by Judy Nunn
Three convicts lay dead on the ground and, even as Benjamin and Thomas arrived on the scene, two Aborigines had set about a fourth with their clubs. The man dropped beside his fellows, his head a bloodied pulp. One of the convicts, wounded and whimpering, was dragging himself through the scrub in a bid to escape, but the Aborigines intended to leave none living. It was Wolawara whose spear was raised to deliver the mortal blow.
Benjamin aimed his musket directly at Wolawara’s chest. The spear left the Aborigine’s hand, piercing the convict through the heart, and Wolawara turned to confront the fresh aggressors.
In the split second which followed, Thomas flashed out instinctively and deflected the soldier’s aim. Then the air was shattered with the musket’s roar, and Wolawara fell to his knees.
Two spears hit Benjamin simultaneously, one in the leg and one in the side, but he was a big man. Strong. He staggered, then stood his ground and started to reload. He had already powdered his musket and was disconnecting his tamping rod when he was felled with clubs. It took two Aborigines many blows before Benjamin Waite finally lay still.
Only then did they turn their attention upon the unarmed man beside him. Thomas had not attempted to flee. Horrified at what he had done, he stood waiting for his turn to come.
One of the Aborigines wrenched a spear from the body of the soldier and was about to drive it into Thomas’s chest.
‘Ngadu!’
Spear poised, the man stopped midaction.
It was Wolawara who had spoken. He had staggered to his feet, in pain, holding his bleeding side. ‘Gumal,’ he said to his clansmen.
The men muttered to each other, confused. How could Wolawara profess to a friendship with this white man? But Wolawara had seen Thomas lash out. He had seen the muzzle of the musket deflected in that second before the fire had ripped into his side, and he knew that Thomas had saved his life.
‘Tom-ass.’
‘Wolawara.’ Thomas crossed to the Aborigine to inspect the wound as best he could in the moonlight.
Wolawara lay on the ground, as Thomas instructed, and the others gathered around. The white man had called Wolawara by name, he must be his friend, they muttered. Perhaps this was the man who had taken the hair from Wolawara’s face. But in the darkness it was difficult to see the face of this man, and besides, the hairless white men all looked the same.
It was a flesh wound as far as Thomas could ascertain. The musket ball had hit Wolawara just above the left hipbone, but it had not lodged in the flesh. It had passed through, leaving an ugly wound which would need cauterising to avoid infection.
‘Guwiyang, Wolawara.’ He held his hands above the wound, then pressed them downward, making a hissing sound like fire on flesh. ‘Guwiyang.’
‘Guwiyang?’ Wolawara looked confused.
‘Guwiyang.’ Thomas made the same gesture with his hands as he racked his brain for the word he wanted.
There had been a day on the beach, he remembered. They’d hauled the seine. The natives had been excited, as usual. In the net there’d been the rotting carcass of a small kangaroo which had drifted in with the tide. They’d said a word, and at first he’d thought it was their name for kangaroo. He’d hopped about, miming a kangaroo and saying the word. They’d laughed loudly at him. Then they’d joined in the fun, jumping around saying the word over and over, holding their noses and making disgusted faces as they did so, and Thomas had realised that the word meant rotten, putrid. What was the word, damn it, what was the word?
‘Gudjibi.’ It came to him suddenly. ‘Gudjibi.’ The men stood staring at him as if he were mad, but Wolawara’s eyes were boring into his, he wanted to understand. Thomas mimed a musket and aimed it at Wolawara’s wound. ‘Boom,’ he said loudly, and the men jumped, startled. He held his hands like claws over the wound. ‘Gudjibi,’ he said and he worked his fingers like worms. ‘Gudjibi.’ Slowly Wolawara nodded. ‘Guwiyang,’ Thomas urged. ‘Guwiyang,’ he mimed the pressing on of fire once again and shook his head. ‘Guwiyang, no gudjibi.’
Wolawara understood. As the Aborigines carried the injured man back to their camp, Wolawara beckoned Thomas to follow.
The men laid their clansman beside the campfire as the white man instructed, then stood in a circle watching as Thomas pulled one of the heavier sticks from the embers. He held the unburned end of the stick in his hand, squatted, and pointed the red-hot glowing tip towards the wound in Wolawara’s side. The Aborigines muttered amongst themselves, but clearly their clansman was putting his trust in this white man.
Thomas placed his hand upon Wolawara’s shoulder and gestured to one of the natives to do likewise. He repeated the gesture with Wolawara’s leg, and the men realised that he wanted them to hold their comrade down. But Wolawara shook his head and they stood back at a respectful distance.
Thomas lowered the burning ember, praying that the pain would not cause the Aborigine to thresh about, risking further injury. Then he pressed the red-hot tip into the cavity of the wound.
Wolawara’s muscles instantly spasmed with the pain, but he himself made no voluntary movement. As the sickly smell of burning flesh rose from his body, he remained rigid, hands in fists at his side, leg and stomach muscles locked hard. His teeth were clenched, he made no sound, and his eyes stared fixedly up at the clear night sky.
The surrounding men watched silently. They knew pain, and stoicism was respected in their community. Wolawara’s courage was no more, no less, than was expected.
Thomas removed the burning ember and smoke continued to rise from the wound, the smell of burnt tissue now thick and acrid in his nostrils. He was astounded that the man had neither moved nor fainted during the procedure. Now, as Wolawara relaxed, which also was extraordinary for he must still have been in severe pain, Thomas realised that the Aborigine had induced in himself some form of trance. Some state beyond the normal threshold of human pain.
Wolawara held his fist to his heart then pointed to Thomas. ‘Gamaradu, Tom-ass,’ he said.
Thomas offered his hand and they shook, the way Wolawara had seen the white men do. ‘Gamaradu, Wolawara,’ Thomas replied. He had learned the Dharug word for ‘comrade’.
As the Aborigines prepared to abandon their camp, Thomas returned to the scene of the massacre. He surveyed the carnage, identifying each man and checking each body for any sign of life, but there was none. It was only then he realised that Farrell was missing.
Thomas searched the nearby bush. Wounded, the man may have dragged himself off into the scrub. But there was nothing.
He knelt by the body of Benjamin Waite. Thomas knew that, with or without the death of Wolawara, the Aborigines would have killed Benjamin. There had simply been insufficient time for the soldier to reload his musket. But when Thomas had deflected his aim, Benjamin had turned for an instant before reloading and in his eyes had been a look which Thomas would never forget. A look of shock and disbelief and, above all, betrayal.
Thomas felt wretched for the part he had played in Benjamin’s murder. For a long time he remained kneeling by the body and, although not a religious man, something inside him begged forgiveness.
At dawn he trudged the several miles back to the settlement, leaving behind him the slaughtered men where they had fallen, weapons in hand. There would be an investigation, he knew, and the scene would tell the truth with graphic clarity.
On Thomas’s return a team was sent immediately to investigate the massacre, and detailed reports were made to a deeply concerned Governor Phillip.
There had been no Aboriginal raiding party, that much was clear—the convicts had died with their knives in their hands. After the slaughter the natives had not even taken the weapons from the corpses.
Thomas was called before the Governor to give his account of the events, which he did, omitting nothing, save his role in Private Waite’s death.
‘There were two native women present, sir,’ Thomas could see them clearly, Wiriwa protectively holding the other woman close, ‘which is unusual if the men are
up to mischief. I don’t believe they take their women on raiding parties. Leastways not to my knowledge, sir.’
Phillip said nothing but waited for Thomas to continue.
‘It’s my belief, sir, that the lads tried to interfere with the women.’
Phillip nodded. ‘And why do you think you were left unharmed, Kendall?’
Thomas stared back at the slight man in the powdered wig. Although the eyes which met his were mild, benign, the authority behind them was unmistakable.
‘I believe it to be because I was not part of the attack, sir.’ It sounded a little lame even to Thomas. ‘And they could see I was unarmed, sir.’
Thomas had decided that to mount a defence on Wolawara’s behalf, to admit to their friendship and his personal belief in the man’s good character, would not serve the Aborigine’s cause. A soldier had been killed and there must be no identification of those involved. Governor Phillip was a humane man, sensitive to the plight of the natives, and if the attempted rape of their women by convicts had resulted in the deaths of those convicts, he would not exact punishment upon the Aborigines. But a soldier had been killed in the performance of his duty and that was not to be tolerated.
‘Reports indicate that you have displayed a certain rapport with the natives, Kendall.’ Phillip looked out the window of his makeshift office in the unfinished garrison. He gazed in silence across the expanse which would one day be a fine parade ground, and Thomas held his breath. Did the Governor suspect something? The killing of a soldier, or the interference in the performance of his duty, meant the hangman’s noose.
‘Communication with the natives is a good thing, Kendall.’ Phillip turned to Thomas. ‘We must make every effort to maintain good relations with them. This is not only my personal view but is contained in my Royal Commission, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘King George himself has instructed that every endeavour be made possible to open an intercourse with the natives, and that all of His subjects are to live in amity and kindness with them.’ Phillip quoted directly from his commission, the words indelibly etched in his mind. ‘I am further instructed that, should any of His subjects wantonly destroy the natives, or give them unnecessary interruption, it is His Majesty’s will that such offenders be brought to punishment.’
Thomas remained silent.
‘Had it not been for the death of Private Waite,’ Phillip continued, ‘this matter would be closed, and whilst no recriminations will be brought upon the Aboriginal peoples in general, if the parties guilty of the murder of Private Waite are found, they will be punished accordingly.’
It seemed the interview was over but, as Thomas waited to be dismissed, Phillip added.
‘Perhaps in your communications with the natives, Kendall, you could instil respect for His Majesty’s Men. Fear if need be. Make it clear that the death of a soldier by a native hand will bring death upon that native’s people.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You may go.’
Thomas left. Thankful. But confused by Governor Phillip’s request. It sounded very much as if the Governor knew that the Aborigines had spared Thomas’s life out of friendship. If so, why had Governor Phillip not demanded a fuller explanation? Why had he not demanded Thomas identify the attackers? Was he letting the matter rest because he did not wish to bring the natives to a white man’s justice when they had simply been protecting their women?
A week later Farrell’s body was discovered ten miles from the site of the attack, a spear staked through his heart in what appeared to be a ritual murder. Thomas was relieved that no witness remained to the events of that night, and for forty years he told no-one of his secret. Until the day he told his grandsons.
It was dusk when Thomas returned home with William and James, to find Mary in a barely controllable rage. She had been pacing the floor of his front parlour for two hours, refusing to be placated by Emily and the girls. When she finally laid eyes on her son, hatless, dishevelled, scratched and bleeding, she was at first speechless.
‘We had a splendid time, Mother.’ James had forgotten the hour and his appearance. ‘Grandfather Thomas told us such stories of the old days …’ James knew he mustn’t mention Wolawara, but he couldn’t contain the excitement of his afternoon, ‘… when the town was nothing but tents, and when they first brought the convicts ashore and …’
That was when Mary’s anger reached the point of hysteria.
She had known this would happen, she screamed. She had known that by leaving James in Thomas’s care, she was risking the very life of her only son. ‘You disgusting old man, you care nothing for your kin,’ she shouted. ‘You will not be satisfied until you have dragged this whole family down into the gutter with you and your disreputable kind! You will be the ruin of us all.’
At first Thomas was amused to see Mary so uncharacteristically out of control. James and Phoebe, however, cowered at their mother’s wrath, while William and Hannah stared at their aunt jaws agape, never having witnessed such rage.
‘If the ruination of my family were my true aim, Mary,’ Thomas replied mildly, ‘surely it should be of little concern to you. You are no longer a Kendall.’
‘And I never will be!’ By now Mary’s face was apoplectic with fury. ‘Neither me, nor my husband, nor our children.’
Thomas’s amusement evaporated, for this sounded suspiciously like a threat.
‘If you continue to boast of your loathsome past,’ Mary presented her ace with menacing triumph, ‘you will never see your grandchildren again.’
Thomas interrupted, still calm but with a steely edge to his voice. ‘Tell my son to come and see me tomorrow. I have business to discuss with him.’
The wind was taken out of Mary’s sails for an instant. She’d expected apologies, even some grovelling. Perhaps the old man took her threat to be the idle ranting of a distraught woman. ‘Look at James!’ She dragged the boy, speechless, terrified, to her bosom. ‘Just look at him! He’s wounded, bleeding. Do you think for one minute that Richard, when he sees his son like this, will—’
‘Tell Richard he is to see me tomorrow.’ The old man’s tone brooked no argument.
‘My husband is not at your beck and call, Thomas,’ she replied, fighting to recover her dignity. ‘He has important work at hand. Meetings with people of standing in the community, people of influence. You can no longer click your fingers and expect—’
‘He is to have a meeting with his father tomorrow. At noon. Tell him that if he does not come,’ Mary was about to interrupt, ‘he will be disinherited, and so will his children. Now get out of my house.’
‘You cannot possibly be serious, Father.’
It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon and Richard stood in Thomas’s front parlour on the very same rug upon which his wife had stood yesterday as she hurled her venom. Mary’s instructions, however, had disappeared from Richard’s mind. He was to have threatened the old man with the denial of his grandchildren’s company unless he conformed to society’s dictates; it had seemed relatively simple.
‘You cannot be serious,’ he repeated.
‘I am in deadly earnest, Richard. My friend Wolawara and his family are to have the lands adjoining yours by the Parramatta River.’ Richard was silent, shaking his head in disbelief as he stared back at his father. ‘The land is useless for cultivation,’ Thomas continued, ‘which is why I did not include it in the property gifted to you on your marriage. I am sure Wolawara will be kind enough to grant you grazing rights for your domestic stock, should you wish it.’
Thomas could have laughed out loud at the sight of his son. Goggle-eyed, slack-jawed, the usually dapper Richard Kendall looked utterly foolish. Thomas pretended bewilderment. ‘You appear worried, Richard.’ Then realisation. ‘Ah … of course, I understand. I shall extract a promise from Wolawara that none of his clansmen are to kill and eat any of your livestock.’
‘You are simply going to hand over the Parramatta land to this Aborigine
and his kin?’
‘Yes, I simply am. For as long as he and his descendants wish to live upon it.’ Again Thomas pretended bewilderment. ‘Do you have some objection, my boy?’
Thomas’s only regret about his planned course of action had been the alienation of his younger son. However, Mary’s threat had angered him so deeply that he now cared little for Richard’s reaction. And if he were to be denied his grandchildren, he would live long enough, he swore to himself, to see those children of an age when they had minds of their own. Then, by God, he’d teach them a thing or two about the bigotry and intolerance of their wretched exclusivist upbringing.
‘But, Father, our new house, which we built just last year, is by the water. You’ve not yet seen it, I realise, but you know that we built it there specifically for the river views.’
‘Yes, I believe it’s a grand home, quite a mansion I’ve heard.’
So that was it, Richard thought. The old man was piqued that he’d not been invited to see the new house. Richard had told Mary at the time that they should ask Thomas to come and stay for a day or so, but she’d ignored the suggestion. Damn it, he should have insisted. Now, after the heat of yesterday’s row and Mary’s melodramatic threats, the old man had decided to make these perverse intimidations in order to teach them a lesson.
‘I’m sorry, Father, it’s been very remiss of us not to have extended an invitation to you. You’re most welcome to visit us, as you know, at any time. Perhaps next weekend?’
‘I’d be delighted, my boy. I shall look forward to seeing your new home and spending sometime in the company of my grandchildren.’ Thomas took his hat from the brass hatstand which stood in the corner of the parlour. ‘Now, if that concludes our business, and if you won’t partake of the tea I offered earlier, I shall call on Wolawara and tell him the good news.’ He opened the door to the hall and waited for the reaction which he knew would come.
‘Father, in God’s name you cannot be serious!’
‘That is the third time you have said that, Richard.’