It’s been done before, man, very successfully. They like it. You just have to pick a bold beggar.’

  The shaving equipment was brought ashore, and gestures were made as to which of the natives might want to be shorn of his beard. The first to step forward was the young man in the headband. A young woman, tending the fire in the bow of her canoe, rose to watch, concerned. Thomas recognised her. The man had given her the beads and said her name. What was it? He couldn’t remember.

  As Thomas approached him, the Aborigine grinned broadly. ‘Aah,’ he said, ‘guwiyang,’ and he pointed to the headband, ‘guwiyang.’

  Thomas repeated the word. ‘Guwiyang?’ he asked and the man realised the question. ‘Guwiyang,’ he repeated and pointed from the headband to the coals burning in the bow of Wiriwa’s canoe. ‘Guwiyang.’

  ‘Fire’ was the first Dharug word Thomas learned.

  As he shaved Wolawara, the natives nudging each other and chattering excitedly at the appearance of bare skin beneath the matted beard, Thomas spoke to him. ‘Thomas,’ he said, and he paused briefly to jab himself in the chest, ‘my name is Thomas.’

  ‘Tom-ass,’ the man replied and, when Thomas nodded, he said ‘Wolawara,’ and pointed to himself.

  ‘Wolawara,’ Thomas repeated, and the man nodded in return, pleased with the introduction.

  From that day on, Thomas always kept a lookout for Wolawara, the man in the headband of fire. And he memorised as many words of the Aboriginal language as he could glean from the excited exchanges which took place. When an inquisitive group of natives had gathered to watch the seine being hauled, there was much admiration as to the fine catch in the net, and that day Thomas learned that ‘magura’ meant fish, a ‘daringyan’ was a stingray, and that a ‘walumil’ was a breed of shark, and that, for some strange reason, the natives would not eat shark.

  Each time he encountered Wolawara, Thomas would test the latest word he’d acquired—often he was wrong and Wolawara would correct him—and on each encounter he greeted not only Wolawara by name but also Wiriwa, to whom he had been reintroduced. The greeting of his wife pleased Wolawara greatly.

  Two months after he had first met Wolawara, Thomas received orders to depart with a team of six convicts and one armed guard for a period of one week to cut and bale the rushes which grew in the eastern bay and had proved ideal material for roof thatching.

  As the boat pulled in to the rushcutting bay, Thomas studied his team of six workers. He did not know them personally but had seen them about the camp
in each other’s company, thuggish men, troublemakers, their undisputed leader a tough little cockney called Farrell. Such men would not have been recommended for a work detail like this, Thomas thought; Farrell must have bribed an officer. It was easily enough done, the military was rife with corruption.

  Thomas hoped there would be no trouble, though he doubted the men were planning to escape. Although relatively easy for prisoners who worked unfettered by chains, escape was becoming less common as the convicts realised that there was nowhere for them to go. The French convoy, still at anchor in Botany Bay, refused them sanctuary under an agreement between Commander-in-Chief La Perouse and Governor Arthur Phillip, and many escapees, unable to survive in the wilderness, either met their death or eventually limped back to camp, half-starved and bleeding. No, Thomas decided, their plan would not be escape—Farrell was too smart for that.

  They pitched camp and the soldier on guard duty, young Benjamin Waite, a strapping Lancashire lad of twenty-five, distributed the long-bladed knives with which the men were to cut the reeds. Private Waite’s duty was not so much to guard the convicts as to guard their weapons. And it was not so much to guard the weapons from unlawful use by the convicts themselves—the weapons being stowed in Private Waite’s tent at the end of each working day—as to guard the weapons from the nocturnal visits of thieving natives.

  The Aborigines had outgrown their interest in baubles and beads. Even mirrors and combs had lost their attraction upon the discovery of hatchets and knives. Discriminate gifts of working implements were made here and there, the military not unduly worried about providing such potential weapons. The Aborigines had, after all, proved a peaceful people and, should they ever decide to turn hostile, they had weapons enough of their own.

  The problem, however, was the Aborigines’ inability to conceive the right of ownership. If they saw something they liked, they took it, be it food or hatchets or shovels or knives, and the only thing to send them on their way was a musket ball fired into the air. The duty of the amiable Benjamin Waite, therefore, was to protect camp property.

  As the days passed uneventfully, it seemed to Thomas that his fears were ungrounded. The men were not out to cause trouble, it appeared, but were intent instead on having a good time. They were lazy, and he had to urge them on to make their daily work quota, but they took it in rough humour.

  ‘We’ll ’ave to get you a uniform, Kendall,’ they’d say. ‘You’re a right soldier you are.’ And Farrell would nudge his new-found friend, Private Waite, and say, ‘Go on, Benny, give Mister Kendall your uniform, then you can be one of us.’ And Private Benjamin Waite, big and burly and as simple as the men who followed Farrell, would laugh.

  Benjamin liked Farrell. Farrell was funny. And generous. Around the campfire at night, as he told bawdy stories and made them all laugh, he gave each of the men a tot of his rum. ‘Just a tot, mind,’ he’d say. ‘We don’t want to run out of the stuff now, do we?’

  Thomas felt hypocritical as he accepted the rum, he didn’t like Farrell at all, and of course the rum was illicitly gained, but to refuse would alienate him from the men. Besides, the rum helped him sleep.

  In teams of two, the men moved further and further afield each day, cutting fresh reeds to bring back to the camp for baling. In the midafternoon of the fifth day, Thomas noticed Red McGregor, his partner, in earnest conversation with Farrell.

  McGregor was a flame-haired Scot with a fiery temper. Farrell kept him under control, but appeared the only man capable of doing so. Several times when Thomas had had cause to reprimand McGregor for slackness, it had been Farrell who had calmed the irate Scot. But Thomas knew only too well that Farrell was a cunning manipulator, and if it were to his advantage, he would be the first to fuel the Scotsman’s rage.

  Now, on observing the two men, Thomas decided to give them several minutes before breaking them up and ordering a return to work.

  ‘We found a camp,’ the Scot was whispering. ‘Far east side, old hags tendin’ babies.’

  ‘Good,’ Farrell replied, ‘the young ones’ll be back after the day’s fishin’. If we can nick one of the women without too much trouble then we can ’ave us some fun.’ Thomas was approaching. ‘Pass the word around,’ he muttered, ‘we’ll pay ’em a visit tonight.’ Then, loudly, for Thomas’s benefit, ‘Now get back to work, Red, we don’t want to upset Mister Kendall ’ere.’ Red obediently trundled off and returned to his baling.

  That night Farrell produced a full bottle of rum. ‘Only two more nights to go,’ he said, ‘no point in takin’ it back with us, is there?’ He took a swig and passed the bottle on. ‘Plenty more where this come from,’ he boasted.

  The men shook their heads in admiration. Farrell’s constant liquor supply was a mystery and, rum being an excellent bartering commodity and therefore a power to those who could acquire it, he fiercely guarded his secret.

  After a second swig, Thomas retired, leaving the men to their raucous campfire conversation.

  Farrell passed the bottle again and again to Benjamin Waite. ‘Come on, Benny me old mate, drink up, you’re a big lad, you need your fuel.’ And, when on the fifth swig, the rasping liquor caught in his throat and they all laughed, Benjamin joined in. He was having an excellent time.

  Farrell looked a signal to Red McGregor, who quietly slipped away to steal the knives from the soldier’s tent. When he returned, mission accomplished, Farrell insisted Benjamin take the final swig and the soldier obediently drained the bottle.

  ‘Time to turn in,’ Farrell announced.

  As the men dowsed the fire and prepared to retire for the night, Private Benjamin Waite, happy and drowsy and just a little the worse for wear, weaved his way to his tent.

  After noisily bidding each other goodnight, for the benefit of Thomas and Benjamin, Farrell silently signalled the others to follow and, away from the camp, they huddled to make their plans.

  In the distance, they could see the Aborigines’ campfire and, emboldened by the rum, one of the men was all for mounting a raid and storming the camp. Farrell was scathing in his reply.

  ‘Want to get yourself killed, you fool? We don’t know how many there are. Now listen.’ The men squatted and awaited their orders. ‘Red and me’ll go out front,’ he instructed, ‘you lads keep well behind. Stay in the scrub and no noise, mind, the blacks are sharp. If we can get to the women without too much of a fight, then well and good; but if there’s too many men, the deal’s off. I’m not coppin’ a spear from one of them black bastards.’

  It was a cloudless spring night and from their vantage point amongst the trees Farrell and Red could easily make out the camp in the clearing. A series of bark lean-tos, women and children sleeping, curled up on beds of reeds, and to one side, gathered around the embers of their fire, a group of men talking. Farrell counted five in all. He shook his head. Too many.

  Farrell and McGregor were about to creep back to the others when, as if in answer to their prayers, one of the sleeping women rose. She stood for a moment, stretched her naked body, then started to walk towards them.

  They looked at each other, unable to believe their luck, and Farrell nodded to McGregor, his finger to his lips.

  From the bark lean-to, where she sat suckling her child, Wiriwa watched her sister rise and walk to the edge of the clearing. Yenada squatted in the bushes to urinate and Wiriwa lost sight of her, returning her attention to the baby who, satisfied, had fallen asleep at her breast. As Wiriwa gently set the child down upon the bed of reeds, there was a brief scuffling noise from the bushes. She looked up, expecting to see Yenada returning to the camp. But there was nothing. She waited several seconds. Still nothing.

  ‘Yenada,’ she whispered softly, careful of waking those sleeping nearby. No answer.

  Wiriwa rose to investigate. She would not call the men, they would be angry if she interrupted them for no purpose. She crossed to the edge of the clearing. The bushes where Yenada had squatted were flattened and there was a broken trail through the
scrub. Wiriwa knew with a glance that the trail had been made by several people and she ran quickly to the men.

  ‘Wolawara!’ she urged in a whisper, again careful not to wake the others. There must be no outcry to warn the assailants. ‘Wolawara, barrawu.’

  She dragged him to the trail, the other men following soundlessly.

  His hand clapped over her mouth, Red McGregor carried the terrified woman far from the Aboriginal camp. Farrell hissed at the others to quell their excitement and keep silent—the blacks had ears like dingoes.

  They were not far from their own camp when they set the woman down. They laid her on her back and Farrell held a knife to her throat as McGregor released his grip. ‘One sound and I’ll slit you from ear to ear,’ he threatened. Paralysed with fear, Yenada stared up at the men in silence.

  Four of the convicts held an arm and a leg apiece and Farrell nodded magnanimously to Red McGregor. ‘You get first go, Red.’

  Yenada’s head was threshing from side to side, a hissing sound coming from between her clenched teeth, as McGregor lowered his breeches and knelt between her thighs. He laid his body over hers, fumbling to find his mark, and Yenada kicked with all her might as she felt the man’s hand on her private parts.

  ‘Hold her still, damn it,’ the Scotsman hissed, rising to his knees. ‘Hold the whore …’

  He was silenced as a spear ripped through his chest.

  ‘Djiriyay! Djiriyay!’ Screaming their war cry, the Aborigines were upon them.

  Two hundred yards away, Thomas heard the cries and was up in a flash. He dragged Benjamin Waite from his tent. ‘A raid!’ he yelled. ‘A raid!’ As the soldier grabbed his musket, Thomas fumbled in the dark for a knife. There were none. The knives were gone. And so were the men. Thomas knew, in that moment, it was the convicts who had initiated the attack.

  Clad in undergarments, firearm at the ready, instantly sober, Private Benjamin Waite charged into battle, Thomas Kendall close behind him.