That Deadman Dance (4 page)

Things to do

Months on, and Geordie Chaine had made little progress with his list of things to do:

Store goods

Find rental property (The Farm?)

Pasture stock

Call upon society (?)

Choose land

School children (?)

Lease island for rabbits (?)

Erect First Prefabricated House …

The list went on and on with oh so many question marks. Altogether too many ‘firsts’ might be required. People arrived, intending to settle and most—even some of those who nodded agreement as Chaine outlined the possibility of partnerships in potentially lucrative opportunities—sailed away on the next available ship.

Chaine visited Killam’s public house. Not much more than a crude shelter under canvas with a low-ceilinged construction of the ubiquitous wattle-and-daub at its centre; its customers were mainly soldiers—Killam’s old colleagues—and visiting sailors of one kind or another: a rough clientele. The floor was limestone except at one end of the bar, where a rough timber floor became part of a solid, secured chest in which Killam stored his wares after closing time.

Despite the trading advantages available as part-time Ships’ Pilot, Killam expressed reservations about investing, let alone remaining, in this tentative settlement. It was rare for more than one or two ships to visit the port in any given week. The settlement could easily fail. Why, if the government should withdraw support … It seemed the sort of talk the soldiers favoured, but Chaine noted that for all his pessimism, Killam had begun a new enterprise—the grog business. There are opportunities, he said. He had put in a tender to build a decent road out to The Farm. If more ships visit …

Chaine invited Killam for a drink. Still under canvas, Chaine nevertheless had help and fine crockery. Good port and tobacco, too.

I see opportunities for a merchant such as himself, he told Killam.

The harbourmaster or pilot, Alexander Killam replied, is the first to know what each ship carries, and what she needs. And as you know, I am harbourmaster and pilot both.

Geordie Chaine made a mental note to add a schooner—a whaleboat, at least—to his list. And to cultivate Killam’s acquaintance.

Mr Geordie Chaine asked about the natives manning the pilot boat.

They are surprisingly able, these savages, Killam told him. No boats of their own, but happy to use ours. Some with a fancy for the sea have already learned our swimming strokes. They are quick to acquire new skills, Geordie Chaine heard, nodding.

The wind came cold across the harbour, rattled the stiff canvas around them. Chaine dismissed his servants early.

If you want land, Alexander Killam said, follow the rivers inland to the mountains. That’s what Cross did. Why Killam himself, if he had the capital … Cross must’ve been last to get a grant, and he had chosen some very good land indeed upriver from Shellfeast Harbour. It was his native friends who showed him.

Yes, an expedition could be arranged. Several of the natives are quite experienced guides, having helped Cross. They know where the water is, can supply your meals. You’ll never get lost, and they’ll deal with any other natives you meet. An expedition need last only a few days, maybe a week.

*

Geordie Chaine took time fitting out his expedition. Made another list, then another. He packed a tent-fly to keep off the heavy dews of evening, provide shade in the heat of the day and shelter from any rain. The old hands of the settlement explained that the topsy-turvy seasons of this part of the world meant rain could fall at any time. He packed a small axe and spade. Guns also. They were but three, he told his companions. Who knew how many savages out there might oppose them? He packed oilskins and tin saucepans for cooking. And tobacco and pipe, brandy, flour, biscuit, pork, beef, rice, sugar, tea, cheese, butter, salt … He wondered if they could get by without horses.

Soldier Killam (as even Chaine now knew him) came by and reduced the load. Not so much food, he advised. We’ll give something like that—needn’t be good quality— to the native boys when we return. If we’re short they’ll feed us out there. But all the same, we’ll need someone to help us carry the gear. Your horses still not arrived?

*

Next morning, Geordie Chaine, Soldier Alexander Killam and Mr William Skelly set off together. Skelly was a stocky individual of rough garb and carried a larger pack than the others. An observer might have recognised that he was not much of a conversationalist.

Wooral and Bobby appeared. Chaine saw two natives, a young man and a boy, brimming with what he called ‘animal health’, their skin shining and their bright smiles dazzling. The man, grinning and holding out his hand as he approached, seemed particularly pleased with himself. Prominent scars lined his chest, and he wore a small bone through his nose.

This is Wooral, said Killam, and Geordie Chaine found himself shaking hands with what must have been a savage, yet one who spoke perfectly understandable English, and who gripped his hand firmly and looked him in the eye.

The young boy also held out his hand.

Delighted to meet you again, Mr Geordie Chaine, he said. His words carried Cross’s accent; it might almost have been Cross talking.
Kaya
, we say. The boy would not stop shaking Chaine’s hand. His smile was infectious. You like to eat beetle? he asked with that remarkably clear enunciation.

Chaine had some trouble with the boy’s name.

Bobby, Skelly interrupted.

Ah. Chaine remembered him now. His tongue had no trouble with that name.

Yes, that a mooring for me, the boy said, grinning. And shook Chaine’s hand once more.

Alexander Killam had brought along a set of clothes. He had none for the boy, but a prepubescent boy’s nudity was acceptable. He would need clothing on future occasions, though, unless Killam was a poor judge of a boy’s development.

Wooral sniffed the clothes and held them up for inspection. Boots? he enquired.

Chaine held the kangaroo skin Wooral had offered him awkwardly, fingering the small piece of bone used as a clasp when it was worn across the shoulders. Well-worn, oiled and softened, the animal skin seemed too intimate an item of apparel.

Wooral rolled the trousers to his calves in sailor fashion and, seeing Chaine nonplussed by the kangaroo skin, attempted to help him. Chaine shook his head and passed the cloak to Killam who, after some fussing, also declined Wooral’s offer of help and returned the cloak because Skelly laughed, and waved it away. Wooral looked at Bobby and nonchalantly put it back on his own shoulders. Bobby put on the shirt, so large it could’ve been a coat, and bunched up the sleeves. Then, with a tilt of heads to indicate direction, he and Wooral set off.

Chaine, Killam and Skelly glanced at one another, shouldered their heavy packs and followed.

A distant mountain range rose before Geordie Chaine as he crested the hill that marked the boundary of his knowledge of the settlement. The mountain stood like a stage prop in a vast, grey-green plain—a blue cutout against the horizon.

Wooral pointed out a few thin and lonely columns of smoke in the distance as he led them along a well-worn path, putting people’s names to them. Smoke merged imperceptibly with haze, the vastness of sky.

We alright?

Chaine had a compass, and Killam said the mountains were further confirmation; this was the direction they’d intended. No harm following Wooral while the going was so easy.

They followed a path, rocky and scattered with fine pebbles that at one point wound through dense, low vegetation but mostly led them easily through what, Chaine said, seemed a gnarled and spiky forest. Leaves were like needles, or small saws. Candlestick-shaped flowers blossomed, or were dry and wooden. Tiny flowers clung to trees by thin tendrils, and wound their way through shrubbery, along clefts in rock. Bark hung in long strips. Flowering spears thrust upward from the centre of shimmering fountains of green which, on closer inspection, bristled with spikes.

Sometimes Wooral addressed the bush as if he were walking through a crowd of diverse personalities, his tone variously playful, scolding, reverential, affectionate.

It was most confusing. Did he see something else?

Soldier Killam gave Chaine the names, pointing out not only peppermint and tallerina, but also paperbark, she-oak, banksia … Blackboy, he said, and Chaine saw the very thing in a grass skirt, standing on a hillside and silhouetted against the sky. Chaine admired what was called Australian mahogany, although sometimes the branches were an erratic, almost wriggling growth with little cup-shaped seedpods scattered among its foliage.

Skelly stayed to the path, looked ahead, did not contribute to the conversation. Perhaps the dry, serrated leaves of banksia provoked him; perhaps their bristling blossoms seemed manufactured, and not the soft nature he knew from the forests of the manor he’d once known. Perhaps he was at home with such bristling spikiness.

In the course of the day their path (and inevitably, as they approached, Wooral’s singing) led them to springs and water holes, often concealed under overhanging rock, covered with a slab, or in one case filled with pebbles.

So it don’t evaporate, suggested Skelly, surprising them with his voice as well as his insight.

Skirting a clearing demarcated by a recent fire, Geordie Chaine wondered what had stopped the flames so suddenly. A change of wind?

Woody flowers rustled, strips of dry bark peeled from branches, leaves rotated slowly as they passed and red sap oozed from trees.

It was a physical relief when the forest thinned, the trees retreated and the path faded as they entered a plain scattered with clumps of trees and a soft and fine grass. A continuing gully was marked by trees winding across the plain. Almost a cultivated landscape, said Chaine.

Wooral showed them where Dr Cross had slept when he travelled with them.

You seen Mr Cross’s book, Mr Geordie Chaine? asked Bobby. His voice had shifted again. You gunna write a Journal of Expedition?

Chaine looked around, and Killam nodded. Skelly was already busy setting up camp. They carried their own shelter and food, and Killam said their guides were more than able to find each of these, wherever they might travel.

We’ll continue in the morning, Chaine said. He looked to the mountain range in the distance, now beginning to retreat as the tongues of flames gathered his attention.

Wooral caught Bobby’s eye. This was not like with Dr Cross.

Well fed, Chaine, Killam and Skelly toasted the success of their first day. Evidently, there was good grazing land to be had. The campfire flames, barely noticed, leapt and crackled.

*

Next morning, when their guides had still not returned, the three men decided they must continue at least as far as that clear, blue mountain range. They had food and water enough for several days yet, and surely it would take only a day or two to reach the mountains. In the future they would arrange for horses, and have no need of guides or assistants who were unwilling to carry the party’s luggage and deserted them as soon as this.

No matter.

Unlike yesterday, there was no clear path to follow, save that leading back the way they had come, but the mountain range beckoned them. They could see its valleys, its ridges and peaks, and the open lower slopes inviting their tread.

*

Some hours later the mountain was no longer in sight.

They had come across what they believed to be a path, but after a time it disappeared, and they could see no further than a few yards in front of them. They were soon reduced to pushing, then hacking their way through dense shrubbery. The sky above was clear, but they had no view ahead or behind. It might have been a maze that held them, except there was no easy going, no way to take even a few steps without forcing. Initially they tried to steer by their compass, but soon resorted to the least difficult way (no way was easy) through this infuriating, frustrating scrub.

Hack and push.

They tended to follow any slope downward and so, pushing their way through rushes, found themselves knee deep in water and mud and with no choice but to retreat, regroup and—glancing at the compass—try to find better ground. They had no clear view, not even of sky.

All day they worked to escape the confinement of scraggly, twisted, pressing scrub. It was as if a great many limbs restrained them, disinterestedly; as if thousands of fingers plucked at their hair and clothing. Tree roots tripped them.

They climbed trees to get a vantage point, but they bent under their weight, or were too short, or had branches far up the trunk and out of reach. They had no clear sight of anything but the scrub which trapped them until, as daylight was fading, they stepped into open space. There in the foreground was the smaller mountain range and, further beyond and visible to the right, an apparently still larger range. The latter remained blue with distance, but across a small, grassy plain scattered with a few clumps of trees, the earth rose rocky and gnarled, a heavy mass against the sky. An eagle circled.

They had hardly wandered off course at all!

After a day struggling with scrub the party was relieved to have space about them, a place to camp and their goal in sight. They stretched out on sandy, level ground, and their gaze moved from the dying sun and burning sky to the disappearing mountain range, and finally into the heart of their campfire. Banksia cones, they agreed, burn like the coal of home and hold their shape, even as ash. Skelly reached out with his boot and touched one. It collapsed into the ashy bed.

Rain and a powerful wind woke them deep in the night. They tossed and turned in their bedding as their canvas slapped and snapped restlessly until finally, convulsing like a terrified thing, it tore itself from the ground and flapped away on panicking, pale wings. Soon, each man lay in a pool of water. Oh they
tried
to jolly themselves through, joking of the convenience of bath and bed being one and the same, and resting on elbows and knees with their backs to the sky, but still their skin wrinkled and thinned where bone touched the earth, the rain drummed on skull and shoulders, and their dripping noses only added to the puddle within which they lay. Voices drowned by the sound of rain, of trees creaking, of the roaring wind itself, they crawled to a single tree and huddled in their dripping wet bedclothes. Toward dawn the wind dropped and, shivering, they tried to relight their fire.