The Bark Cutters (20 page)

Hamish sniffed the wind carefully, his nostrils flaring. The dry scent of dirt caked each breath he took and he longed to wash himself clean of his long journey. The inside of his thighs ached and his lower back harboured a constant pain, which heralded a previously unknown stiffness sure to invade his body tomorrow. With a groan he stretched out his shoulder blades and arched his neck. He would be pleased to be home.

Boxer, the head stockman, waited with an assortment of Aboriginal ringers, as Hamish approached the entrance to Wangallon Station homestead after an absence of four months.

‘Boss.' Boxer tipped his wide-brimmed hat; the others, numbering ten, stared in return.

‘No problems, then, Boxer?' Hamish inquired, knowing if there had been, he would not be told.

Boxer grinned cheekily, displaying a marvellous set of teeth faintly stained by the tobacco he chewed religiously. They rode side by side along the track that forked half a mile from the main house.
A well worn track veering to the left led to the twenty-six-stand shearing shed, its encompassing sheep yards only a short distance from the rough bark humpies that served as accommodation for the shearers and rouseabouts. Boxer pulled himself upright in his saddle as he left the other members of his tribe behind. The late morning wind rustled the grass, green clumps visible at the base of the plants where the recent rain had refreshed them.

Spitting a gob of tobacco clear of his horse, Boxer wiped spittle from his chin with a grubby shirtsleeve. ‘More tribe coming, boss. Wanna be with mine.'

‘Camp with yours, Boxer?'

‘Yeah, boss. More family.'

‘How many?' Hamish asked, removing his riding glove to smooth his immaculate moustache.

‘Ten, maybe less.'

Or maybe more, Hamish thought. Boxer's tribe, the Kamilaroi, were a close-knit community and not adverse to work. Their numbers had swollen since Hamish's arrival, due in part to his fair treatment and the safety they felt, for skirmishes between blacks and whites continued unabated. Replacing the glove, he loosened his grip on the reins, the ache across his shoulder blades dulling instantly. Hamish considered the Crawfords over the Wangallon River. This great sweep of water ran the length of Wangallon's western boundary. An English family of some standing, the Crawfords were their closest neighbours, however the property was often left in the hands of their stockmen and an apparently untested manager. Another three boundary riders would tighten things up considerably.

‘Work?'

‘Yes, boss, three. First wife's boys and one girl to help the missus with new youngin.'

Hamish looked at his head stockman briefly – a child. So it seemed Rose had already given birth. ‘Train them to shoot.'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘To wound only.' He hoped it was another boy, one could never have too many out here. Their last child, Luke, a brother for Howard, William and his daughter Elizabeth, was now four.

Boxer grinned, the deep lines around his eyes bunching thickly. ‘Wound only, boss? Not very good shots sometimes, boss.'

‘Don't tell me what I don't need to know, Boxer.'

‘Yes, boss.'

Holding the reins tightly, Boxer ensured his old mare did not edge in front of his master. It was time the Boss returned. Boxer knew a place was no good without a leader. No problems while he was away, Boxer made sure of that, still it was better for him, for the camp and for the Missus. Boxer worried about that pale lady. From the beginning the Missus was sad most days, sad, even though the white spirits gave boys. Patting his old horse roughly on the neck, his knobbly dark fingers picked at the mud matted in the thick mane. He remembered in the beginning his women went to her, to bring gifts and to see the children, but they saw the look in her eyes. The look of a rabbit when the women, waiting patiently at one end of the burrow on the sandy ridges near the river, catch the animal as it is driven out. Nearing the large gum tree that marked the half mile to the homestead, Boxer tipped his hat to Hamish, riding off in the direction of his camp.

Although tired from his travels, Hamish scanned the countryside like a mother inspecting a wayward child. It felt good to be back, to breathe the clean air and taste the dry dust slightly moistened by recent rain. About him his land stretched to the horizon, a large expanse of open plains to the east and north and more heavily timbered areas in the west and south. Prickly briar bush, wattle, belah and box trees, the thrashing of grass in the wind – this had
been the ache in his heart since leaving Sydney. Stretching his shoulders, Hamish eased back in the saddle. Every reason he ever needed to leave Scotland surrounded him and it was his.

Ahead, the homestead glistened in the midday heat. How long ago his leaving seemed. Now it was near lunch hour at Wangallon, and the heat seared through his suit, one of three made for him by his new tailor in George Street. With his purchases boxed securely, a velvet smoking jacket, a number of crisp white linen shirts and a large quantity of fine cigars, the addition of his portrait finally completed three days in advance was welcome indeed. He would have to ensure Lee trained the maids appropriately in the care of his wardrobe. And of course the painting would hang in the dining room.

A slight curve of the left corner of his mouth betrayed the satisfaction he felt as he entered Wangallon's picket fence house yard. Immediately he felt the relief of a clump of gum trees that sheltered the final few steps. This was his house. Not the dirt floor of a crofter's house in Scotland, nor the canvas sides of the camp on the outskirts of Melbourne, nor the later one of the goldfields. No, this was his house, not another man's home, like Matthew Reynolds' mud-brick residence, a building he had barely slept in for more than two days straight, with months between visits.

The house, low and white-washed, consisted of six bedrooms and dining, sitting, library and office. A sewing room, large pantry, the nanny's room and station storeroom completed the current structure, although Hamish intended adding a music room and a school room in the new year. A wide, open verandah ringed it. The kitchen joined the main building through a narrow walkway, which also housed the adjoining sleep-out for the four scullery maids. Dave and Jasperson, who shared the responsibilities of joint overseers on Wangallon, had separate accommodation a mile or so away.

Dismounting, Hamish tied his horse to a long low railing. He turned to survey the flat, featureless country surrounding him. Yes, it was good to be back.

A succession of quick steps broke Hamish's concentration. A young boy dressed in a pale blue sailor's pinafore ran strongly towards him. Startled by the sudden appearance of his eldest, Howard, Hamish laughed with amusement as the child stopped a few feet away from where he stood. Hamish held out his hand, smiling warmly as his son shook his hand in greeting. ‘Hello, Howard.'

‘Hello, Father.'

A series of loud squeals broke their brief meeting. The square-sided matron, Mrs Cudlow, appeared with one child, William, by her side and another boy covered in dirt clasped firmly by the elbow.

‘Oh, Mr Gordon, sir. I swear young Luke was bathed and dressed for your arrival, sir, but the lad's nothing but trouble.' The nanny moaned as Luke kicked and struggled before aiming a mighty kick at his captor's shin. With a quick grin to his father, Luke tore off around the side of the house.

‘I am sorry, Mr Gordon.'

Hamish shrugged his shoulders. Luke showed promise for a four-year-old.

A figure in a long cream over-shirt covering dark trousers raced out of the house. ‘Boss, it's very good you are home,' Lee stated, a huge grin spreading from ear to ear. The Chinaman stood with his hands clasped together, while behind him two young Aboriginal girls giggled and fidgeted with the white aprons that covered their long grey dresses.

‘Yes, Lee, and how are you?'

‘Good, good.' He glanced towards the women. ‘Can chop but not cook,' he said sadly.

‘Aye, well, Lee, that is why you are in charge. Everything
else running smoothly?' Hamish noticed that one of the girls was new.

‘Missus,' Lee nodded with dissatisfaction, his arms folding abruptly across his chest, ‘she cook.'

Hamish thought for a moment that he might have been referring to his wife, however Mrs Cudlow thrust out her formidable chest.

‘She wants to cook, cook, cook …'

‘Well, Lee, you will have to sort that out with Mrs Cudlow.' Hamish nodded towards Mrs Cudlow before sitting down on one of the three chairs Dave had constructed over four years ago. The seat and back were sides from packing cases and the stout legs and spindly arms had been cut from the remaining pieces. Lee quickly knelt and began expertly removing Hamish's knee-high black patent leather riding boots.

Hamish would be pleased to be rid of this second-hand furniture. Another dray-load of fine timber chairs and occasional tables had been ordered on his trip and he hoped for their arrival within the next few months.

‘If you'll excuse me, then?' Mrs Cudlow hoisted her charge high on her hip and, with a sigh, left the verandah with a vertical line of disapproval marking the place where her mouth should have been.

Lee grinned. Over his shoulder he gestured to one of the young black girls. The youngest, petite and ebony in colour, took the boots carefully and, following a flurry of Chinese gestures and words, fled the verandah with the other girl.

Hamish followed the slight figure with his eyes as she disappeared inside the house and stretched his legs. ‘Any problems with the maids?'

Lee sat cross-legged on the verandah. ‘No, boss. Milly is new, boss.' He grinned.

Hamish removed a pouch of tobacco from his inside coat pocket. ‘You like?'

Lee jumped to his feet, grasped the pouch, inhaled the contents heavily and had the gift hidden before anyone chanced to see the exchange. ‘Thank you, boss.'

Hamish grinned at his old friend. They were a long way from the goldfields and the headman to whom Lee had been bound in China. Grinning and bowing, Lee disappeared around the corner of the verandah. Hamish knew he would be running to his bark humpy behind the vegetable garden to savour the tobacco.

‘If only everyone were that easy,' Hamish mumbled as he rose from his seat to stretch his lower back. In repaying Lee's debts and freeing his family from servitude, Hamish was now rewarded with a loyal cook, companion and manservant. Lee was the closest thing Hamish had to a true friend. The man had known his brother and watched him die. He knew what it was like to be displaced in the world, and most importantly, he knew what loyalty was.

‘And now for the welcome home,' Hamish announced flatly as he pulled his aching body from the comforts of his chair and strode indoors.

The windows were drawn with thick cream lace, yellow cotton tie-backs hanging from a nail secreted somewhere near the window frame, adding colour to the pale timber walls. Next time, Hamish thought to himself, he would purchase wallpaper for this room as well. Something patterned, maybe like the rows of red roses on a cream background that covered the walls of his room at the gentleman's club. The fine porcelain washbowl, jug and soap stand, white with a surround of pale pink and yellow roses, rested atop the large oak dresser purchased in Sydney. A soft-coloured quilt rested on his wife's legs, and a small cross-stitch of a house lay beside her on the bed. The face, partially covered by long fine hair, sunk deep into the pillow, as if a small animal had burrowed in for warmth.

Removing his jacket, fob watch and waistcoat, Hamish turned up his shirtsleeves and, pouring water into the basin, washed the morning's grime from his hands, arms and neck. Only when he had finished redressing did he turn to the corner where the wooden crib sat. The child, only days old, was small and bald, with a screwed-up face. Ugly kid, Hamish thought to himself, having produced better. Roughly he pulled down the tight swaddling and touched the small penis with a large forefinger.

‘Yes, another boy,' Rose spoke wearily, the disinterest clear in her voice.