An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  The woman shifted a little, moving about as if finding solid ground. Then she knelt, the water chest-high, and in one deft movement she held the baby under the water.

  For a moment Hamilton didn’t quite understand what the girl was doing. The infant was still submerged, the young woman looking at the water’s surface, her anguished cries echoing along the waterway. He knew he should yell out, make her aware of his presence, stop the terribleness of the event. But Hamilton also knew it was too late. The child would be dead by now.

  Eventually the woman lifted the lifeless form from beneath the surface of the water and, with infinite gentleness, pushed the little body away from her. She watched the child as the water slowly bore the baby away on the sluggish current before returning to the creek bank.

  Hamilton walked quickly down to the water’s edge. It wasn’t his intention to speak to her. What could he possibly say? There were no words that sufficiently described how he felt. What he’d been forced to witness. And he didn’t know if there were any laws concerning half-castes killing their own children. His immediate concern was ensuring that the girl knew that someone had seen her terrible wrongdoing. A shocking act committed on his land.

  He waited for her to catch sight of him. To be surprised by his presence, to acknowledge her wrongdoing with entreaties for help, for sympathy. But the girl never looked back, not even to check the progress of the child, whose body continued to be borne onwards, alone. Picking up the discarded dress lying on the sand, the black girl threw it over her shoulder and walked back into the scrub.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The ride from the creek did little to calm Hamilton. He spurred the horse on until foam from the tiring beast flecked his face and clothes. The house grew larger as he imagined the baby slowly sinking, watery arms cradling the infant’s progress. Outside the house he waited impatiently, his thoughts addled by the incident. Where was everyone? The house was quiet, far too quiet for his liking. Even the dogs seemed uninterested, gradually crawling out from under the house to snuffle around him. Usually on his return from a stay in Wywanna the gramophone would be playing, the dogs would be overly excitable and, after he called for one of his children, Edwina would finally appear, breathless and dishevelled from some part of the homestead. Davidson at least could be relied upon to attend him immediately. But even he was not prompt this afternoon. Something was afoot. Hamilton stretched out aching limbs, wincing at the pain caused by yesterday’s voracious entertainments with Gloria and the Big Top’s hard bench seat.

  ‘Davidson!’ he bellowed.

  The gelding shied as the dogs settled obediently on the verandah.

  The stockman appeared behind him.

  ‘Must you sneak up on a man like that? Where is everyone?’

  Davidson nodded to the west and back to the house.

  ‘So my daughter is inside and Aiden is out. Good. And the cook? Has Mrs Ryan returned? There’s a reason I never give the help time off. They can never be relied upon to return when expected,’ complained Hamilton. ‘That’s what I like about you, Davidson. You’re always here, one of the great benefits of having neither family nor friends.’ The aboriginal didn’t blink. ‘I want to ask you something, Davidson. Are there blacks on my land?’ Hamilton studied the man: the erect stature, the cheekbones that hung wide and high – a spectral sight in the half-light. ‘A nod will suffice. You see, I just saw one. Down by the creek. She was young with a baby. A baby that she drowned in front of me.’ He watched the man carefully. ‘Held the poor thing under the water she did and then watched it float away.’ He saw it then, the slightest change in the stockman’s unreadable nature, a hollowness, a glazing over. ‘So, I’m asking you, Davidson, are there aboriginals on my land? Because if there are, you have to get rid of them. Seek them out, find them and get rid of them. If you don’t, you know what will happen eventually. I will have to report them and I’d rather not do that. I’d rather the coppers weren’t riding around my land looking for young half-castes who should be in homes. It’s for their own good, you know.’

  If Davidson could speak Hamilton wondered how the man would respond.

  ‘Well, I said what I must. Fetch a fresh horse for me, will you, and one for Edwina; the three of us will ride to the Ridgeway boundary and check on things out there. And tie up these dogs, man. They need some discipline.’

  Leaving the aboriginal to care for his horse, Hamilton entered the house, kicking at the leaves on the unswept verandah as he passed. Yes, it was definitely too quiet. He ran a finger along a dusty hall table, noting the unlit fire in the parlour. Flies were already buzzing down the chimney. What had his two children been up to? He met Edwina in the hallway, a rather poor-looking apparition with milk-pale skin and dark circles under her eyes. ‘Heavens, girl, have you come down with something?’

  Edwina gave a wan smile. ‘Nothing serious, Father.’

  ‘Well, you look quite undone. Have you eaten? You’ve a tendency to be finicky with your food at times.’

  ‘A little bread and milk, Father, but I’m sure I will feel better very soon.’

  Hamilton wasn’t one for superstition, but he was always cautious with a full moon. One never knew who was travelling about at night or what effect the astronomical movement may have on the feeble-minded, or females for that matter. Why, Gloria had been all a-twitter last night, oohing at the tumbling acrobats, laughing loudly at the clowns with their yapping, jumping dogs. And when the white horses and the bareback rider appeared, well, he thought the woman would have a conniption, along with the rest of the crowd. He led his daughter into the parlour, observing Edwina carefully as they both sat in slightly battered horsehair-stuffed armchairs. The highlight of the spectacular, the theft of the lion, was the talk of Wywanna this morning and he was rather disappointed at having to leave town. Especially now he was home and subjected to his listless daughter.

  ‘And your brother, what is he out doing? I assume he found that boy yesterday and paid him?’ Opening a wooden box on an inlaid table he retrieved his tobacco and pipe and proceeded to stuff it.

  ‘Yes, Father, he did. In fact, Will returned with Aiden. Apparently he wasn’t able to get any work with the circus so he’s here with us for a week or so. Aiden has him doing odd jobs in return for board and keep. I believe they are out cutting wood.’

  ‘Young people today,’ complained Hamilton, lighting the pipe and sucking furiously. ‘Imagine leaving a perfectly good job with the foolhardy idea of joining the circus?’ The smoke spiralled free from his lungs. ‘The circus. The lad should have been sent on his way. And then, of course, to expect employment having walked off the job!’ He chewed the stem of the pipe, contemplating the weakness of character in his son that undoubtedly came from the boy’s mother. While his primary concern was to see Edwina well married, Hamilton worried more about Aiden’s future. The boy was a gentleman farmer with limited ability. Never once had his son argued a point of view with him over anything. And while Aiden was becoming more like him in some ways, in others they were polar opposites. His only son would happily be led around with a ring through his nose, like a stud bull, while his feisty, tomboy daughter needed the strength of a good man to contain her.

  ‘I would have turned the boy away, but in my absence Aiden must have the authority to act on my behalf. Otherwise how will he ever learn? One week then. That’s all. Are you quite alright, Edwina?’

  ‘An ache, Father, it will pass.’ She rubbed absently at the back of her head.

  ‘I suppose you sat up late listening to that infernal gramophone? Never should have purchased it. Nor that rubbish you listen to. What is it? Jazz, or some such rot?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Hamilton squinted, scrutinising his daughter. ‘I’m not inclined towards having a young man around the homestead, Edwina. It’s not proper. Be aware is what I’m saying. No fraternising. One must know one’s place in society.’ Hamilton puffed on the pipe. She really did look quite peaky. ‘You look exhausted, as if
you’ve been up half the night, my girl.’

  ‘I slept poorly, Father.’

  ‘Ah yes. The full moon. I myself was quite activated by it. Still, what’s a little lost sleep, eh?’ It happened of course. Women were quite unaccustomed to being left alone. They could quickly become maudlin and out of sorts. He thought of the scene at the creek. ‘It’s no excuse for not keeping things in order, however, my girl. The porch needs sweeping, the grate cleaned of coals and the fire lit. The room is full of flies.’ With a final puff, he lay the pipe to one side. ‘Well, are you up to a ride?’

  ‘Not really. Father, did you read the notes I gave you?’

  ‘What notes?’

  ‘My suggestion for the new paddock we’re developing.’

  Hamilton scratched above his ear. ‘Not feasible. The cost of the livestock, cattle for instance –’

  ‘Would be repaid in eighteen months when the cows calved,’ interrupted Edwina.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later. I want to check the boundary. Well, come on then.’ Hamilton took down the Lee-Enfield rifle from the brackets above the fireplace and walked outside, waiting on the verandah for his daughter to reappear from fetching her coat.

  Davidson was ready with the horses and as Hamilton mounted the mare he noticed a smudge of a figure in the distance. ‘So the Scotswoman returns,’ he muttered. Forgoing his fob watch, Hamilton checked the position of the sun. There was still a good two hours of light available. He would have to refrain from admonishing Mrs Ryan for there was enough time for the woman to ready the evening meal. ‘This Will fellow?’ asked Hamilton of the aboriginal. ‘What sort of man is he? Can he be trusted? I have to consider my daughter if he’s to be around the homestead.’

  Davidson gave the slightest dip of a pockmarked chin.

  ‘Keep an eye on him. Oh, I’d like her to stay here with me for there is nothing like a daughter when it comes to the care of hearth and home. But Edwina’s not a simple farm girl. She’s far too complicated for that. Complicated and clever. Not that having intelligence is a boon for a female like Edwina. No, it’s a troublesome thing when an intemperate woman thinks herself clever. My daughter must marry and marry well, to a strong-minded man with a firm hand, for otherwise what is the point of having produced her in the first place?’

  Davidson remained impassive. Hamilton nodded in satisfaction. There was something quite liberating venting one’s frustration without interruption or comment. Leaving the Winchester rifle he carried in Wywanna on the verandah, he replaced it with the Lee-Enfield.

  Edwina finally joined them and the three rode off towards the Ridgeway Station boundary. Although he wasn’t normally one to marvel at the landscape, Hamilton enjoyed the ride past the wheat paddocks. With the sun drooping towards the west, the rays filtered across the fields suffusing the seed-filled heads with light so that they resembled a shimmering green carpet. Hamilton found the whole farming exercise quite tedious at times and, although he liked producing things, he really wasn’t very good at it. Not that he’d ever tell his daughter that. However, he could see the value in land ownership. And there was a contentment to be found in improving land and growing things, as long as there was money coming in. Thanks to Worth and Clyde, he didn’t need to sell any of his shares now, allowing him the indulgence of a property that rarely covered costs.

  ‘Look.’ Hamilton directed Davidson and Edwina to a path that led through the wheat. Something had trampled the tall plants so that they lay ruined on the ground. ‘Damn and blast.’ The cause of the destruction, straying sheep, stood only feet away, foraging on the edge of the field. Disturbed, the animals looked up nervously. Hamilton scanned the fence line, pointing at two broken wires and the telltale tufts of wool caught there. ‘Why wasn’t that repaired?’

  ‘Aiden said he would fix it,’ answered Edwina.

  ‘That’d be right.’

  Extricating the rifle from its holster Hamilton loaded it, aimed and pulled the trigger at the fleeing merinos. The gelding backed up in fright as two of the sheep disappeared into the wheat while the third, shot in the hind leg, tried to follow its companions. ‘Blasted animals,’ Hamilton protested, ‘they’re either eating it or knocking it over. Get that animal, Davidson. Cut its throat and string it up on the fence as a warning to that so-called manager next door.’

  ‘Father,’ Edwina complained, ‘you can’t do that.’

  ‘My land. My wheat,’ answered Hamilton, holstering the weapon as Davidson took off after the wounded sheep on foot. The black man ran lightly through the wheat in a wide circle, then rushing forward made a grab for the animal, catching him by a leg. Although the sheep was large in frame, Davidson hefted the animal with ease and carried him to the side of the field. Unsheathing a knife he cut roughly at the struggling beast’s throat, an arc of blood spurting through the air to land in globules on the ground.

  Hamilton watched the procedure with satisfaction as Davidson dragged the twitching carcass across to the boundary shared with Ridgeway Station. Once there, he heaved it over the top of the fence, sitting it on the ground. Next he tied each front leg to one of the strands of wire so that the dead sheep was outstretched, sitting on the ground, blood still draining from the fatal wound.

  ‘Excellent. Excellent job.’ Hamilton turned to his daughter, but Edwina was already riding away. He should have waited for Aiden, his pleasure momentarily eroded. Aiden would have appreciated the incident. The stockman was cleaning the knife, rubbing the blade with dirt. ‘Well, Davidson, what are you doing dawdling, man? Go after those other two sheep and change their ear-marks from a v to a block, and this time remember to put a slash in the tip of their ear.’ Removing ear-marking pliers from his saddlebag, Hamilton threw the implement across to the stockman, who caught the object one-handed. Hamilton watched and waited as the aboriginal set out on horseback after the stragglers. Pursued across the paddock, the sheep led Davidson into the ridge on the far side, horse and rider disappearing in the timber. Hamilton noted down the two live animals in a pocketbook and then estimated the damage to his crop. On his calculations, Ridgeway still owed him five head for the damage done to the wheat over the season.

  ‘And what the blazes do you think you’re doing?’ The rough individual glaring at him from across the fence was the Ridgeway manager, Fernleigh.

  Hamilton feigned indifference although his thumb tapped nervously against the horn of the saddle. Fernleigh carried more hair on his face and body than one of Hamilton’s collie dogs. Thick, grey, matted hair. Hamilton tried not to grimace. He hated beards. Always had and was pleased that being clean-shaven was back in fashion. Whenever he saw Fernleigh he couldn’t help but wonder how much food from previous meals was deposited in the long fuzzy strands that hung down from the man’s face.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fernleigh.’ Hamilton tipped his hat. ‘We have our usual problem of straying stock.’ He looked at the garrotted sheep spread-eagled on the dividing fence and already gathering blowflies. ‘Confronting though this may seem, Mr Fernleigh, this need not happen again. If we can check this fence on a regular basis then perhaps you could extend yourself to do likewise.’

  The manager spat on the ground. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming you don’t have many dingoes coming onto the station.’

  ‘’Course we don’t. That fence is kept in good repair.’

  ‘Then why, man, can’t you do the same on this boundary? My crops are damaged every year by your sheep and not once have you offered compensation.’

  ‘I’ll not be spoken to like I’m a simpleton.’ Fernleigh walked his horse closer to the fence.

  ‘We ensure the fence is in good repair.’ Hamilton gestured to the manager. ‘And you ensure the fence is in good repair. It’s a rather easy solution, don’t you think?’

  Mr Fernleigh laid a rifle across his thighs. ‘The fence is in good repair.’

  ‘Then why are we continually mending it?’ replied Hamilton conversationally as he too clasped the stock
of his gun.

  ‘Maybe there’s another problem,’ the manager suggested through a clenched jaw.

  ‘Yes, there is. You’re overstocked and they’re hungry. Therein lies the problem, Mr Fernleigh. Your sheep are literally eating my money.’

  ‘Really? Every year come shearing the tally don’t come out the same. It’s always this paddock, right here, that is missing sheep. Strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do,’ Hamilton agreed, ‘think it strange that you’re insinuating I could be at fault when your complaints began when the weather turned dry. I don’t see you chasing after your own stock or lowering numbers to compensate for the season.’ He heard the subtle click as the manager cocked his rifle, aiming the gun at Hamilton’s chest. ‘I’m sure your employers will be very happy to hear that you’ve shot the owner of the adjoining property.’

  ‘You’re an arrogant man for a money-lender.’ The statement was hissed. ‘A money-lender on a block of land that wouldn’t even match one of the smaller paddocks on Ridgeway.’

  Hamilton’s teeth ground together. He was inclined to shoot the man here and now and be rid of the obstinate individual. ‘At least I own it,’ he said pointedly. Lifting the rifle he slammed the magazine into the breach, resting the butt on a thigh. ‘Guns at twenty paces, is it, Fernleigh?’

  ‘The thing is, Baker, we both know I could take you here and now and no-one would be the wiser for it. I wouldn’t even need to bury you. I could drag you out to the dingo fence and drop you over the side and those wild dogs would clean you up inside of a week.’

  The saliva collected in Hamilton’s mouth. He swallowed and pointed the rifle. It was said that the bolt action of the firearm combined with its ten-round magazine enabled a well-trained rifleman to perform the ‘mad minute’ firing, twenty to thirty aimed rounds in sixty seconds. But Hamilton wasn’t a veteran of the Great War. In fact the closest he’d come to fighting was with the ownership of the gun in his hand. At this distance they’d both be shot, the reality of which didn’t bear thinking about. Across the fence the manager pressed the weapon into his shoulder. Hamilton hesitated. He could shoot first of course, but even with his connections, murder was murder.