Wild Lands (16 page)

‘If you'll allow me.' The Major retrieved a map from his breast pocket. Unfolding it carefully he spread the linen paper on a table. The colony of New South Wales was shaded in pink. It hugged the coast and extended from below Port Macquarie in the north to Bateman's Bay in the south. Westward there were few place names except for the inland rivers such as the Darling. ‘We are here.' A saddle-greasy nail marked Sydney Cove and then their current position. ‘And this is where Samuel Hardy has made his selection.' With deliberate slowness he dragged a finger northwards, over the mountain range and further still. The Major's route was crisscrossed by rivers and hills, bordered by areas of marsh-land, timbered country and open plains, a journey which passed through a number of counties. To the east lay the vast ocean, to the west and north, beyond the nineteen settled counties, unsurveyed lands.

Kate observed the increasing distance with growing discomfort. The further north he progressed the greater the expanses of white on the map. Finally he crossed a river. ‘The Gwydir,' he announced, looking at her as if he'd just shared the details of a risky military campaign. Kate gave a wan smile. Surely here his finger would stop. An inch or so further northwards, it did.

‘Samuel has gone beyond the settled counties,' he concluded.

Kate wet her lips. She already knew this. ‘But why? Why has he journeyed so far?'

‘Settlers are being forced to go further afield every year in search of land. They have been pushed afar by the sheer number of colonists, and organisations such as the Australian Agricultural Company, who in taking up huge swathes of arable land have pushed illegal squatters further out.'

‘And yet he must lease this land, isn't that what was talked of last night? It seems a great journey to embark upon, to start a farm on land that he does not own.'

‘Insecure it is, but the colonial powers have finally decided to try to regulate squatters beyond the settled areas. They hope it will restrain the corrupt, without disrupting honest folk such as the Hardys.' The Major folded the map. ‘If the enterprise proves successful Samuel will purchase, eventually, when the opportunity arises.'

A pleasant breeze did not stop the perspiration forming on her brow. Kate knew this military man meant to dissuade her, although his tone had grown kinder. In fact, Kate felt quite relaxed in his presence.

‘Do you understand where you venture to?'

Kate assured the Major that she did, although it was not until this very moment that she understood the extent of the distance involved and the frontier awaiting only the most courageous, or desperate.

‘Think on this, Miss Carter,' he replied. ‘Surely there are other avenues available to you? I would advise –'

Kate shut her mind to the Major's words. Everyone was convinced they knew what was best for her but the simple truth lay in the obvious. If Mrs Hardy could build a home in the wilds with her family, then Kate was quite able to travel forth and be her companion.

‘Please, Major, my mind is quite made up.' Kate didn't want to argue any longer, especially with Major Shaw, for at least he'd been honest with her. She changed the course of their conversation.
‘I gather the Aboriginal girl has run away. Perhaps it's for the best. Certainly the other servants were unkindly towards her although I witnessed a diligent worker, one –'

‘Run away?' The blueness of the Major's eyes reminded Kate of the willow-patterned china that they'd dined on the previous evening. ‘She is dead.' He left her sitting in the rattan chair and, at his horse's side, patted the animal fondly. The mare nickered in anticipation and proceeded to move as he launched himself up into the saddle. ‘We found her body not a mile from here. She was hacked to death.'

Kate recalled the young girl and the gift of the orange. ‘Dead, but how? Why?'

‘Who knows the mind of these savages?' He nodded politely. ‘We leave before day-break. Be ready.'

All three men looked at her, then they turned their horses and galloped away.

Kate walked out onto the rutted track and, lifting a hand to shield her face from the glare of the sun, looked out in the direction that the dray had taken. There was not even a puff of dust to mark its progress. The dray and the Reverend were gone.

1837 July – on the western side
of the Blue Mountains

The musket slipped, grazing the slashes on Adam's arm. He grimaced with the sting, and continued walking steadily back towards the camp. He'd been up since the first blush of predawn light, circumnavigating the sheltered clearing where the clan rested following last night's burial. His self-imposed sentry duty led him to within a mile of the Lycett farm and back again, each consecutive sweep disturbing a variety of creatures; from the lizards and mice scattering through the grass, through to emus running helter-skelter, heads down through the scrub. Although he doubted anyone would be tracking them so soon, Adam could not afford the possibility of the clan being attacked without warning. There were police in the village of Hartley to the east and Bathurst to the west and the constabularies were not averse to journeying through the night, with the aid of a black tracker.

Archibald Lycett was dead. The loss of the man who'd figured so prominently in Adam's life was something he'd been unprepared for and the circumstances still made him reel. But from the
tribe's viewpoint there was one consolation. Winston was not the adventurous man his father was, so would surely have waited until daybreak before he set out on horseback. And only if his mother had returned safely home first.

The tribe had mourned much of the night and through the early hours of the morning. The children could be heard answering their mother, Annie, and as he drew closer it became obvious that the group was packing up and leaving. It was not unexpected. Bidjia, Colby and Jardi turned at his approach and then noting he was alone resumed their conversation. They still bore the remnants of the powdery ash and the blood from the self-inflicted injuries they'd sustained but Colby was further wounded. A deep gash to his thigh seeped blood and the contents of a gluey poultice from beneath a bandage of woven grass. The injury was a token from yesterday's fight. Flies buzzed about, crawling across the dank moisture that leaked down his leg.

The camp fire still smouldered but the men had collected their spears, throwing sticks, stone axes and other assorted weapons. Annie moved back and forth between a pile of grinding stones, fishing nets and a few bark utensils, hiding them behind a fallen log on the rim of the camp in case any of the members should return to the spot in the future.

As Elder, Bidjia was custodian of all sacred objects. He handed the fire-making stick to Colby. ‘You take.' He urged further when it was refused. ‘You have your woman and children, and we must move quickly. Forge an alliance with the next tribe south. You will be safe there. Some of us must survive so that our people go on.'

Jardi left the eldest members of the clan and joined Adam. ‘What did you see?'

‘Nothing except the land as it should be.' Adam thought he may have stumbled across the abandoned baby, but what would he have done with the child if he had?

‘I knew you would be out there, waiting for them.' Yesterday's disagreement between them was all but forgotten. ‘The sorry business means we can no longer stay here.'

There had been no opportunity to speak of events last night. It was not appropriate. ‘I thought as much. Archibald Lycett is dead, killed accidently by his son, and Mrs Lycett's gone walkabout.'

Jardi barely moved his head in acknowledgment. ‘This is my country, but now I am like my father, for it is stolen from me as well.'

Having returned from hiding their few possessions, Annie and her two children waited patiently for Colby to say his goodbyes. The young'uns squatted in the dirt and trickled sand through their fingers while their mother stood red-eyed and puffy from grieving, glowering at Adam with unrestrained hatred.

‘Merindah has run away,' Jardi informed him. ‘She was gone when I came back to camp. This is good.'

Adam hoped the girl would find her baby and with luck gain acceptance with another tribe.

Taking up his spear, club and throwing stick, Colby led his family into the bush. He limped badly. Such wounds could be deadly, more than once in the past a nasty cut had festered on one of the clan, with fever and death the end result. Adam had known Colby ever since Bidjia had brought him into the tribe. He was a proud warrior, the next in line as Elder, but Colby had never truly accepted Adam's presence and with the forced breakup of the remnants of their clan, he knew they parted enemies. The man's silence and stony glare was testament to the fact. Annie hissed at him as she pushed the naked children after their father.

‘He won't talk about it,' Jardi warned Adam with a steadying hand as he tried to approach Bidjia. The older man waited until Colby and his family were out of sight. They felt his sadness. It was unlikely that the two men would meet again. ‘This sorry business must be left behind. It is today and tomorrow that we think on.'

‘Is his vengeance satisfied?' Adam asked quietly. ‘Is one death enough?'

‘For now. The son still lives but there are still enough moons left for my father to take what is his right. The land is patient.' Jardi said the words with a new resolve and in the doing clearly implied that the friendship between Adam and Winston meant nothing to the clan.

Adam had been reared in their ways. He expected nothing less, but the ability of the tribe to wait many years until satisfaction was sought was a chilling reminder of how brutal their traditions could be, and yet across the mountains those who made the law of the land under an English sovereign could lash a man's back to pulp with the cat-o'-nine-tails and then hang him if they wished.

‘Colby and Annie are taking the little ones and heading south,' Jardi explained. ‘And we must go too. There will be trouble here if we stay.'

Adam agreed. ‘If that convict, Donaldson, had not been killed, things may have been different.'

‘Bidjia will be blamed for these troubles and not the whites who take our land and our women.'

Adam knew that Winston would report the incident. Besides his father's death, a convict had been murdered and once the police were involved Bidjia and his clan would be wanted for the attack and the matter would be out of Winston's hands. Adam wondered if he would be treated with similar disregard. He would never forget the bitterness in Winston's voice, the venom of his accusation. And now a convict was dead. A white settler. Darel's death was unimportant. There was only one thing that Adam could be sure of. Merindah would be forgotten and Winston would never know, probably never want to know, or even care, that he'd had a child. Merindah was simply a distraction.

‘The white soldiers will hunt Bidjia down until he's dead,' Jardi stated gloomily. ‘It will be as you said, Bronzewing.'

What could he do? Adam knew that even if he went to the authorities and told his account of events, they wouldn't listen to what he had to say. Bidjia was guilty of the attack. And what of Winston? Was it actually possible that he would lay the blame for his father's death on him? Or had shock and grief temporarily twisted his thoughts. But that was the least of what concerned Adam. He couldn't live with the thought of Bidjia and Jardi being pursued. They were family.

Bidjia sat on the ground among his possessions, a spear, an axe, a throwing stick and his animal-hide cloak. In his hand was a small smooth stick of soft wood, the length of his foot, which he began to carve with a series of symbols. At the top of the stick was a picture of a yam, then a tree. Finally, with a few careful flicks of a knife, Bronzewing was noted with a carving of a pigeon of the same name. Bidjia worked deftly, tiny shavings scattering across his skinny thighs as he described with distinctive marks where they came from and why they had to leave. This message stick was hastily prepared. There had been many message sticks in the past once they'd escaped over the mountains years earlier. Most were intricately carved and painted with decorative designs, but there was no time for such workmanship. This stick was not to be used to announce a ceremony, invitation, meeting, warning or event. It explained that they were in trouble and that they sought safe passage through another tribe's land. ‘When my spirit leaves this place, Jardi, you will make a new stick, proclaiming your place in our clan and noting Bronzewing as your accepted white brother. You will do this.' It was not a question. ‘Gather your things. We go north.' Bidjia blew at the stick, scattering small slithers of wood and dust.

‘But this is not our country,' Jardi argued. ‘The northern groups are powerful people, warriors, and the way is unknown.'

His father got to his feet. ‘We will follow the songlines, the paths made by the creator ancestors. There are many songs to tell us the
way, my son. There will be hills and great valleys, then a mighty mountain that rises from the plains. We will cross this mountain and then the cliffs, which will lead us back to the great waterhole. I know the songs of this land and we will follow the footprints we sing. And in the singing you will learn the dreaming track as well.'

‘So we go then.' Adam was ready to move.

Bidjia picked up his belongings. ‘You have been with us in this place since the beginning. The land knows you and you it, but now you must think to your life ahead. I must protect Jardi, the last of my line, for there is no other to take my place when my spirit leaves the land. Our journey is far and unknown. This is not your fight, my white son.'

Adam shifted the weight of the musket in his hand. ‘It has become so.'