Perching on the edge of the cot, Kate ate hungrily as Mrs Stewart wrung water from a cloth in the basin on the washstand and dabbed at the injury. ‘You’ve a nasty bump and a bit of a gash and a bruise any prize-fighter would be proud to claim. There’ll be a scar, I’m afraid, but it will be close to your hairline. How do you feel?’
Kate swallowed. ‘Fine.’ Her voice remained croaky and tight, but with the bread and tea already settling her stomach, she did feel better.
‘Fine? Well, you’re a bonny lass if ever I’ve met one. The poor Hardys dead in their sleep and you dragged halfway across the country.’ Her tongue made a tsking noise. ‘Of course I never met them. It was intended after the boundary dispute was resolved but, well, it’s not like it’s a doddle across hill and dale. Now off with that gown and we’ll finish washing you proper like and then get you dressed.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be bashful, Kate. I cleaned you up as best I could last night but there’s a smell about you, my dear, which suggests attention is needed.’ Nettie took the empty teacup from her hands.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’ Kate brushed absently at the bread-crumbs on her lap and then watched with horror as they scattered on the floor.
‘I’d not be expecting you to. You’ve had enough to contend with.’ Kate found her arms lifted and the nightgown tugged over her head. She stood naked and shivering in the weak morning light as Nettie began to scrub at her as if she were intent on removing Kate’s skin. Water sloshed in the basin, more was added to the bowl from a rose-coloured pitcher and the homemade lye soap was used liberally, time and again. ‘Here you go, lass.’ Nettie passed Kate the wash-cloth and made a gesture to her breasts and private parts. ‘Heavens, you’re a slight thing.’
Kate accepted the cloth and, aware that the determined woman had no intention of leaving the room, turned side on and quickly dabbed at the areas instructed.
‘Good. Now dry yourself with this and then it’s a quick splash of lavender water and we’re done.’
Kate rubbed her body with a dry cloth as the fragrant water was selected from one of the glass bottles on the dresser and poured into Kate’s cupped palms. She splashed it on her face and neck. The scent was sublime. Next Kate was dressed in a clean pair of drawers and a warm shift, woollen stockings were tugged to her thighs, the skirt tied firmly about her waist and the tight-fitting bodice done up. A square piece of tartan resembling a shawl, but smaller, was the last addition, placed around Kate’s shoulders and fastened with a silver brooch at the front. Nettie touched the ornament, smiling softly. ‘It was my sister’s and her husband’s mother’s afore that. She’d no children of her own.’
‘I’ll keep good care of it, Nettie. Thank you.’ Kate began brushing her hair.
‘One hundred strokes, Kate.’
‘My mother used to say that.’
‘Did she now? Well she’s a woman after my own heart for there’s nothing so attractive to a man as a sweet-smelling lass with well-kept hair, after food of course.’ Nettie giggled. ‘In a few days, when that wound’s healed, you’ll be able to wash it. There’s a ribbon on the table.’
‘Thank you.’ Movement drew Kate to the window as she continued to run the bristles through her hair. An icy mantle crisscrossed the grass, plants and trees.
‘A frosty start today,’ Nettie remarked, ‘but it will be a fine one in an hour or so.’
A number of low fences some ten feet in length and placed like a series of obstacles for a steeple-chase were set back from the homestead. Vines grew up and across the top palings, which were positioned adjacent to a large garden flush with vegetables and herbs. Beyond, a half-mile away, was the woolly traffic that had first caught Kate’s attention. Sheep were being driven by men on foot towards a bark hut.
‘Major Shaw asked after you, Kate.’
Returning to the dresser, Kate gathered her hair and tied a ribbon around it.
‘He’s a fine catch,’ Nettie smiled.
Kate studied her reflection in the mirror. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her once pale skin was tinged brown by the months working outdoors. She would have two scars now, one on either side. ‘For a girl like me?’
‘For any girl, although for myself any Highlander is far too uppity for his own good. They always have been.’ Nettie peered over Kate’s shoulder so that two images stared back. ‘But I don’t think that an officer in Her Majesty’s Regiment at Foot would go by the name of Bronzewing. Don’t look like that. I came and checked on you last night after you’d gone to bed and it wasn’t the Major’s name that you called out in your sleep.’
‘I-I don’t know what you mean.’ Kate fussed with the wrap. She couldn’t recall dreaming about Adam. She wished she could.
Nettie patted Kate’s shoulder and adjusted the tartan wrap so it sat evenly across her back. ‘I know who he is and why he’s locked in my smokehouse, Kate. Of course, I’ve not laid eyes on him but adventurers are such romantic figures, are they not?’ Mrs Stewart turned Kate around to face her. ‘He’s also a criminal, while Major Shaw is a rather dashing gentleman. You mentioned your mother before, Kate. I’m assuming that she would think the same as me, yes?’
Kate felt like a naughty schoolgirl. This was a woman experienced at ferreting out issues and solving them, as a mother should, before they became a problem. She busied herself putting on the repaired shoes, leaving the laces loose on the foot that was bandaged. Kate wanted to ask how Adam was but instead said, ‘How is Mr Southerland?’
‘He’s in the men’s quarters with a deep wound to his thigh. We hope for the best. Although I fear poisoning of the blood may occur.’ Mrs Stewart gathered the washcloth and the basin of dirty water and sat it on the tray.
‘Can I see him?’ Kate hoped the overseer would be able to explain if what Adam stood accused of was indeed correct. She just couldn’t believe a man like that had murdered anyone, not after the way he’d spoken of the Lycetts that night in the burial ground.
‘I think it’s best if Mr Southerland rest. For now I’d like you to join me in the kitchen. It’s some time since I had female company closer to my own age, Kate, and I’m sure you’d have a tale to tell and I would be interested in hearing it.’
The Stewarts’ home was exactly what Kate had expected to find upon arrival at the Hardys’ run last year. The original hut stood at the centre of the house from which two square wings had been constructed. Nettie Stewart was rightly proud of her domain and she showed Kate every room, including the pantry, waiting patiently as her guest limped after her. Kate noted how each glass window gave a pleasing view of the surrounds. There were still musket-sized holes in the walls and two of the windows at the front of the house had been broken in the recent troubles but it was a sizeable building.
The kitchen was spacious but cosy. Kate drew up a chair at the kitchen table as Mrs Stewart placed a large blackened kettle on the coals and sat down in front of a spinning wheel close to the fire. The stone fireplace was almost large enough to stand up in. Bread was being baked, a joint of meat was roasting and any number of pots, pans and griddles hung down from hooks in and around the great hearth. They were soon discussing the price of linen and cotton and the flax which Mr Stewart hoped to grow but had not as yet tried his hand at. Kate did her best to talk along, to be politely interested, but she stopped short at sharing her past life, or that of her parents, other than admitting that they too were settlers but were now dead. No good had come from speaking of her birthright before.
‘Weaving’s not in my blood, although my eldest is markedly skilled with the loom. Self-taught is my Joanna, with the help of kin before we left Sydney. I was of a mind to ask your Major this morning if he’d teach me, but I doubt a Highlander would see the humour in such a remark.’ Nettie laughed. ‘Honourable man the officer is, although I mark he secretly still follows the Catholic faith and if not he’ll be a believer of the fairy folk or some such nonsense. Thank heavens for the union and the end of
the Jacobites.’
The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, the room grew warm.
‘Come,’ she urged, ‘do you spin?’
Kate moved to the wheel, shaking her head. ‘I used to make cabbage-tree hats.’
‘Did you now? Well that’s a pretty craft. We could use a maker of hats out here. My husband says I’m a spinner of yarns, a troublemaker of the worst sort. It’s the Irish in me. I tell him it’s only a quarter if that, but in fact it’s a good half. Now place your hand on the wheel, that’s right.’
Kate was soon rotating the wooden wheel at a steady pace while Mrs Stewart held the wool, walking it out as the yarn was spun. The momentary quiet of the kitchen interspersed with the soft whine of the spinning wheel and the creaking timber was almost like a lullaby. It should have been calming, healing, but all Kate could think of was the man locked in the smokehouse.
‘If the wool prices are good, which they should be, Mr Stewart has promised me a little wheel. It’s operated by a pedal, which means the twisting and winding of the yarn can be done in one step.’ Nettie tugged at the yarn. ‘I’m not a believer in the buying of things, not if you can make your own, and the only thing I lack is dye. I’ve only a few cakes of indigo remaining but I’m assured that if the plant can be established here the process is reasonably simple. One must soak the leaves until they are well agitated and then the liquid is mixed with lye and dried.’
‘Mrs Stewart, I’m sorry but I need some air.’ Kate left the surprised woman, the spinning wheel coming to a squeaky stop. The passageway was chilly and as Kate limped outside, she was grateful for the plaid wrap. She was sorry to be impolite after Nettie’s many kindnesses but it was simply too much. To have endured the last few days and then find herself relegated to the kitchen and women’s talk? Kate needed fresh air and time to think.
The air was thick with cold. The grass wet underfoot. It was colder here in the valley compared to the Hardy farm. The breeze nipped at her skin, reminding Kate of the last winter she’d experienced, a year ago at the Reverend’s farm. No doubt he would be quite pleased to hear of Kate’s suffering, considering it God’s punishment for her ingratitude and stubbornness. For this was Reversend Horsley’s God, a vengeful being. As her head began to throb anew, Kate rubbed her hands together, blowing on the tips of her fingers for warmth.
Around one corner of the house Nettie’s two eldest girls were poking disinterestedly at the contents of the boiling copper. Brown of hair in matching blue dresses with red and green tartan about their shoulders, the sisters were a pigeon-pair intent on doing as little work as possible. A set of sheets were strung across a fence upon which small birds perched. They flew off at the girls’ cries but not before soiling the clean cotton.
Kate retreated as the screeches of the two young women turned to an argument as to who would wash the bedlinen. She followed the edge of the building in the opposite direction. A wide verandah with a low-slung bark roof encircled three sides. There were roses planted at varying intervals along the edges of the porch and to the west, where the valley began to widen, cattle grazed. The sound of voices drew Kate onwards. It appeared that the noise came from around the corner of the homestead and she soon deciphered the Major’s formal tones and that of Mr Stewart. Kate really didn’t want to speak to either of them, not at the moment, and yet she couldn’t help stepping back up onto the verandah, her breath coming as tiny puffs of whiteness as she tiptoed carefully across to the wall. If she peered around the corner of the porch they would be there. A waft of pipe smoke drifted on the air, a boot scraped on the edge of the porch.
‘Well, of course you’re right. Both the constabulary and my regiment may very well believe that I’ve met my end, however, by journeying direct I can report to the authorities at Maitland and hand over the criminal. But, all that being said, I have to ask if I could impose on your hospitality, Mr Stewart, in regards to Miss Carter. I would feel a lot more comfortable with the enterprise if I could escort the brigand back to Maitland and then, with that duty accomplished, return for her at a later date.’
‘Why of course, Major. My wife will be quite content to have an educated female for company. Indeed, if you tarry too long, Mrs Stewart may well be inclined to entice Miss Carter to stay. My children could use a governess and Mrs Stewart a companion.’
‘I have other plans for Kate and they don’t involve such domesticities. I’ll be back for her as soon as I’m able, you may depend on it.’
Mr Stewart chuckled. ‘Yes, one mustn’t wait too long to pick a pretty flower. And what of this Adam, Bronzewing, whatever his name is? You are quite sure he is who you say?’
Kate held her breath. Their footsteps were loud on the wooden floor. Craning her neck, she peered cautiously from around the corner of the building.
‘Undoubtedly. There was a detailed description in the Sydney papers, right down to the shell necklace he wears on his wrist. An affectation if ever there was one, and then of course Kate assisted in the final establishment of facts. This colony has enough issues without settlers fearing the likes of him. You can be assured that the murderer will hang by the neck until he is quite dead. And that will be an end to the matter.’
Kate’s mouth went dry.
‘One wonders at this lawless element,’ Mr Stewart replied as they stepped from the verandah. ‘They should all be hanged, lest we become a place of overcrowded gaols like England.’
‘Yes, hang them or shoot them, but be done with them. This is a land built on the unruly, on the ungovernable. We will never be rid of their kind unless we take a firmer stand and we’ve enough to contend with here what with the blacks, without ill-bred whites running amok as well. Execution has always been the easiest and cleanest of solutions.’
How was it possible for people to consider themselves so far above others? To actually believe that they had the right to such opinions. Mr Stewart’s convictions were certainly at odds with his wife’s fine words of being in a new world, with new rules. Kate was about to interrupt the men to argue for the rights of others. The right to life. Adam’s life. But it was then that she noticed a man sitting outside a building, a musket across his knees. The structure was squat and round, with stone walls, a single door and a bark roof with a hole in the top. The smokehouse.
‘I’ll leave on the morrow,’ James continued. ‘Another day and night without bread or water should make the prisoner a little more amenable.’
‘You must carry on as you wish, Major. There was no sign of the black last night although he kept up a din that would have woken half the country. Sitting out there in the middle of the flat with a fire burning.’ Mr Stewart kicked at the ground, dislodging small pebbles. ‘I expected half the field to be burnt out, but he kept the embers contained and my man on watch last night said he saw the native early this morning carrying the old man away to the east. You let him go last night when we both know he may well be back to try and free his friend.’
‘Probably, but he’s a fool if he thinks he can walk in here and remain alive.’
The men resumed walking towards a hitching post where horses were tethered near the rear of a building. Kate ran from the verandah, mindful of the many aches in her body, and quietly slipped behind a tree.
‘And what of George Southerland?’ the Major enquired. ‘It will be some time before he is well enough to be of service to anyone. If he survives.’
‘He looks to me to be the resilient type and I could use him here, if he’s of a mind. You will give a full report to the authorities,’ Mr Stewart paused, ‘informing them that in all likelihood what livestock the Hardys had have all but been run off by the blacks.’
‘But you will send a party to be sure?’ the Major asked.
They had reached the horses and their voices were becoming harder to hear. With the men busying themselves with their rides, Kate took the opportunity to move closer, hiding behind one of the trellised vines.
‘The Hardys’ cousin Jonas Kable was a financial backer in
the enterprise, and I am well acquainted with the family.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Mr Stewart answered quickly. ‘From what I’ve heard, Mr Kable is in a better position than most to withstand the vagaries of settlement, however, you can tell the Englishman I will do my very best to ensure his livestock are found and, if possible, eventually returned. I’ll ensure all will be square.’
Kate very much doubted that. Every man in the colony appeared to be looking for an advantage, and the Scotsman was no different. Who would know if one thousand head or two hundred head were walked to the Stewarts’ run? Who would know if they were stolen from the murdered Hardys or not? Only their overseer would and Kate was sure Mr Stewart would have the Hardys’ run mustered and what livestock were found mixed with his own mob before George Southerland was able to sit in a saddle.
The Major tightened the girth strap on his horse as Mr Stewart lifted a hoof to check the iron shoe. The horses, small geldings that snorted and whinnied in the morning chill, quickly backed away from the hitching post as their reins were untied. The men’s conversation changed to the problem of labour in the bush as Mr Stewart threw himself up and into the saddle. The Major, rather more dignified in his mounting, turned the gelding quietly, tweaking the horse’s ear and settling the animal with long, rhythmic pats to the neck. His behaviour seemed at odds with the officer who was intent on hanging the man that led them to safety. Kate wondered if James ever questioned the bind of authority that governed his every move or if man and duty had become one. If so, she would have liked to have known the person and not the office.
‘Where’s your man gone?’ The Major’s interest was directed towards the smokehouse and the now unguarded door.
‘He’ll be back directly,’ the Scotsman assured him as they rode away.
Whether she was right or wrong, Kate didn’t know, but the sentry was indeed missing as she ran to the smokehouse and, lifting the heavy wooden latch, stepped inside and quickly shut the door behind her. Chest heaving with anticipation, she swallowed nervously waiting for her sight to become accustomed to the gloom. It was freezing in the confined space. There was no window and the only light came from an overhead vent that illuminated the shelves lining the circular stone walls. Great cuts of meat – hunks of beef, mutton and kangaroo – sat on the ledges. In the centre of the building was a pile of ash on a stone hearth. The slow drying of the meats ensured the preservation of these foods but now it was winter the area had become a cold storage of sorts.
Wild Lands Page 37