by Judy Nunn
Guilt rested heavily upon Thomas. He took her hand and she looked at him, surprised. ‘Forgive me. Ngandu.’
‘Ngandu, Thomas Kendall?’ Wiriwa looked bewildered.
‘This place …’ How could Thomas express his guilt? How could he tell this old woman, his friend, that perhaps he had been misguided? Much as he had meant to do good for her people, perhaps his interference had brought more trouble to their lives. ‘This place, wiri place.’
She smiled a toothless smile. ‘No, no. This place, budyari place.’ It was clear she had understood and wanted to set him at ease. ‘This place, no wiri place. Wiri balagaman, no wiri place.’ She smiled again and boldly patted the hand that rested upon hers. ‘Wolawara gurigurang, this place.’
‘Thank you.’ Thomas smiled, grateful for her words of comfort. It meant a lot to know that Wolawara had been happy on the land which was his. He and Wiriwa spoke a little longer, then Thomas rose, his body stiff and sore—he was no longer accustomed to sitting on the ground. ‘Hannah, we must leave now.’
As Wiriwa rose to bid them farewell, Thomas told her that the land remained her property. He didn’t have the words to tell her it was legally deeded as such, and he knew that she would not understand if he did. But he told her that, no matter how far she travelled, the land would always belong to her people, to the people of the Gadigal tribe. If she ever wished to return to this place, he said, this place would be hers.
She offered her hand, as Wolawara had always offered his upon parting with his friend. ‘Gumal, Thomas Kendall,’ she said, and they shook hands like men.
‘Gumal, Wiriwa.’
As they walked back through the camp, Hannah glanced sideways at her grandfather. It was a steep trek up from the riverbanks to the track where they had left the trap, and his breath was a little laboured. She was longing to know what had transpired, but she did not want to intrude on his thoughts. To her surprise as soon as they had gained flatter ground and Thomas had recovered his breath, he began to talk.
‘Wiriwa told me that she is leaving with her daughter, grandson and some of her relatives before dawn tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘I have assured her that this land belongs to the Gadigal people. It is hers to return to whenever she wishes. It belongs to her grandchildren and to her grandchildren’s children should they wish to return to it. I would like you to write all of this in your journal, Hannah.’
Hannah looked at him; she had no idea he took her journal as seriously as she did herself.
‘Someone must record their story, Hannah.’ Thomas was in deadly earnest. ‘Even their language is dying. Someone must record their story.’
They talked little in the trap on the long return to town, Hannah insisting upon taking the reins, for her grandfather looked very old and tired.
Parramatta had grown into a thriving township she was surprised to note as they trotted along Church Street where pedestrians promenaded in the early evening, and street-stall vendors touted, and shops and businesses did a brisk trade. Then they were out in the countryside where the smell of the eucalypts was strong in the nostrils; where sulphur-crested cockatoos screeched in the trees, and wallabies came out to graze in the cool of the gathering dusk.
Her grandfather seemed unaware of the surrounding beauty of the bush. He was not only tired, Hannah thought. He was sad. Even though the old woman, Wiriwa, had said something which had made him smile. Shortly before they had said goodbye. Hannah wondered what it could have been.
Before they alighted at the Surry Hills, it was as if Thomas had read her mind. ‘I shall tell you everything, Hannah. I shall tell you everything, and you shall record it in your journal.’
It was not long before every one of Elizabeth Macarthur’s predictions proved correct. Following the damage to property, the theft of chickens and corn, and finally the unforgivable disappearance of a number of sheep and cattle from nearby properties, the farmers rebelled and the army was called in.
Shortly after dawn’s first light, from her balcony overlooking the Aborigines’ property, Mary Kendle watched the arrival of the soldiers high on the ridge behind the camp. She recalled Elizabeth’s words. But she felt no guilt. She could have done some good for these people, but she had been betrayed. Had she not been betrayed, she would have taken the situation under control before it had become so volatile. And if Elizabeth were here now, that is exactly what she would tell her. But Mary had seen her friend only once since that day at Elizabeth Farm, and then briefly, two years ago, at Camden Park, on the occasion of John Macarthur’s funeral.
Everything had changed, Mary thought, as she watched the redcoats leave their horses and drays up on the track, and start their march down into the camp. She would tell Richard tomorrow that they were moving from Parramatta. Their business was mainly in Sydney Town these days, and she no longer liked this house.
Mary had known the army was mounting its raid this morning, all the local property owners had been warned, the Kendle family in particular having been told to leave at dawn or to keep within the safety of their home.
James and Phoebe had accompanied their father into Sydney Town, but Mary had insisted on staying.
‘It could be dangerous,’ her husband had warned.
‘Nevertheless, I intend to watch, Richard. Can you blame me?’ And, once more defeated, he’d said nothing.
Mary could barely see the redcoats now. They had disappeared amongst the bush, making their way towards the river. Flashes of red, glimpsed briefly amongst the trees. As she waited for the sound of a musket shot, that awful day came flooding back.
It was a Sunday. The house was empty, the servants at church. She herself had been at church with the children, but had returned home because Phoebe, as always during her time of the month, was ill.
As she unharnessed the horse, she told Phoebe to go into the house and lie down, she would presently bring her a warm compress. It was a hot day and the horse needed to be watered and stabled.
As she opened the stable door she heard a woman laughing. Quietly, she stepped inside, closed the door behind her and waited whilst her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
She saw them, half naked, on the fresh straw bedding at the end of the stalls. But they did not see her. Her husband, bare-chested, the whiteness of his skin stark against the bare black breasts he fondled. Murrumuru laughed again as he fumbled with her skirts, pulling them high above her naked black thighs. She was still laughing as Mary silently opened the stable door and stepped outside. Back into the glare of the day.
While she prepared the warm compress for Phoebe, she fought the desire to vomit. Her mind was a blank. There was nothing but the image of their bodies and the knowledge of her betrayal.
When Murrumuru presented herself for work the following day, Mary told her that her services were no longer required. She didn’t look at the woman as she said, ‘I am employing a ticket-of-leave worker. I have decided, after all, that I prefer the services of a white person.’
And to her husband she simply said, ‘I am no longer happy with the woman’s work.’ She was unable to say Murrumuru’s name out loud. Richard seemed quite content with the explanation.
It took a week or so for him to realise that his wife knew of his infidelity, though he had no idea how. Nothing else could explain her constant coldness, the looks of pure loathing which met his every attempt at charm.
Finally, one night when he had decided to make a more intimate approach in the hope that that might win her, she turned on him, sickened with hurt and rage.
‘I saw you, Richard,’ she hissed. ‘I saw you with her.’
In a way he was relieved that the truth was out. It was just the one time, he swore to her. The woman had teased and taunted and he had been unable to resist. He begged her forgiveness. He loved her. He would devote his life to making her happy if she would only forgive him his one moment of weakness.
Mary knew she would never forgive him, but if he was telling the truth, at least she could see a way of return
ing to a semblance of their previous life together. Without the trust of course, but she would allow him to woo her forgiveness. There was a certain merit in that.
The ambush was unexpected. The young Aboriginal men who had been stealing livestock from the local farms had met with violence before. A number of times their raiding parties had been chased by angry farmers, and several had narrowly escaped a musket ball. But no white man, farmer or soldier, had as yet ventured upon their land.
Redcoats swarmed into the camp, where huts and lean-tos nestled by the river. Panic broke out. Women screamed and clutched their babies and children. Men, most of whom had been sleeping, grabbed for their spears and clubs.
Lieutenant Brewster fired his pistol into the air as a warning. His orders had been to keep the exercise as peaceful as possible. The camp was to be cleared, the huts burned to the ground, and all children to be taken for placement in missionary institutions.
The warning shot served its purpose. There was a startled silence. Women stared, shocked; men, clubs and spears in hand, halted as they saw the numbers of soldiers and guns, aware that their weapons were of little use against the fire from a musket’s muzzle.
‘Clear these huts!’ Lieutenant Brewster shouted to his men. ‘Round up the children and take them to the drays!’
Men, muttering rebelliously, were shunted about with the butt of a rifle or the shove of a hand. Women wailed as infants were torn from them. They grabbed back at their children, only to be pushed away by rough hands and yelled at by rough voices.
In Yenerah’s drink-diseased brain, the voices which spoke to him told him these were wiri wiri men, demon men. And they had been sent to murder him in his sleep. But they had failed, he thought triumphantly. Yenerah held his ngalangala, ready to kill.
Squatting low, club in hand, he looked wildly about at the chaos. He would fight them all. He would kill any wiri wiri man who touched him. He would kill every single one of them if he had to.
The butt of a musket prodded him on the shoulder. ‘I said move along there.’
Yenerah screamed as he whirled. From his squatting position, he rose to his feet, swinging his ngalangala with both hands. The knobbed head of the club caught the soldier under the chin, smashing his jaw and laying open the side of his face.
‘Djiriyay!’ Yenerah shrieked as the soldier fell in agony. ‘Djiriyay!’
Yenerah’s war cry was enough to inflame several of the others. Even as a musket ball exploded Yenerah’s chest, a number of Aborigines turned on their captors. A soldier was speared through the leg, another clubbed to the ground, and panic abounded on both sides. The soldiers started backing away, firing indiscriminately.
Five of the men who had turned on the soldiers were shot dead in the barrage of gunfire, and several wounded. An old man, clawing for the return of his grandchild, was shot through the head. A young woman who ran at the soldier carrying her infant was shot through the chest. It was only when eight Aborigines lay dead, and the others had fled into the bush, leaving the elderly, the women and the children moaning and wailing and crying, that the mayhem ceased.
Yenada knelt staring at the body of her husband as the blood poured from his head in a steady stream towards the river. Why did they kill Nowinah? He had been begging them to return his grandson, nothing more. Numb with shock, Yenada did not wail and moan with the others, but she rocked on her heels as she knelt. They should have gone with her sister Wiriwa, she thought over and over. For the sake of their grandson, they should have gone. Wiriwa had said that bad things were going to happen, the white missus had told Murrumuru. ‘Take your family and go,’ that’s what the missus had said. But Nowinah had refused to leave. He was an elder and it was his duty to stay and advise his people. That was what he had told her, but Yenada knew it was because he had grown too used to the easy life.
As the soldiers collected the children and took them away, Yenada waited to be herded up the hill with the others. To watch as they set fire to the huts.
She was old now; soon she too would be dead. Death held no fear for her. But killing did.
Yenada could still remember the terror of the night at the bay of rushes, the night when the convicts had dragged her from the camp. That night had been a night of killing, and her people had not been outnumbered then. But the slaughter had given her no joy. She had hoped she would not witness another such killing.
‘Come along. Come along now, grandma.’ The voice was not unkind. ‘We have to get you up the hill where it’s safe.’
The old man should not have been killed, the young private thought, taking Yenada’s arm as gently as he could and helping her to her feet. Terrible things had happened here this morning. ‘Come along, grandma.’
Upon government orders, a military investigation was held as to the necessity for such wholesale slaughter of the natives, but nothing untoward was found, particularly as two soldiers had been severely wounded. As a result, it was found unnecessary for reports of the killings to be made public. Renegade Aborigines had been routed from the area, the community was informed. Disease-ridden campsites had been burned to the ground, and sickly, malnourished children had been taken to missionary institutions where they would be housed, nurtured and educated. For their own good.
The Aborigines did not return to the death place, and the property remained vacant. When James and Mary sold their grand house and moved to Sydney Town, the buyers made an offer to Thomas Kendall for the sale of the adjoining land. But it was not within his power, Thomas informed them, the land was no longer his to sell. It was a cause of frustration to the new owners of the big house.
‘Wolawara’s family never returned,’ Mary said. ‘They never even attempted to reclaim the property.’
Thomas had not seen his daughter-in-law for ten years, and he was astounded that, upon such a sad occasion, her first words to him should be of the massacre four years previously.
It was at the wake, following her daughter Phoebe’s funeral, that Mary approached Thomas. Not once during the graveside ceremony had she cast a look in his direction. She had stood stiffly, her husband on one side, her son on the other, watching the lowering of the casket without shedding a tear.
Phoebe had died of typhoid at just twenty-six, leaving behind a one-year-old son and a devoted young husband. As Thomas looked at Nathaniel Streatham openly weeping over his wife’s grave, he felt a weary sense of guilt. It is high time I died, he thought. At seventy-six years of age it was obscene to witness the burial of one’s grandchild.
Thomas Kendall was amazed that he was still alive. Who would ever have thought that he would see the year 1840 nearly at a close? He stood at the graveside with Matthew and Emily, who themselves were grandparents now, their son William holding his secondborn in his arms. He longed to be reconciled with his younger son’s family before he died. Kendall or Kendle, what did it matter? They were blood. He did not wish to die with bad feeling between them.
Thomas had wandered around the elegant house in Elizabeth Bay, waiting for the right opportunity to approach his daughter-in-law. But Mary had been surrounded by her family, accepting the condolences of friends, and Thomas had not been able to break into the conversation without appearing clumsy. James had stood beside his mother, his young wife who had not been present at the ceremony for the obvious reasons of her advanced pregnancy, next to him, holding the hand of a small boy. Thomas had heard they’d had a son.
Even as he had stood watching, he had seen Mary make her excuses. He was heartened as he watched her approach, and his condolences had been sincere. ‘It is a sad day, Mary. You have my deepest sympathy,’ he had said. But she had appeared not to have heard.
‘… Surely the fact that the Aborigines have not returned is proof that the gift of land was wasted on them,’ she suddenly declared, her tone triumphant. Thomas was at a loss for words.
‘Did you ever think you could solve the problem of those people?’ Mary was relentless in her pursuit. ‘You not only ruined their existence
, you cost a number of them their lives.’
Her words tore at him. For years Thomas had lived with the burden of the Parramatta slaughter, as if the dead had been slain by his own hand.
‘I believe that Wolawara spent his final days in peace,’ he replied weakly; it was all he could think of to say.
‘You have given peace to no-one, Thomas. Least of all your family.’
Mary’s aim had been to hurt. She had wanted to destroy the old man. He looked as if he was not long for this life. Good, she had thought as she had surreptitiously glanced at him in the cemetery, fully aware that he was studying her. Let him go to his death knowing that he has ruined our lives.
Now the hurt and horror in his face robbed her of her victory. He was already beaten; just as she herself was beaten.
‘And as for me …’ Mary turned to stare at her husband. Richard was standing at the far side of the room, talking animatedly to Hannah, who was looking with some concern in their direction. ‘It was your actions, Thomas, which ruined my marriage.’ She studied her husband a moment longer, then turned back to face him. In her eyes Thomas could see the years of bitterness. ‘For that I will never forgive you.’
With that, she walked away, once again circulating amongst the guests, accepting their condolences and encouraging them to drink a cup of tea or a glass of wine. Thomas stood still, utterly bewildered. How had he wreaked such havoc upon his family? What was it he had done?
‘Can I get you something to drink, Grandpa Thomas?’ It was Hannah, as always with an eye to his comfort. He did not respond, so she continued encouragingly, ‘The red wine is excellent, I believe, from the vineyards of Aunt Mary’s friends at Parramatta.’