The River Charm

by Belinda Murrell

  Louisa whimpered. James wheeled his pony to charge back at his stepfather.

  ‘Keep riding, dearest,’ Mamma insisted. ‘We cannot do anything more for him.’

  ‘Mamma, how did you know that Mr Barton couldn’t shoot you?’ asked James, his brow furrowed as he nudged his pony towards the others.

  Mamma smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Of course he could not – I hid the lead shot and dampened the powder of all the guns myself.’

  The horses turned right onto the carriageway and trotted away to the east, away from the home where the children had lived their entire lives. Charlotte felt a huge lump in her throat that made it difficult to breathe. Her eyes swam with tears so the road ahead was a blur of green and ochre.

  She was determined not to look back. She was determined not to cry.

  The road, still deep in shadows, twisted and rose up the hill. Samson followed behind, his pink tongue lolling as he panted, running to keep up.

  To Charlotte’s right was the tall, prickly hawthorn hedge, which blocked the view towards the estate. Then came a small break in the vegetation, offering a glimpse back to Oldbury. Charlotte couldn’t resist. Through it she could see the house of golden stone, its windows dark and empty, surrounded by trees. Beyond that she could see the graceful elm, with the empty bench seat where they loved to sit and read and sketch. Further still she could see the waterhole, where she imagined the dragonflies dancing above the shadowy water with shimmering wings. And then, a moment later, Ophelia passed the gap and it was gone.

  Charlotte glanced at Emily to see that her sister’s face, like her own, was slick with tears. They rode on in silence, except for the drumming of the horses’ hooves and the jingling of the tin mugs and pannikins tied to the saddles.

  The road crested the hill and beyond that, as far as they could see, lay a dense, green forest bathed in the rosy glow of the rising sun. A narrow, twisting track led to the horizon.

  It’s a beautiful day, thought Charlotte. A beautiful day for an adventure.

  After about three miles they reached Sutton Forest, a village consisting of a small schoolhouse, several bark-and-slab huts, a store and three inns, all huddled around a wooden chapel. Just outside the village, they overtook the two servants and the trio of bullocks, plodding steadily along with all their possessions.

  Mamma directed Mr Ash, Charley and Bridget to wait for them at the Talbot Inn while she took the children into the cemetery, fringed with weeping willows. Mamma led them to a sandstone tablet that marked a burial vault, carved with the name of James Atkinson.

  ‘I wanted to come and say goodbye to your dear papa,’ said Mamma, her voice shaky. ‘He was a good man – kind and just.’

  Charlotte breathed in. Her mother rarely spoke of their father.

  Charlotte’s memories of him were hazy – a man with soft brown hair and a gentle voice, who would swing her up in the air and make her laugh. Her father, strong and safe, holding her in his arms on the front of his saddle, way up high on his thoroughbred stallion. Her father gently handing her Samson as a wriggling, chubby puppy and telling her that Samson would protect her with his life. She cherished these memories because she knew the other children could barely remember him at all.

  ‘He was taken from us far too early,’ Mamma continued. ‘Louisa was just a babe of two months. He died of a lingering illness after drinking impure water on top of Razorback Mountain on his way back from a trip to Sydney. He loved you all very much.’

  ‘Did he know me?’ asked Louisa, pouting.

  ‘I carried you into his bedroom, and you began to cry,’ said Mamma. ‘He saw you for just a moment, but then I had to take you away. The crying was too much for him in his delirious state.’

  Mamma closed her eyes then pulled out the golden oval locket that she always wore. She opened it to reveal a plaited curl of hair, twisted from six strands of hair – two black and four brown.

  ‘Rest in peace, my love,’ she murmured, touching the thin wisp of hair, then snapping the locket closed.

  Over against the fence, at the edge of the bushland, some native wildflowers grew. Charlotte ran over and picked a bunch of creamy flannel flowers and gently laid them on the grave.

  ‘We’ll be back, Papa,’ whispered Charlotte.

  At the Talbot Inn, they said a reluctant farewell to Bridget, who was travelling to Sydney to seek another job. Mamma had no money left to pay her. They paused for a few minutes while Mamma wrote a hasty letter to the executors to explain that the family had left Oldbury and Mr Barton and were fleeing to Budgong. She begged for the quarterly allowance to be sent to them there.

  Charlotte kept glancing back down the road, expecting to see Mr Barton chasing after them at any moment. It was a great relief to ride out again.

  Once they left Sutton Forest, Mamma began to tell them stories to pass the time, pointing out native plants and animals and teaching them the Latin, Aboriginal and common names for many of the plants and wildflowers they passed. The dusty, rutted road continued north-east towards Bong Bong. Along the way they passed several bullock-drawn drays plying north to Sydney and south to Goulburn, and the odd neighbour on horseback.

  ‘This land belongs to Charles Throsby,’ Mamma commented, gesturing with her riding crop at the surrounding vale. ‘He was a great friend of your father’s. His sister Mary was my cabin companion when I came out to the colony aboard the Cumberland.

  ‘Charles Throsby’s uncle explored all this country about twenty years ago and recommended it be opened for settle­ment. His property, Throsby Park, was the first farm established south of Camden. Shortly afterwards, your father was granted the land that he named Oldbury, after his birthplace in Kent.’

  Charlotte remembered visiting the grand homestead at Throsby Park when she was younger, before her father died, for picnics and race days and family parties. They were long, sunny days filled with laughter, music and good food – much like the parties, ploughing competitions and dinners they used to have at Oldbury. But that was all a long time ago.

  Now, whenever they saw the Throsbys at church or in the village, Mr Throsby would tip his hat and make polite conversation. Mrs Throsby would nod and smile sympathetically, but she wouldn’t say much at all. It was just the same with Papa’s brother, Uncle John Atkinson, and his wife, Aunt Jane, who lived at the property next door, Mereworth. They had four sons and three daughters, and when they were younger the cousins were always playing together, but now they rarely saw the Atkinsons, and Aunt Jane was decidedly distant with Mamma.

  Soon afterwards, they caught up with the trio of bullocks again and rode along in front. The procession took a narrower side road, heading east past the odd sawyer’s or shepherd’s hut, and then another track winding southwards, which was narrower still. Gradually all signs of civilisation disappeared.

  11

  A Perilous Journey

  For three hours, they rode in single file along a narrow stock track just wide enough for a laden bullock to pass. Mr Ash led the way, with the children following in age order. Mamma and the bullock team brought up the rear. Conversation was difficult, so each rider was left alone to observe the wild landscape, watch out for dangers and think melancholy thoughts.

  On either side grew thick, impenetrable bushland with towering eucalypts and low scrub, flowering with a profusion of sweet-smelling bottlebrushes, acacia and gum blossom. Occasionally a tree trunk or branch would have fallen across the path, and the horses and bullocks would have to jump the obstacle. At other times, the vege­tation had overgrown the path so thickly that they would have to force their way through, holding back branches to avoid their faces and clothes being ripped to shreds. All the while, the summer sun beat down upon them, making their clothes stick to their skin and sweat trickle down their spines.

  Once Mr Ash yelled out as a long brown snake slithered off the path and into the undergrowth. A la
rge goanna ran up a gum tree, causing Charlotte’s horse, Ophelia, to shy and prance. The forest, which earlier had been noisy with the laughing of kookaburras and the warbling of magpies, was now heavy with an ominous silence, broken occasionally by the crack of Bill’s stockwhip.

  Charlotte felt mentally and physically exhausted. Her limbs were heavy and her head ached. She turned around to see Emily, her gentle face taut with tiredness.

  At last they came to a creek where icy, clear water gushed and splashed over massive boulders and feathery ferns swathed the mossy banks. The horses eagerly jogged to the water to suck in deep, long draughts. Samson waded out to the centre of a shallow pool to cool off and have a drink.

  ‘We will halt here for a little while,’ Mamma decided, indicating a small clearing beside the waterhole. ‘Let’s build a campfire and brew some tea.’

  Everyone dismounted thankfully, stretching their tired legs. Once the horses and bullocks had drunk their fill, the saddle girths were loosened and they were tethered in the shade to crop on some wispy, dry grass.

  Charlotte and Emily squatted by the water’s edge and filled their pannikins over and over again from a small waterfall to quench their thirst. James pulled off his boots and waded out up to his knees, splashing water over his head and face. Louisa was so weary she lay under the tree on a bed of leaves. Mamma tended to her, bringing over water in a tin mug and washing her face with a damp cloth.

  Mr Ash and Charley gathered some branches and soon had a small fire burning, with a quart pot of water bubbling on the coals to make tea. Mamma dug a loaf of bread out of her saddlebag, and they ate it with cold bacon. Louisa was too tired to eat and lay with her eyes closed and head in Mamma’s lap.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ asked James as he swallowed a mouthful of bread.

  Mamma laughed. ‘No, unfortunately the hardest part of today’s journey still lies ahead of us,’ she warned, stroking Louisa’s soft ringlets. ‘Just beyond this far ridge is the Meryla Pass. The path is very steep, with steps cut into the cliffs leading from the escarpment down to the valley floor.’

  Louisa’s thumb stole into her mouth. Charlotte’s heart sank.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Emily, gripping her cup tightly in both hands. ‘The hardest part is yet to come?’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Mr Ash, throwing the dregs of his tea away. ‘We’ve some way to go yet.’

  ‘Do not fret,’ Mamma soothed. ‘We will rest here for a while after lunch, then press on.’

  James stood up and began skimming stones across the surface of the waterhole. Mr Ash and the bullock drivers lay down in the shade to snooze, their hats covering their faces.

  ‘Look, dearests,’ called Mamma, pointing to a striking crimson flower on the opposite bank. ‘Telopea speciosissima, commonly called the native lily. The latin name telopea means “seen from afar”, and speciosus means “handsome” or “beautiful”.’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ Emily agreed, settling her back against a tree trunk.

  ‘This flower is highly regarded by the Aborigines,’ continued Mamma. ‘They call it a waratah and like to sip the sweet nectar from the bloom. One of the women told me a charming legend about the first waratah.’

  Charlotte leant forward. She loved it when her mother told stories.

  ‘Many years ago there was a comely young maiden who wore a red cloak of wallaby fur, with a headdress of pink gang-gang cockatoo feathers. She was deeply in love with a courageous warrior.

  ‘One day, there was a fierce battle between the tribes and all the men went off to fight with their boomerangs and spears. Her beloved was killed in the battle, and when she heard the dreadful news, the maiden dropped dead with grief. In the spot where her body fell, there grew the first crimson waratah.’

  ‘Oh, that is so romantic,’ cried Emily, her eyes shining.

  ‘No, it’s so tragic,’ said Charlotte. ‘Do people really die of grief?’

  Mamma sighed and swished a fly away with her gloved hand. ‘I thought I might die of grief when your father died,’ she confessed. ‘But I had you four children to care for. You were all so young, so while I lost my beloved husband, I had my beloved children to live for. Slowly, slowly the wound heals a little. There is always hope.’

  Charley had been sitting to the side, listening. ‘There is another story my people tell about the waratah,’ he said, smiling shyly. ‘Once there was a female wonga pigeon that was attacked by a hawk. The hawk ripped her breast with its claws, but she escaped. The injured bird hid in a thick waratah bush among the white blooms. Later, the bird’s husband returned from hunting and called for her. The pigeon struggled and tried to fly to him, but she died and her blood turned the blooms to red.’

  Mamma nodded seriously.

  ‘Another beautiful and sad story,’ Emily said.

  ‘So many of the Aboriginal stories are sad,’ added Charlotte. ‘About untimely death and blood and thwarted love.’

  ‘I think perhaps the Aborigines have many reasons to be sad,’ suggested Mamma. ‘Did you know that when your father first came to Oldbury in 1820 there were about fifty Aborigines in the local Sutton Forest tribe? After I married him and moved here in 1827, there were only eighteen left – and now there is only a handful. Smallpox, influenza and rum have all taken their terrible toll.’

  Charley hung his head and drew in the dirt with his finger.

  James turned around. ‘Don’t forget about the mas­sacres, like the ones last year, when the stockmen at Myall Creek and Waterloo Creek murdered dozens of Aboriginal men, women and children.’

  Mamma frowned, placing a protective arm around Louisa. ‘Those massacres were perpetrated by lawless men, who were reported to the Governor. Several convicts were tried and executed for their crimes,’ she said. ‘However, your father believed that it was possible for the English to live in harmony with this country’s original inhabitants.’

  Mamma sighed and gently lifted Louisa’s head. ‘Wake up, poppet. I know you are weary but we must be on our way. It would be even more treacherous to have to complete the descent in darkness.’

  Charlotte sighed and stood up, stretching her stiff muscles. She didn’t think she could pull herself back in the saddle. But there was no choice. The men and Charley prepared the animals, and then they were off.

  At last they reached the edge of the escarpment overlooking the Meryla Valley. Before them was a magnificent view of hazy, rolling mountains swathed in thick, green forest, stretching as far as the eye could see. There was nothing that indicated humans had ever trod here, except the narrow, overgrown pathway twisting down the mountain side. In the steepest sections, rough steps had been cut into the pathway to help the animals keep their footing.

  ‘We’re going down there?’ Charlotte asked in disbelief. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘No – not impossible,’ Mamma assured her with a tight smile. ‘Although it will be somewhat difficult.’

  The riders milled at the top of the descent. Ophelia’s hoof dislodged a clod of mud that tumbled down the cliff and disappeared into freefall.

  ‘Yes, it’s straight down,’ Mr Ash announced. ‘It’s slippery and narrow, so you must be very careful. That means you, Master James.’

  James pushed his hair out of his eyes and nodded.

  ‘It is too steep to ride, so we must dismount and lead the horses,’ explained Mamma, her voice low and serious.

  Emily peered over the cliff and pulled her horse back away from the edge. Charlotte bit her lip and stroked Ophelia’s neck.

  ‘If your horse stumbles or slips towards the edge, you need to let it go,’ warned Mr Ash. ‘Don’t try to save the horse or you may fall over yourself.’

  Charlotte looked at Mr Ash in horror – she couldn’t let Ophelia go if she fell. Obediently, everyone dismounted and took their horses by the reins on the left side of the bridle.

  ‘Mr
Ash will go first,’ instructed Mamma. ‘James, you will go next, but you must leave a large space between the horse in front and the horse behind. If anyone slips, we do not want them to collide with another horse and risk flinging them from the cliff. Do you all understand?’

  Charlotte and Emily exchanged a quick glance of trepidation then nodded.

  ‘I’ll start,’ Mr Ash said, leading his own horse and Mamma’s down the trail.

  The others followed slowly: James, Charlotte, Emily, Mamma holding Louisa’s hand, Charley leading Louisa’s pony then Samson bringing up the rear. The bullock train rested at the top to give them time and space to descend the steepest slope.

  Ophelia was reluctant to step down the precipitous path and skittered nervously on the brink. Charlotte had to pull her firmly to urge her forward.

  The horses’ hooves slid. Charlotte’s stomach was in knots and her heart felt like it was in her throat. The cliff plunged away on her left, with nothing between her and the valley floor hundreds of feet below.

  A third of the way down the steepest slope, Ophelia slipped and fell to her front knees. Charlotte was knocked over and sent sprawling on the path right near the dizzying drop. She grasped hold of a tuft of feathery ferns to stop herself from plummeting face-first down the cliff.

  Emily screamed. Ophelia reared in fright, the edge of the path crumbling away beneath her back hooves.

  ‘Stop, everyone!’ Mamma shouted. ‘Charlotte, are you all right?’

  Charlotte cowered. A plunging hoof had caught her on the left shoulder and knocked the breath from her with its painful force. She whimpered, tears smarting her eyes. Ophelia shied, the reins dragging in the dirt.

  Charlotte scrambled to her feet and caught the reins. Ophelia reared again, snorting and whinnying in panic, pulling away from Charlotte towards the cliff edge.

  ‘Let her go, Miss Charlotte,’ yelled Mr Ash. ‘Let her go or she’ll pull you over too.’

  Charlotte glanced over the precipice. Nothing could survive a fall like that. Ophelia snorted, her eyes rolling in terror, and pulled again.