‘Is that true?’ Brandon knew of people who had done that, but never thought of doing it himself.
‘As I live. He’s been promoted quite quickly. An event unlikely to have happened had he kept his old name. Brandon O’Riain is very Irish. Brandon Ryan, R-Y-A-N, less so. Changing a few letters in your name so that it sounds more English, more acceptable, is hardly an issue. It’s a sensible move, particularly in these volatile times.’
‘R-Y-A-N,’ said Brandon slowly, testing the fit of it.
‘You’re really only taking the “O” away,’ said Mr Truby. ‘The bulk of the name stays the same.’
‘Why are you so keen to help me?’ asked Brandon.
‘I’ll not lie and tell you a story of an aged bachelor not blessed by a son. It will be difficult for this transaction to be believed if I enter the Lands Department with a view to sponsoring an Irish Catholic. Think on it. There are benefits to be had, for both of us.’
Brandon’s mount stepped clear of a boy wielding a cart of chopped wood as they attached themselves to the traffic – a single wagon, men on horseback and numerous people on foot, trudging as he had once trudged. He’d never seen so many people in the small settlement. A ramshackle group of hawkers had set up shop on the riverbank. Boxes and barrows held an assortment of goods: green-skinned melons and bright oranges, blood-red plums and cooked joints of beef. A boy with a crate slung about his neck on leather straps offered fresh river mussels, while another vendor displayed turkeys and black ducks, their bodies dangling from a pole. A passing rider tipped his hat in Brandon’s direction and he reciprocated as he’d seen others do. It seemed a horse did far more than place you five feet off the ground.
The masts of a ship rose beyond the sailmakers’ loft, the sails lowered, the system of exposed ropes, cables and chains dangling like a skeleton. Dairy cows were being walked along the wharf to dry land. Some of the boat’s passengers were sitting on their baggage by the roadside, the women’s calico dresses and saucer-shaped eyes suggesting that the ship they’d recently alighted from was not their first.
‘This way, Brandon.’ Mr Truby halted outside a building. He dismounted and, wrapping the reins around the hitching post, said, ‘Listen carefully, for I’m only going to tell you this once. Lift your right boot clear of the stirrup, lean forward, swing your leg over the horse’s back and put it on the ground. You’re tall enough to leave your left foot in the stirrup as you dismount. And try not to make a spectacle of yourself. You’ve been sitting on that horse like a rag doll. Now. Do it.’
Brandon did as he was told, feeling the slight movement of the saddle as he swung a stiffened leg across and down. He was slow, painstakingly slow, but when his foot landed on earth and his second boot followed he felt a measure of achievement that almost overwhelmed the tiredness of his body.
‘Now, tie her up. Two loops of the reins and then jab the end through,’ said Mr Truby.
Brandon obeyed, tying the lead securely. He might not be taken with riding, however he wasn’t keen on walking home.
‘Follow me.’ Mr Truby carried a roll of parchment under one arm. They stopped at a shop window where a notice outlined the building’s varied uses and the particular days of the week upon which a representative from each business would be in residence. The Bank of New South Wales and the Lands Department topped the list, followed by a shipping desk and the postal service. Brandon also observed a strongly worded sign advising that the recipients of mail from recently arrived vessels would be posted in the window and that customers were not to wait inside on those days.
Inside the office, a man noted their arrival from behind a counter. Brandon took his hat from his head and massaged his lower back. The waiting area was crowded. He counted eighteen people as Mr Truby spoke to the clerk before a middle-aged man appeared from behind a closed door and, welcoming Mr Truby, led them both into his office.
‘Sit, please.’
They all drew up chairs. The nameplate on the desk stated that Mr Jefferson Cruice was attending them. He was a middling sort of fellow, with sandy hair and a thin yellow beard, which did little to hide a pointed chin.
‘Mr Truby, what can I do for you?’
The two men began discussing the recent gazetting of the town. A street plan had been drawn up the previous year and a hotel and dedicated post office were planned for construction. Brandon listened keenly, until their talk deviated to the upcoming visit of Prince Alfred Ernest Albert, the Duke of Edinburgh, the second son of Queen Victoria. He was on a world tour on the steam frigate HMS Galatea, and among his Australian ports of call was Sydney next year.
It was impossible to forget that the country that was now his home was shaped by English intent and power. Brandon considered his present difficulties and the troubles of the past. His conversation with Truby had made it clear that if his circumstances were to improve, it was he who would have to do the changing. Having lost most of his family and the place of his birth, it was no small thing to change his name as well, but if he did, life might be easier. His presence more acceptable. His Irish–Catholic heritage not such an obstruction to prosperity. With a new name, a man might hail from the Protestant north, not the famine- and poverty-stricken counties of the south, and with that change might come acceptance. Rearranging letters in the alphabet was a relatively small thing. Like riding a horse. Painful at first, but eventually a person became used to it.
‘Brandon has been working for me for many months and I believe he has great prospects in agriculture. He has an interest in trialling the growing of sugar cane, which as you may have heard has created some interest further north in the Tweed Valley. I would like to sponsor him. He has his own money, being a cedar-getter for some time now, however I would like to add to his savings so that he acquires a decent parcel of land,’ Mr Truby explained.
‘Well, sir, I can certainly assist. And you, young man, are very fortunate to receive Mr Truby’s patronage. I have a roomful of selectors outside, all of them having recently stepped off the vessel you see moored in the river and all keen for a slice of the Valley.’ Mr Cruice leant forward. ‘We have some tidy blocks that are now open for selection and sale. So, you can choose forty to three hundred and twenty acres at one pound per acre. Ownership is conditional on the selector’s residence, improvements to the land and the payment of monies owed. Now, I’ll just show you a map and then we can—’
‘Mr Cruice, I have a map.’ Truby unfurled the parchment on the table, taking the liberty of using the objects located before him to weigh down the paper corners. Mr Cruice’s nameplate, a sailing boat carved from a piece of polished cedar and a glass-domed paperweight were soon pinning down the curling edges of Mr Truby’s property. Another map, of no use to Hackett, was already sitting at the cookhouse for collection. ‘These are the portions I have in mind. This section along the river.’
Mr Cruice cleared his throat and made much of hooking a pair of reading glasses about each ear. He lowered his face to the map until he was mere inches from it and then scratched at the paper. ‘All of this region that you’ve pointed out, Mr Truby, is part of the area of the colony that is open for selection. Although we both know that it has been unclaimable to date.’ An ink-stained finger drummed his bottom lip. ‘I am aware that it is land you’ve held for many years and have fought to retain since the new Lands Acts came into being. There are accounts of you running off selectors and blocking access to water, although it is all supposition, for not one person has been game enough to report you to the authorities.’
Mr Truby brushed lint from the lapel of his jacket. ‘As one of the first pastoralists in this district I have seen more than most what can happen when the government lets any selector in. Why, the Valley has riffraff in its midst who should not be granted one square foot of land. Speculators and Fenians, need I go on? I have fought, Mr Cruice, but if I must concede to the government’s short-sighted demands then it is I who will be choosing my neighbours.’
Cruice retrieved a ledger
from a desk drawer, his movements considered, as if judging Mr Truby’s explanation. ‘The district has had its share of troubles recently. The trial starts today for those men accused of burning the Protestant farms.’
Brandon felt his grip tighten on the arms of the chair. He hoped Sean was not one of them, for there was nothing he could do to help.
Opening the ledger, Mr Cruice selected a steel nib from a ceramic bowl, affixed it to the pen and dipped the nib into an inkwell.
‘Name?’ He glanced at Brandon. ‘Name?’ he repeated, the pen hovering close to the page.
Brandon moved his chair ever so slightly, the squeak of timber causing Mr Truby to briefly glance in his direction.
‘Can I have your name, sir?’ said Mr Cruice again. ‘Damn.’ A blob of ink lay quivering on the neatly lined page.
‘It’s Brandon Ryan.’ The name that came from his lips was new and shiny, like a freshly born lamb.
‘You can read and write?’ enquired Mr Cruice. ‘The Lands Department doesn’t take to crosses in the place of a signature.’
‘I can write,’ said Brandon, offended by the question.
Mr Cruice glanced over the top of his glasses at Brandon and then placed his attention on Mr Truby. ‘And the portions?’
‘Here, here and here,’ he replied. ‘In total, eight thousand acres.’
Eight thousand acres. Brandon thought he would faint.
Mr Cruice laid the dip pen down and removed his reading glasses. ‘Eight thousand? I can’t sell this young man eight thousand acres. Why what will the Lands Department say when they see such a transaction? Three hundred and twenty acres, that is the most I can grant to an individual.’
‘Come now, Jefferson. It’s a fact that you brokered Captain Aim’s purchase last year. His son now owns a tidy parcel of three thousand acres. One could complain readily of that familial arrangement, whereas Brandon is of no relation to me.’ Mr Truby crossed his legs at the knees, his foot swinging like an erratic pendulum. ‘By the time the Sydney office works through the backlog of selectors’ claims, and I believe they are a number of years behind, Brandon’s boys will be grown and then you’ll have more Ryans to use as holding names.’
‘You have children?’ asked Mr Cruice.
Brandon mumbled an indecipherable response. Not only was he now a horseman with a newly fashioned English name, he was also a seventeen-year-old father with a clutch of ready-made sons set to become Protestant landholders.
‘Two boys. Both healthy,’ Mr Truby said with enthusiasm. Only the Englishman’s bobbing foot betrayed him. ‘You can simply say it was a clerical blunder if anyone in Sydney sees fit to challenge ownership. Such things do happen. Shall we say eight thousand pounds for the land and one thousand for yourself to cover any hardship.’
It was a large area of land, but an even larger sum of money, enough to tempt the most honest of men. Brandon wondered if the government man sitting opposite might refuse.
Mr Cruice grew pale. ‘And what about the country you own beyond that strip? It will have no access to water.’
‘One of the difficulties of agriculture I’m afraid. But as I already work that parcel I’m sure Brandon will allow me access.’ From his coat pocket, Mr Truby produced a chequebook and, making use of Mr Cruice’s pen, filled in the two separate pages, signing them with a flourish. He then availed himself of the pounce pot on the desk, liberally sprinkled the cheques, blew the crushed cuttlefish bone free of the paper and placed the two cheques in front of the Lands Department employee.
Mr Cruice pulled out an official map and, after a moment’s deliberation, used a pencil to crosshatch the portions under discussion. He then noted the portions in the ledger and began to draw up a bill of sale. Once completed, he slid the document towards Brandon. ‘I need your signature here.’
Brandon accepted the offered pen and with only the slightest hesitation signed his name. Brandon Ryan.
‘Well, it will be lodged today, Mr Truby, however all the processing takes place in Sydney and there are always delays.’
‘The wheels of government.’ Mr Truby shook hands with the man and as they left the office, Mr Cruice pocketed the cheques.
‘A good day for business,’ Mr Truby told Brandon as they exited the building.
Outside in the street, people were gathering around the recently posted mail list. Habit made Brandon push through the crowd and read the notice, disappointment striking him when he came to the end of the roll and saw nothing for the O’Riains. He turned away and came face to face with Sean. His cousin blanched white on seeing him and then, as if having eaten something sour, winced at Mr Truby. The three of them stood uneasily as people jostled past.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Mr Truby.
‘Can I have a minute, please?’ replied Brandon. He waited until the Englishman was with their horses and then he pulled Sean aside.
‘Was there anything for us?’ asked Sean.
‘No.’
‘Shouldn’t have expected it, I suppose. What are you doing here?’ said Sean.
‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Brandon.
‘I can’t stay long. I’ve been cleared of involvement in the fires, thanks to the witnesses whose memories failed them, but five of the Brotherhood are being tried in Lismore, including Arthur from the lumberyard and Hackett’s son. The boy might have been with Maggie that night but he’s damned by association,’ said Sean.
‘So that’s why Maggie’s of no interest to the boy anymore. Hackett certainly wouldn’t bother caring for her in Niall’s absence.’
‘I thought you’d be happy about that,’ replied Sean.
‘Not when she’s being held by Hackett against her will and being used as bait. Fine cousin you turned out to be. Getting Maggie and me involved in all of this.’
Sean’s brow wrinkled. ‘Maggie prefers being in the village and anyway, none of this was my fault.’
‘And running off from the tallow works? I suppose that wasn’t your fault either?’
Sean shoved him against the wall and then, remembering they were in a public place, stepped away. ‘Keep your voice down. You forget that if you’d been with us, Hackett would never have been able to blackmail you into taking the map. And it was Maggie’s relationship that gave Hackett that opportunity.’ He slung an arm around Brandon’s shoulders, walking him away from the Englishman’s watchful gaze.
‘Where is she?’ said Brandon.
‘Safe. Listen to me, Brandon. Truby’s squatting on country that doesn’t belong to him. Country that’s open for selection. There’s enough land available for every Irishman in this valley to have his own holding the length of the river. We intend to mark up the portions on the map and assign a man to each one. Then we’ll lodge our claims. There’ll be no running us off, as he has others. There’ll be too many of us. That’s how we’ll beat him. You did leave the map where you were told?’
‘Yes,’ Brandon answered slowly.
The opening and closing of the shopfront’s door momentarily distracted Sean. ‘What were you doing in there, anyway? You didn’t come just to check if there was mail from home, did you?’
Brandon considered lying – the map at the cookhouse would buy him a few more days – but what was the point. He was now a landowner and it would only be a matter of time before Hackett discovered that there were no longer any blocks available for selection along that stretch of the river. ‘I’m now the owner of eight thousand acres of Truby’s run, Sean. It’s legal. Well, as legal as it can be.’
Sean shoved him hard against the chest. ‘You told him!’ He swivelled abruptly on his heel towards the Englishman and then back to Brandon. ‘You bastard! You told him our plans.’
‘Hackett’s man was seen by McCauley. There was no need for me to say anything,’ replied Brandon, more calmly than he felt.
‘I can’t bloody believe it. You’ve bent the knee to him. Allowed yourself to be caught up in his machinations,’ Sean hissed.
‘
I did it to save Maggie,’ protested Brandon.
‘You’re a bloody fool,’ replied Sean, his face red.
‘No, Sean. You are. Following Hackett around, carrying the past on your shoulder like it’s a load of wood. Walk away from those men. No good can come of being associated with the Brotherhood, or of waving the green banner. It’s hard enough being Irish.’
Sean’s punch hit Brandon squarely in the jaw and he buckled under the pain. But when he straightened, his cousin looked like he’d been the one who’d taken a blow. Brandon could sense his disappointment and the inevitability of the growing chasm between them.
‘What’s happened to you?’ Sean looked defeated.
‘We can’t live the old way. Not here. Not now. Not if we want to make something of ourselves.’
‘And Maggie?’
‘Mr Truby has agreed that she can live on the property for three years. They were the terms. I’ll be taking her back with me today.’
‘You’d do anything for that girl, wouldn’t you? It’s gone past keeping a promise. You’re obsessed with her, and she’ll end up hating you for it,’ said Sean.
‘Where is she?’ demanded Brandon.
‘At the Minchins’, where she was before. There’s no one holding her. Never was. She’s free to come and go as she pleases. I gave them coin for her board and keep. They won’t give you any of it back,’ warned Sean.
‘This was never about the money.’
‘Really? You with your English lord and those fine acres in your name? That’s all it’s about,’ Sean argued. ‘That and Maggie.’
‘Brandon!’ Mr Truby rode towards them and glared down from the saddle.
‘Did you ride here?’ asked Sean, the question thick with disbelief as he noticed the spare horse.
‘Yes,’ said Brandon.
‘Well, aren’t we the country gentleman.’ Sean gave a mock bow.
‘I have to get Maggie, Mr Truby,’ Brandon explained.
‘Be quick about it, then. I’ll wait for you at the crossroads.’ Truby nudged the horse into a walk.
The Cedar Tree Page 28
