To the north there was fighting between black and white. Shepherds had been murdered while a settler and a convict had been wounded and another convict killed while erecting a hut to the north-west.
‘One of the Beeton men?’ George picked up a twig from the ground, chewing it thoughtfully between his teeth. ‘Shepherds is one thing, but attacking that family won’t ease the situation. They’ll be onto the troopers about that.’
‘This my land. Big tribe. Very powerful.’ Joe strung the words out slowly. ‘Not all clans sit down and watch whitefella take their land. There is anger.’
‘I’d imagine the Beetons feel the same way, Joe. Well, we best be extra careful from now on.’
‘Some of the settlers been riding out after the blacks, Boss. Some of them be my mob, they chase, Boss. It don’t sound good, Boss.’
The leader of the expedition stopped at the boggy creek. ‘It never is. Tell Mr Callahan to supply you with sugar, Joe. The tomahawk they can have when we make it to the stony hills.’
The tracker didn’t respond, although it seemed there was more he wanted to say.
‘And, Joe, when you’ve finished, show those two convicts those skeletons. It’s been some time since we stopped putting their leg-irons on at night and a bit of a reminder of what can happen to a runaway is always helpful.’
‘Can they be trusted?’ Kate whispered as Joe and the Aboriginals headed for the wagons. Mr Callahan stood warily on their approach.
‘The convicts? They won’t last two days out here if they make a run for it, but some try.’
‘I meant the natives.’
‘As long as we keep our word, give them what they want and move on, but who knows? All we can do is make for Hardy’s lands. Once we’re there, we’ll be safer.’
Kate didn’t feel as confident. ‘And Joe?’
A look of annoyance crossed the expedition leader’s face. ‘Joe’s been with me many years.’
‘I just wonder if it’s such a good idea –’
‘Don’t stir up trouble, Miss Carter. That altercation back there was of your own doing.’
As Mr Southerland began to oversee the reloading of the wagon, Mr Callahan cautiously handed over a small quantity of sugar. This was followed by a pouch of tobacco and two wooden pipes. Joe passed the items onto the blacks, but not before pocketing some of the tobacco for himself. Kate knew that Mr Southerland’s opinion of their tracker should be enough, but after so many weeks in the bush she’d developed her own instincts as to who could and couldn’t be trusted. Out of their small expedition party, only their leader and Mr Callahan could be relied upon. The Scot had left behind a family on his assignment to the colony and was a lonely man trying to live out his life as best he could. As for the others, Jim Betts and Harry Gibbs were opportunists. They begged for extra food, scrambled for the best spots to unroll their swags each night and slyly watched the camp’s undertakings.
After Joe had shown Betts and Gibbs the bodies in the scrub, the four Aboriginals moved off to the shade of a tree. Joe sat cross-legged beside them as the others dug out hollows in the cool sand in which to lie.
Mr Callahan was calling to her to make ready as Betts and Gibbs finished tying the contents of the dray down with ropes. ‘Why doesn’t the black lend a hand?’ Betts tied a secure knot on the last rope. ‘It’s not right we be working like dogs while he sits.’
‘He’s got a job,’ Mr Callahan reminded them.
‘Give him another.’ Gibbs wiped sweat from his brow. ‘A black shouldn’t be working less than the likes of us. It goes against the natural order of things.’
Kate waited until the two convicts were out of earshot. ‘I don’t trust those two one bit, Mr Callahan. They watch me at times, you know, and they don’t mind me knowing that they do.’
‘I know, lass.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I’m onto them, but I reckon they’re harmless. If the truth be told, both Betts and Gibbs are nervous nellies. They lived their lives in the streets of London. Nothing could have prepared them for this.’
‘And what about you, Mr Callahan? Were you prepared?’
The Scot gave a lopsided grin. ‘I’m of the country meself, but prepare a man for this? I can’t say I had any inkling.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My lass, Lizzy, well she’d be waggling her finger at me if she were here. Always getting myself in strife, she’d say. But then no matter the troubles, my Lizzy would crinkle up those dark eyes of hers and tell me that even if a person failed, at least he’d been trying. Come now, you’ll set me thinking about me bonny wife all the rest of this fine day, Miss Kate, and we can’t have that. Me bullocks don’t like me maudlin.’
The day grew hotter, a dense heavy heat that pulled and tugged at a person’s body. Some days Kate felt as if the land and the heat and the dusty haze would consume their small party. For the hot breath of the bush was remorseless and during each day of their travel the hours stretched on and on like a funeral cortege. At night Kate dreamt of an endless winding road, which eased across the green hills of the coast to merge with the brown plains and hills of a land too vast to comprehend. It was important she remain positive but her thoughts were beginning to turn inwards, and at times when the camp was quiet and the sky star-bright, there were tears. It was a hard thing to be a woman and to be alone in the world. To have no kin. To have murdered a man.
She’d taken to recalling the environs of the Reverend’s cottage. In particular, the fig tree at the end of the garden. The trunk was massive, its rough bark grey-brown but it was the leaves that fascinated. They were large and leathery and deep green in colour. A gust of wind lifted the dirt along the drying creek. Her skirts fluttered as the hot blast buffeted her forwards. She lifted a hand to stop the straw hat from being blown away. It hardly afforded any shade. In the mornings the sun slanted from the east as it rose, flushing her cheeks red. In the afternoon it felt as if a thousand needles were attacking her skin. Kate needed no looking-glass to know that, like the land around her, she was burning up as well.
A week or so later, George Southerland let out a loud coo-ee and was immediately answered by Joe. The two men met under a stand of trees and spoke animatedly, their horses nickering quietly. The sun was yet to find a position mid-sky and the pearly blue of the heavens betrayed the coming heat. Kate wiped at her forehead, her hand clutching and releasing her skirt as she lifted it free of shrubby bushes and small spikey-leafed trees. Beside her the wagon creaked and groaned, the lumbering bullocks plodding over the faint tracks in the dirt. All waited for the final confirmation that the Hardy farm was within sight.
‘There!’ The Scotsman pointed to a blazed tree. The axe mark, sure and strong, shone like a beacon. ‘Didn’t I tell you the Englishman would get us there? And he has.’
Kate recalled no such conversation, but they had put their lives in the care of this leader and the man had apparently delivered them to the promised destination.
‘A job well done, aye, very well done,’ the Scotsman enthused.
The first of the blazed trees, which marked the final fifteen mile of travel, had been reached yesterday and it was all they could do not to crack the raw-hide whips and rush the bullocks onwards, to journey a little farther in the dark. Mr Southerland, true to the disciplined nature shown throughout the long weeks, was in no rush. As sure as we move, he’d told them, we’ll come to grief. A broken wheel, a bullock gone lame in the night … Better to wait until piccaninny dawn and then set out.
Kate began thinking of a warm hip bath, on the surface of which a number of muslin herb bags floated. There was a cosy bed in her imaginings, one with an arrangement of outer curtains, valances and accoutrements, which she was sure Mrs Kable enjoyed. Hers would be of slightly lesser quality to that of Mrs Hardy’s, however it was not beyond assumption that a lady’s companion would enjoy the trappings of the position for which she was employed. When she thought of the house she would soon enter her mind drew a fancy picture of a dwelling not dissimilar to the Kables’ hom
e. The thought of female companionship also bolstered her thoughts.
‘You keep that smile, Miss Kate, for I reckon it’s a sign of better things.’
‘I do believe you’re right, Mr Callahan.’ Kate rubbed the small of her back and began to hum a tune.
‘You make sure you come and say hello once we’re settled, Miss Kate. I know you’ll be at the big house and all, but it would make me right happy to see you now and then. I imagine my girl would be about your age now. Tubby little thing she was, took after me.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on a dirty shirt-sleeve. Kate reached to pat his arm, but thought better of it, her own eyes damp. They’d been travelling for over seven weeks. The sense of relief at nearing the end of the trip, the creep of exhaustion, of gratefulness, threatened to turn her weepy and Kate forced herself to concentrate on the path ahead. The dray passed through a dense stand of trees, the branches filtering the sun’s rays and throwing patches of light and shade on the lumbering beasts ahead. The rooster let out a weak crow.
‘Well, I’ll be,’ the Scotsman exclaimed. They shared a laugh.
They trailed Mr Southerland and Joe for a number of miles. The riders merged with the bush frequently, managing to reappear just when confirmation was required as to the direction to head. But Mr Callahan grew surer with every mile travelled and soon he was counting the axe marks in the trees and not bothering with the location of their guides. It was some time before Kate realised that the agitation that had crept upon her was not due to the anticipation of finally nearing their destination.
The first native stood some distance from the trail. The second, a little closer. Kate’s stomach lurched.
‘I see them.’ Mr Callahan reached into the moving wagon for his loaded musket and then let out a coo-ee. ‘You’ll be right, lass. Don’t be a-feared.’
It was as if the bush came alive. Trees grew extra limbs, stubby bushes moved. The natives came from all directions, mainly old men, women and children. They kept to the sides of the track, like spectators watching a street parade. The women were bare-breasted with barely a skirret of clothing to cover their private areas, while the little ones were naked. Kate blushed to be in the company of men as the two convicts in the second wagon called out to the women in a rush of enthusiasm. She moved closer to the moving wagon.
‘They be God’s creatures,’ Mr Callahan enthused. ‘God’s creatures.’
Kate was not so taken with the gathered natives, not after the attack and the subsequent fear they’d all lived with, although she had to admit they were certainly a fine looking people; a marked contrast to the wretched souls wandering around Sydney. These people were tall and lean, the women and men handsome and proud. A wide-eyed child stared at Kate from its mother’s arms and then pressed its face against the woman’s shoulder.
Ahead, Mr Southerland came into view. He lifted a hand in greeting. ‘You’ll be right,’ he shouted. ‘This mob lives on the Hardy farm. Through the trees apiece, you’ll come to a ridge. You can see the huts from there.’ Dismounting, he stood talking to a number of the natives. As the wagons moved closer it was clear that one of the Aboriginals was a favourite, for Mr Southerland was petting her face and hair and giving the young woman a trinket from his pocket, a beaded necklace. Kate could only guess at their relationship and it made her more than uncomfortable.
‘There be no women up here, miss.’ The Scotsman seemed to have read her thoughts. ‘And men have needs, after all.’
Kate’s cheeks grew hot. The bullocks walked through the next clump of trees and then traversed a slight ridge. Kate kept close to the teamsters as they passed the Englishman and the native girl. Old men and women joined the couple and patted Mr Southerland’s arms and back. Despite the strangeness of this welcome, Kate thought the scene resembled a man returning to dear friends and family.
The bible lessons Kate had endured taught that the Lord God had made all creatures but the natives were a people apart, unknowable. Fraternisation between black and white was wrong and Mr Southerland – as a civilised Englishman, a subject of the crown – should have known better. What their black guide thought about this greeting was unknown. Joe sat astride his horse, speaking to the gathered people in their tongue, pointing and gesturing to the wagons as if a minister of the cloth advising his congregation. On passing, he caught Kate’s attention. His look was undecipherable.
From the top of the rise directly before them was a small valley and, on the other side, a wind-blown hill. A curl of smoke drew the eye and on closer inspection two huts could be seen framed by trees on the western side. It was a desolate spot but the position afforded a clear view of part of the valley. Mr Callahan kept a firm hand on the dray’s brake as the bullocks lurched down the slope. A small group of cattle were feeding into a westerly wind, while mobs of sheep were being herded to the east by a single shepherd. The Scot was moved by the sight. ‘Could almost be home. ‘’Course the hills would be bigger and it’d be colder and greener and there’d be trickling streams and deer, and less trees, and there’d be cairns to mark the trail, but it could nearly be home.’
Kate suppressed a laugh. She would miss seeing Mr Callahan.
On reaching the flats, Mr Southerland, devoid of his admirers, galloped through the trees and drew level with them. ‘As good a sight as a man could wish for.’ He reined his horse in, keeping pace with the wagon. ‘I reckon the Hardys will be pleased to see us. Be prepared for days of questioning, Miss Carter. I doubt they’ve seen anybody else since I left months ago.’
‘And the main house, Mr Southerland, is it behind those trees?’ Kate strained to be polite after what she’d just witnessed, although her own enthusiasm at nearing the end of their journey fought for release.
The Englishman lifted a shaggy eyebrow. ‘That is the house. The smaller hut is the kitchen. Behind it a quarter-mile is the men’s hut.’
Kate looked at the distant buildings and looked again. Surely it wasn’t possible. The structures were partially circled on the north and western side by trees. While behind them, the steep hill rose to a timbered peak. The two buildings jutted out from the side of the mound in precarious fashion, and it appeared as if at any moment both huts could slide down the side of the hill.
‘If you were expecting the likes of the Kable farm, I fear you’ll be disappointed. Best you forget the comforts of Syd-e-ney, Miss Carter, and any expectations that might be filling your head. Here we only have what we bring with us, or what we can grow or make ourselves.’
She’d travelled for weeks on end, very nearly been speared by natives, for this? The thought of Reverend Horsley with his comfortable cottage and ordered life made Kate momentarily stop mid-stride. She thought she would sick up the knob of bread and black tea eaten hours previously.
‘You best rest the bullocks a mile further on, Mr Callahan, no more than a half hour. We want to have these supplies unloaded and the bullocks unharnessed before dark.’
‘As you say, Mr Southerland.’
‘And the musket, if you please.’
With reluctance Mr Callahan passed the rifle back to the Englishman and their expedition leader rode away. ‘Mr Southerland will do right by us. He’ll speak to this Hardy and tell ’em what’s what.’ The Scot displayed his missing tooth in a wide-lipped grin. ‘Come on, lass,’ he encouraged, although his enthusiasm had diminished somewhat, ‘there’s houses and people and a new life to reckon with. We must all make the best of things and remember, you can leave eventually.’
Kate thought of the return trip and gave a wan smile. What lay behind her was little better than the alternative ahead. Dispirited, she placed one foot in front of the other. They made their way across the narrow valley, following the ruts of previous wagon tracks. The bullock teams were left to meander slowly as the Englishman rode on ahead.
Mr Callahan and Kate walked side by side. ‘You’ll get used to it, Miss Kate, we all will.’
Kate doubted it. Behind them, the natives followed at a short distance, while in f
ront rode Joe. Kate couldn’t help but think of the Pied Piper. When they stopped to rest she remained close to the wagons and Mr Callahan, for the natives were curious. They stopped as well, pointing and chatting and sitting in groups nearby.
‘Mr Southerland will be cooling his heels with a drop of tea, I’d reckon.’ Mr Callahan waved at the flies about his face, which quickly resettled, despite his attempt to shoo them away. ‘By the time we arrive at the run he’ll have handed over the bill of sale for the wool. I heard that they overlanded the sheep with seven months’ worth of wool, shore them a scant three months later and then returned the fleeces to Syd-e-ney so the lease could be obtained and the first clip delivered, simultaneous like. So the monies will be in and spent on these here supplies, I reckon. Of course Southerland will have us lot summed up nicely.’ He noticed Kate’s startled face. ‘That’s his job, lass. Get the supplies and the help safely to their destination and then make his report.’
‘Blind leading the blind, settling out here,’ Betts commented, ‘and they won’t get me living out in the bush by meself with all them blacks around. A person can’t be expected to give up life and limb for a sheep.’
‘Shepherding sheep is what we’ve been told we’ll be doing,’ his companion replied.
‘They’ve cattle, haven’t they?’ He pointed to where cows grazed. ‘That’s what I’ll be angling for, a horse and a musket and the task of looking after a few cows.’
‘There won’t be no muskets for the likes of you two.’ Mr Callahan sat fanning his face with his hat by the wheel of the wagon. He’d removed his blucher boots and the raw scent of his feet was rank in the hot air. ‘You might be free of irons but you’re here to do what you’re told, just like me. Mr Southerland told me there’s a dearth of cattle up here and this lot is kept in sight of the house.’
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