In a Great Southern Land

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘It’s a good idea, love,’ Rory said, his voice choked. ‘A new beginning together. A fresh start.’

  Liam nodded, tears sliding down his own cheeks. ‘It doesn’t matter where we live as long it’s on Clancy land together…and Clancy owned.’

  ‘You’ll love it down there, Eiles,’ Kieran said, ‘and it will heal your heart, I promise it.’

  They stood together for a while then as the rain pattered on the farmhouse, built with such hope by a family from across the sea, and Kieran looked over past the creek to the horizon beyond, to where the town of Orange lay. Somewhere there lived a doctor whose hands Kieran would forever consider stained with blood and whose heart was as hard as the stone he’d cast through his window. He may have taken that tiny life from them but he wouldn’t be taking this: their united Clancy hearts. Nor their right to choose to start again. And find a way to be truly free.

  Twenty-Eight

  Ballan, May 1854

  She wasn’t there. After all the weeks of longing and after all the sleepless nights in the saddle following that starlit cross south, Eve was out picking up supplies for the household. Kieran had struggled to escape Amanda who was overjoyed to have a fresh supply of tonics delivered but he’d eventually succeeded and was now hurrying towards the small town to find Eve. But, as the unseasonable heat of the autumn morning warmed his back, he had a sudden suspicion and turned his mount into the bushland alongside instead.

  It was pristine, the light dappling through the trees that lined the waterway, and the river moved in idle flow as it came into view, like a living thing beneath a cloudless sky. And there, at its centre, floated a woman, hair fanning out from an exquisitely beautiful face that was filled with such rapture, such peace, that he could only behold the sight at first. But then suggestions of naked skin could be glimpsed below the water and Kieran dismounted to take off his boots, his shirt, his breeches. He made his way towards her, the cold silk of the water enveloping him, and the eyes in that face opened and widened in recognition.

  ‘Kieran,’ she whispered, her shoulders pulling forward as she stood before him and reached out her arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to walk into them, to pull that naked skin against his and to fall into drugging, worshipful kisses and blend as if into one.

  ‘I love you,’ he told her over and again, their mouths and hands gliding now, and he guided her to the river bank to lay her beneath him. Long water-soaked limbs entwined with his and the softness of her breasts and hips fit against him as each ragged breath was captured by the other. Eyes open and faces close in a merging of souls. He took her quickly, unable to hold back the tide of desire that had been building from that very first day, driving towards a climax intensified by love, exploding something deeper inside them both.

  It was the sweetest of surrenders, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and he fell to the side and leaned his head on her arm, kissing the soft inside gently, his eyes still locked with hers. He saw no guilt there anymore and he was relieved, although he thought it best to cement his intentions just in case.

  ‘When is the good captain expected home?’

  ‘Three months,’ she told him, stroking his hair.

  ‘Best get thinking about a wedding dress, Miss Eve, although I think I prefer you like this.’

  She blushed but she was smiling too. ‘I don’t think the priest would be too pleased.’

  ‘It’s not the priest you need to care about pleasing.’

  He kissed her once more, slow and languid now, but she drew away after a while and he knew he was making her late. They dressed and he helped her mount his horse, loving the feel of her body pressed against his as he took her home. But soon they were standing on their lover’s lane farewelling each other once more and Kieran hugged her close, loath to let go and lose her touch for a whole, long week.

  ‘You haven’t told me about your trip home,’ she said, lifting her face to him.

  ‘Apologies for that, ma’am. I was a little distracted.’

  She smiled at that but buried her head against his chest, still a little shy, he supposed. ‘How’s your sister?’

  ‘She was in a terrible way while I was there but I think she had a bit of a breakthrough in the end,’ Kieran told her. ‘They’re selling up and moving south, actually, which is brilliant news.’

  ‘Oh, Kieran, how perfect for you…and for her, I’m sure. Making a fresh start is always a good idea.’

  ‘You’d be an expert on that subject. Mind you, this isn’t something new for us Clancys either, what with packing up and leaving Ireland and so on.’

  She smiled again. ‘I’ve never had a sister. Can’t wait to meet her, and the rest of your family.’

  Memories of Eileen’s disapproval flashed through Kieran’s mind but he sought a platitude over the truth. ‘I’m sure she feels the same way.’

  Eve hugged him closer and sighed. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go. Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ she added in a mutter.

  ‘A lover of the bard, are you?’ he said, kissing the top of her head.

  ‘I read his sonnets to Amanda, she adores him, but he’s been making me ache for you horribly.’

  Kieran pulled back to look into her eyes. ‘…that I shall say goodnight till it be ‘morrow.’ He kissed her briefly once more then grinned. ‘You know, that would have sounded so much smoother if we were under our southern stars.’

  ‘As long as we’re not star-crossed lovers,’ she returned, looking slightly pensive for the first time that day.

  ‘None of that now. Those same stars led me home to you. Besides, we are destined to be, remember? Rivers keep proving it.’ He grinned and raised his eyebrows suggestively and it coaxed the laughter he was seeking, although she was blushing again. She pulled away and walked up the drive, turning constantly to wave as she went and he blew kisses and waved back, imprinting the vision of her on the flowered track in his mind. Love shone from her smile and her now-dry hair whipped in fair strands about her lovely face, a visage he was determined to wake up to every day of his life.

  The image stayed with him as she disappeared and Kieran mounted his horse to return home with wondrous memories of the whole day replaying through his mind. He knew something far beyond the physical act of sex had occurred, something on another plane; an experience that he could only describe as ‘spiritual’. In truth, he’d married her in that moment when he fell into her soul. In the eyes of God, if not yet man. They were joined together now, two healed hearts with one shared destiny. With surely their only cross a protective one, blessing them from afar.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ballarat, July 1854

  ‘The traps are out today.’

  The word was spreading quickly and Kieran watched as many diggers took off to avoid being checked for their miner’s licence that afternoon, running into the bush to hide among the scrub, to lie and wait in fear. Lest they be hunted down like animals, by their own government, Kieran observed with disgust. Most of the unlucky miners couldn’t afford to pay the exorbitant fees and Kieran knew Dave wouldn’t have done so out of pure resentment that they be paid at all.

  ‘You’d best lay low too,’ Kieran said, pausing in his sluicing to turn to his friend.

  ‘Feck them,’ Dave said, continuing to work his cradle and frowning.

  ‘Dave…’

  ‘I’ll no’ run off and hide, Kieran. I’m heartily sick of the whole business!’ Dave fumed, his usually amiable demeanour evaporating. ‘Who the hell are they to charge us for the right to mine and take all our profits? And we’re not even allowed to vote and get those bastard politicians to change the law.’

  As a landowner, Kieran actually was allowed to vote but he and Dave had never talked about it. He supposed Dave just assumed Liam held the title, but now was not the time for such discussion.

  ‘You need to go,’ Kieran warned, looking along the creek bed nervously. ‘Go hide out at Striker’s.’ Striker had been as good as his word in
coming south and he was currently renting a house near the pub, where more and more buildings were popping up. It was more spacious than most with several bedrooms and, most fortuitously, a secret basement where harassed miners often hid out. He’d also managed to marry a very nice young woman called Betty who was as small as he was large, something they both acknowledged with good humour.

  Dave stopped what he was doing, staring at the gravel and rocks before throwing the cradle down with a clatter. ‘Aye, I’ll go, but the day is coming, Kier, mark my words.’

  He left, his stride angry, and Kieran looked after him thoughtfully. Usually he was the one with the flashes of temper; Dave handled most conflict with cheek, but things were changing in these muddy creek beds in Ballarat, Dave was right. You didn’t need to be Irish to recognise the charge of rebellion in the air.

  Kieran stopped to have a break, lighting his pipe and watching the traps move along the creek beds, past the crude timber channels that balanced overhead and the litter of equipment that the fleeing diggers had left behind. It was Curtis and his lackeys and Kieran knew they wouldn’t bother with him. He always paid his licence, wanting no more trouble with the law now that he was soon to be a married man, well, God willing anyway. The captain would be home next month, according to Arthur. He’d sent word from Melbourne where he’d already docked but he was spending some time with the new governor, Hotham, before he returned to Ballan.

  Rumour had it the Governor would be touring the goldfields soon and, gazing around, Kieran wondered what the man would make of it; whether he would see past the rough crudity of such an existence and support the miners’ cause or turn a blind eye to the growing injustices here, like so many others. Kieran looked the remaining diggers over. Only about half had stayed, which went to show just how unaffordable the licences were, and already an argument was ensuing.

  Jack ‘Macca’ McKenzie was getting a serve from Curtis. The young man was a native colonial and typical of those he’d met so far: brash, confident and unapologetically ‘Australian’. Kieran remembered thinking he would call himself an Australian when he arrived here too, back when he was in Ireland and he’d naively believed oppression would stay there, on the other side of the world. But it had followed them here, of course, and the curse of being poor Irish or, indeed, any member of the underclass, marked them all as lesser beings. Unless you had the correct accent, upbringing and, indeed, blood, you had no voice in this new land either, and little hope for justice. Even having the right to vote amounted to little for Kieran if the rest of the population weren’t granted the same. The majority of landowners were elitists who would always side with the Crown, rendering his opinion of little consequence.

  Kieran listened to Macca, who was putting up a brave fight. Even as a natural-born Australian this man wasn’t allowed to vote, although he certainly had a voice, and his relaxed stance in the face of violent authority was admirable to those listening on.

  ‘Listen, if I say I’ll pay it tomorrow then I’ll pay it tomorrow. Ya know I’m good for it, sarge.’

  Kieran chuckled at the way the man spoke. The colonial accent may not be good enough for the upper crust but Kieran loved it. They tended to drawl out their vowels in a leisurely way, as if the hot climate made them take things more slowly, even their speech. And they had a penchant for shortening words or adding an ‘ie’, an ‘a’ or an ‘o’ on the end, especially when it came to nicknames, Macca’s own a case in point. Kieran found their lackadaisical speech both colourful and humorous. There was a freedom in it, an irreverence that Kieran enjoyed hearing, especially during confrontations like now. If there was anyone around to put a bet on it, Kieran would wager Macca would win the day on bravado alone, and he eavesdropped with interest.

  ‘Ye either pay up or ye go in the lock-up. Ye know the rules, Macca,’ Curtis said, spitting tobacco on the ground and tapping his bludgeon.

  ‘Now why would you go ahead and do a thing like that when I can’t make the money for ya in there to pay the bloody thing?’ Macca said, gesturing at his set-up with a shrug. ‘Seems to me we both win if ya let me stay at me digs.’

  ‘Pay it now or it’s gaol, Macca,’ Curtis said, obviously losing patience now. The traps were rewarded with half the fees they collected and Curtis would surely be itching to move on and bleed more men dry.

  ‘Oh, fair go, sarge…’

  ‘Take him, boys,’ Curtis ordered.

  ‘Now, now, hold on a sec there, fellas,’ Macca said, putting up both hands as if to surrender. ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. How about I come find ya first thing and pop an extra fiver in the pot for ya patience?’

  That seemed enough to whet Curtis’s greed. ‘Alright, but nine o’clock tomorrow mornin’ on the dot, ye hear me?’

  ‘Righto, sarge,’ Macca said cheerfully and Curtis moved on to the next digging as Macca swaggered back to his sluice, whistling now; the fact that he’d just talked his way out of gaol for the sum of five shillings seemingly of little import. Most wouldn’t have got the words out let alone be believed.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Kieran muttered to himself with amusement, turning back to his own work now, but he was halted by a shout.

  ‘Oi! Clancy! Tell ye mate Tumulty I’m looking fer ‘im!’ Curtis yelled. ‘I’m bettin’ he hasn’t paid.’

  Kieran said nothing but he gave the man a nod to appease him and Curtis and his men rode off, leaving Kieran to get on with his morning. The winter sun bore down in welcome warmth and Kieran spent a quiet day of it after that until Dave made an appearance mid-afternoon.

  ‘Everything alright then?’

  ‘Aye,’ Dave said, picking up his pickaxe to crack more rocks. He seemed restored to his usual good mood after spending time with Striker and Betty whom they’d both made close friends with these past months and Kieran was glad to hear him humming under his breath. It made him hesitate to tell Dave Curtis’s message but it really had to be relayed.

  ‘Curtis said he’s looking for you. Said he’s betting you haven’t paid.’

  Dave paused, pushing back his cap to scratch his head with a sigh. ‘Maybe I should go down and do it this time. He probably won’t let up.’

  ‘I think it would be for the best especially seeing as…’

  But they were cut off by the sound of hooves as Curtis showed back up, going straight over to them before they had a chance to move.

  ‘Where’s yer licence, Tumulty?’ he demanded with a customary spit.

  ‘I was just about to go and pay it, actually.’

  ‘He was, I can vouch for that,’ Kieran confirmed, nervous now as Curtis dismounted and walked over.

  ‘Well, see, I don’t think ye were, now do I? Ye thieving Irish bastard.’

  Dave’s expression was becoming inscrutable these days beneath his growing mass of facial hair but his eyes gave away his anger. ‘I’ll pay you now, if you like,’ he gritted out.

  Curtis would normally have accepted this but he seemed on a vendetta. Kieran guessed the bully in him was likely dissatisfied at the lack of violence in his day so far.

  ‘Nuh, I think we might have t’teach ye a lesson this time. Tie him up, boys.’

  Kieran watched in shock as they grabbed Dave and hauled him over to a big river gum nearby, pulling his arms back to fasten him to it, leaving him vulnerable and exposed to whatever came next. It was a bludgeon, held fast by Curtis as he beat Dave in the stomach and chest in sickening, heavy thuds.

  ‘Stop it!’ Kieran yelled, rushing forward, but he was met by a punch in the face then held back as he stumbled against the traps.

  ‘Please,’ he begged, but despite a few guilty glances by some of the less violent men among them, he was ignored, and for the second time in his life he had to watch his mate suffer thus, helpless to aid him.

  ‘There,’ Curtis said, standing back, his face red from exertion. ‘Maybe that will make ye remember to pay next time, eh?’

  Dave was slumped in agony but Kieran knew he wouldn’t stay qui
et, despite Kieran’s internal begging that he do so.

  ‘Maybe next time I see you I’ll shove that bludgeon up…’

  He didn’t finish. Curtis silenced him with a final blow to the face.

  A small crowd had gathered, mutinous and glaring after witnessing the popular Dave be brought so low, and Curtis looked around at them all, a manic triumph in his voice as he addressed them. ‘This is what ye’ll get, the lot of ye, if ye cross me. Ye seem to be forgettin’ that yer only here on the Governor’s good graces. From now on that’s yer fate if ye don’t pay what’s owin’ to the Crown.’

  ‘What good’s the Crown to us if we can’t survive over here?’ one miner called out.

  ‘Ye’ve enough gold fer yer grog so ye’ve enough fer ye fees. I’ll tie up all of ye filthy scum if I have to,’ he promised loudly.

  ‘Ale only costs a penny, not thirty fecken shillings,’ said one burly man and mutterings rippled across the creek bed in agreement. He began to swing a mallet at his side and Curtis’s arrogance seemed to falter as a few others picked up pickaxes and spades. He mounted his horse quickly, like the coward he was, issuing one final instruction before he made a swift exit.

  ‘No-one touch him till dark or the same will apply to ye.’

  The sound of hooves retreated and Kieran ran to do the opposite, cutting a groaning, bleeding Dave free and cursing as he looked over the cuts and welts on his friend’s face and body.

  The others watched on in silence then heads turned as a man came from the bushes. It was Striker, his large form casting a shadow as he approached the group, his diminutive wife Betty watching on loyally from the shade. They knew him, of course, who wouldn’t recognise such a man with such a voice. He sang for them all in the pubs, articulating what was in their hearts, hidden identity intact behind his thick beard and cap, but he tended to lay low around the diggings themselves to avoid the traps. Unable to offer his friend Dave physical help, he seemed intent on offering words to them all instead, not sung this time, but heartfelt just the same.