His body went rigid. Too late, she knew she had guessed wrong. With a sudden, scything movement he slapped her, very hard, across the face. Lights exploded in her head. She staggered back, ears ringing, stumbled and fell full length upon the floor.
‘Don’ tell me what you’re responsible for!’
He kicked her; she took the blow on the thigh and her leg went numb. Frantically she twisted her body away from him, knees raised protectively to her chest, eyes squeezed tight. ‘Why?’ she screamed. ‘Why are you doing this?’
No answer. Instead, he kicked her again and the flesh over her ribs took fire. She tried to scramble away from him. He bent, lifted her effortlessly until her face almost touched his own. Her tears—how she hated them, despising herself for shedding them—dazzled her so that she could no longer see his anger but sensed it, oh yes.
‘Don’ get smart wi’ me.’ Rage in his hands, his heart. He threw her down. She lay on the floor like a broken doll.
Jealous … The word sang in her head. That’s what it was. Jason hadn’t been back five minutes and Blake was jealous. The word shone golden through the terror, the pain. Blake was jealous. With reason. There was glory in knowing it, the confirmation of what in her heart she had always known. But for the moment there was danger. She could do nothing about that; knowing the reason for his rage did not help.
‘Get my tea,’ he said.
She could barely move. Somehow she dragged herself upright, went to the fire, lifted the lid from the pot. Through the gush of steam she peered down at its contents. A stew of meat and vegetables. It looked done. Thank God. She doubted she could have managed to do more, not tonight. Slowly she fetched a plate, ladled stew, took it to the table, put it in front of her husband.
He stared at it. ‘What’s this?’
‘Stew.’
His lip curled. ‘Stew.’
She might have said garbage. She stood, head hanging. She was conscious of his hot eyes crawling on her, looking for a residue of defiance, perhaps, but she had no defiance left in her.
‘Get me somen to eat it with, then. Or do you expect me to drink it?’
She fetched knife and spoon, gave them to him.
‘Bread,’ he said.
She fetched that, too.
‘Alison,’ he said.
She felt herself swaying. ‘Yes?’
‘Got anythin’ to say to me?’
‘No, Blake,’ she said. The tears ran unimpeded down her face.
‘Be sure you keep it that way.’
TWENTY-THREE
In the middle of the winter a motley group of travellers and their carts arrived at Whitby Downs.
Asta greeted them without enthusiasm. They were a rough-looking bunch, half a dozen coarsely dressed men escorted by three armed troopers: two black, one white, with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.
‘What brings you to this part of the world?’ she asked their leader, a scraggy-bearded man named Benson.
‘We’re looking for the abos,’ Benson told her.
‘What do you want them for?’
He grinned brown-toothed. ‘I suppose you could say we’re a kind of mission.’
Asta didn’t like the look of the men at all.
‘We already have the Reverend Julius Laubsch of the Lutheran Mission. He lives among them, not far from here. He caters for their spiritual needs.’
Benson’s grin became derisive. ‘Not that sort of mission.’
‘What, then?’
‘All sorts. We find work for them as wants it. We trade with ’em, too, when they got money or anything to sell.’
‘And the troopers?’
‘As much for our protection as anything.’
Benson and his men were bristling with arms; they did not look as though they needed protection.
‘Protect you against what?’
‘Some of the blacks don’t take kindly to strangers coming into what used to be their territory. The troopers are there to make sure they don’t try nuthin. They’re on the lookout for criminals, too, o’ course.’
‘What crimes do the natives commit?’
Benson heard the disbelief in her voice. ‘Murder, robbery: you’d be amazed.’
‘What do you sell them?’
‘Anything they fancies.’
‘They have no money.’
‘Quite a lot of ’em finds work o’ one sort or another. Money works its way back. Nowadays most of ’em can lay their hands on enough to buy the things they need.’
‘Such as?’
‘The ones who’ve worked for white men pick up white men’s tastes. We’re here to give ’em what they want.’
‘You are here to sell them whisky,’ Asta said contemptuously.
Benson’s eyes narrowed at her tone. ‘Nobody makes ’em buy.’
‘Have you seen what the blacks are like when they drink too much?’ She gestured impatiently at her own words. ‘Of course you have. You must see it all the time. It is the devil’s trade, I think.’
‘They want liquor, they’ll find it somehow,’ Benson said. ‘If we don’ do it there’s plenty will.’ Two days later Julius Laubsch came riding into Whitby Downs.
‘That man Benson,’ he said angrily, ‘I have complained to him about what he is doing but he takes no notice. And Dawkins, the white sergeant, is even worse.’
‘What are they doing? Apart from selling them whisky, I mean?’ Asta asked.
‘Is that not enough?’ Experience had dulled some of the innocence with which Laubsch had left Kapunda but such blatant wrong-doing was still capable of arousing his anger. ‘The natives,’ he said despairingly. ‘Men like that reduce them to the level of animals.’
Asta nodded vigorously. ‘I told Benson it is the devil’s trade.’
‘Not only that. When they have drink taken they do not know what they are doing. Trouble we may expect later, I think.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Who knows? Attacks on the whites, killing sheep. Anything is possible.’
‘Has anyone threatened you?’
‘Not yet. When they do anything—if they do—it will be action first, I think, not threats. But so far there has been nothing.’
‘I shall go and see for myself what is happening,’ Asta decided.
‘That might be unwise. A woman by herself—’
‘I shall not be by myself. I shall take Jason with me.’
Benson came to meet Asta and Jason on the edge of the native camp. A tangle of bush surrounded it so they could see little but they could make out the shapes of one or two sleeping shelters, a smear of smoke from cooking fires.
Benson addressed Asta, smiling ingratiatingly. ‘You don’ want to go in there, ma’am.’
Asta bristled, hating this scruffy intruder and what he represented. ‘It is my land. Why should I not go there?’
She dismounted but Benson still barred her way. ‘Ain’t no place for a lady,’ he said.
Jason was at her side. She stared at the unshaven face confronting her. ‘We are going in there, Mr Benson. Make up your mind about that.’
He must have realised she meant it; he glowered sullenly as he stood to one side. ‘Don’ say I didn’ warn you, that’s all.’
They walked down the slope to the camp site. Off to one side she saw the trader’s waggons, neatly parked, with an armed black trooper standing beside them. In front of her …
She stared in appalled silence.
‘They’re rubbish,’ Benson said at her side, ‘not human beings at all.’
Filth lay everywhere. Over the whole area was a pervasive stench of corruption. Asta looked at the blacks who lived in this squalid place. There were about twenty of them. Some of them were naked, others wore rags and tatters of European clothing—an old shirt, a ripped frock—that they had gleaned from somewhere. The partially clad women, in particular, looked more naked than the ones who wore no clothes at all. All of them, no exceptions anywhere that she could see, were drunk. Man
y had fallen and now lay snoring, their faces in the dirt. There were plenty of bottles in evidence, most of them empty. The few natives who remained conscious brandished ones that were still partially full.
‘No better’n cattle,’ Benson said.
‘They are human beings, Mr Benson,’ Asta said. ‘If they have been reduced to behaving like animals we know who is to blame.’
She was horrified by what she was seeing but did her best not to show it. For the moment this group of natives was beyond causing trouble but she thought that later Laubsch’s words might prove prophetic. Anything would be possible, then, but by that time the whisky traders would have moved on.
At her side Jason stood looking about him at the drunken scene, his face rigid with shock and horror.
‘Is there anyone here you know?’ Asta asked.
‘I know them all.’
It was only partially true. They were all from his old clan but he had known them as they were, never like this. He remembered them as they had been and compared the memory with what he saw in front of him now.
‘What have these bastards done to them?’
He remembered what Mura had said at Burra Burra after Jason’s fight with Silvio Fernandez.
Everything is changed. The clan is broken up.
Here was the reality behind Mura’s words.
Jason had foreseen the destruction of the old way of life and had tried to warn Nantariltarra about it. He had never visualised anything as bad as this.
‘It is degrading,’ Asta said.
Jason stared about him, frowning.
‘What are you looking for?’ Asta asked.
‘I thought Michael might be here but I don’t see him.’
He was relieved. Perhaps things were not as bad as they seemed. If even one of the clan had managed to resist the blandishments of Benson and his mates …
Asta said, ‘There must be other groups. Perhaps he is with them.’
She was probably right. There was no sign of the old sealer, either, yet Mura had told him that he had elected to stay with the clan, or what remained of it. Perhaps Mura was with him. But Jason remembered how easily Mura had taken to drink back at Burra Burra and remained uneasy.
‘Where is Sergeant Dawkins?’ Asta asked Benson.
He was someone else Jason had been looking out for. Asta had told him that the liquor party, troopers included, had come here straight from Adelaide but he would not be easy until he had satisfied himself that Dawkins was not from Burra Burra. For weeks at a time he forgot how he had broken out of gaol but doubted that the authorities would be as forgetful as he was.
‘He’s around some place,’ Benson said.
A sudden commotion in one of the shelters drew their eyes.
‘If the lady’s seen enough,’ Benson said, ‘perhaps I can escort her back to her horse?’
Asta raised a gloved hand. ‘What is going on there?’
‘Two of ’em havin’ a scrap, I’d say,’ Benson said. ‘This lot, they hack each other to bits when they’re in the mood.’
‘And we all know why they get in the mood,’ Asta told him. ‘I wish to see what is happening.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,’ Benson said, ‘but I can’t allow that. It might not be safe.’
Asta raised her chin. ‘I shall be the judge of that.’
She went to push her way forward but at that moment the figure of a man emerged from the shelter from which the sound of fighting had come.
‘Sergeant Dawkins,’ Asta said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what is going on here?’
Jason’s first thought: the man was a stranger, after all. He breathed more easily, confident he could not be mistaken. Sergeant Dawkins was not a man easily forgotten. He was tall and powerfully built, as big as Jason himself, shoulders tight with muscle and heavy fists. His closely cropped black hair topped a head as round as a cannonball from which small dark eyes glared belligerently at the world.
He stared at Asta as he considered her question. ‘Sortin’ out a problem,’ he said. ‘No sweat.’
His knuckles were broken and bleeding. He raised one of his hands to his lips and sucked it, his dark eyes daring her to say anything.
Asta rose to the unspoken challenge. ‘With your fists?’
‘Sometimes it’s the best way.’
She walked past him as though he did not exist; Jason followed her. They bowed their heads almost to the ground to get into the low brushwood shelter.
Jason’s first thought was that the man was dead. From his breeches and long-sleeved shirt he might have been a European but the dark head and hands gave lie to that. Jason bent over him, hearing the breath wheezing laboriously in his chest. It was dark in the shelter but Jason could see that the man’s shirt was dark with blood. He turned the black face up to inspect it and then realised who it was.
From the shelter’s opening Asta asked, ‘Is he …?’
‘Dead? No.’ He was numb with shock but the beginnings of fury were not far away. ‘He’s been badly beaten, though. It’s Mura,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘You call him Michael. Mura’s his real name.’
‘Michael? But he is one of us. I am sure—’
What else Asta had been going to say Jason never knew. He shoved his way past her into the light.
A red wave was rising in his head. His breath came short. Fists clenched, he glared about him, saw what he was looking for. From the other side of the clearing Dawkins, tall as a tower, stared back.
Jason walked across to him, taking his time, feeling the blood pulsing in his temples. Dawkins came to meet him. His fists, big and dangerous, lay quiet at his side, the bloodied knuckles showing like pebbles through the skin. He seemed amused by something but his dark eyes were watchful.
‘Somethin’ on your mind, sonny?’
‘You half-killed him,’ Jason said.
‘Sorry about that.’ Dawkins grinned at him. They were the same height but, to Jason, Dawkins seemed a good deal bigger and very dangerous. ‘You people must’ve turned up before I finished the job. Don’t worry. I’ll get back to him later.’
Fury flared. Jason swung at the sergeant with all his strength. His clenched fist landed flush on Dawkins’ jaw and Jason felt the pain of the blow lance up his arm to his elbow. It was like hitting the side of a mountain. Jason had given him his best shot, right on target, and Dawkins had not even staggered.
The sergeant shook his head and his mean eyes gleamed. ‘Well, now,’ he said, and started forward. The big fists were cocked, the left high near his chin, the right low and ready for an opening. ‘Time I taught you a lesson, sonny.’
He obviously expected Jason to back off but Jason did not. The rage hammering in his head made him cool, not wild, and his thoughts flowed fast, as clear as crystal. This was a fight they were in, not a boxing match. He lowered his head and ran straight into Dawkins, catching him off balance before the big man could throw a punch or move out of his way. Dawkins staggered, arms flailing. Jason butted him as hard as he could, slamming the top of his head into the big face, feeling the crunch and hot wetness as blood exploded from the smashed nose. Dawkins took two steps back, looking for room, but Jason gave him no time to recover. He was on him at once, hitting him twice, as hard as he could, once on the shattered nose and again on the jaw in the same place as before. Dawkins slipped, trying desperately to hang on to Jason while his head cleared but Jason, inflicting pain and enjoying it, would not let him. A heavy wooden billet was lying in the dust. Jason snatched it up and hit Dawkins with a roundhouse swing to the side of the head. The billet broke like matchwood. Dawkins was badly hurt now, the big fists nowhere, but still he hadn’t gone down. Jason walked right up to him and sank his right fist as hard as he could into Dawkins’ gut. The blow went in almost to the elbow and he felt the whoosh in his face as the breath came out of Dawkins’ straining mouth. He was going down this time, all right, but now Jason prevented him. He remembered how Silvio Fernandez h
ad recovered when he had thought it was all over; he wasn’t about to let the same thing happen here. He supported the big man’s sagging weight and kneed him viciously between the swaying, staggering legs. That did it. Dawkins’ face curdled. Jason opened his hands and let him drop.
Suddenly he was very tired. He looked at the crumpled body lying at his feet, wondering whether he should round off the job by kicking him in the head, but was too tired to do it. Not tired physically—he realised suddenly that Dawkins had not landed a single blow on him—but emotionally he was exhausted. He remembered the pleasure he had felt in beating the other man to a pulp, how the red rage and racing thoughts had helped him destroy the sergeant. At the beginning of the fight he would have killed him with pleasure but no longer felt sufficiently interested to do it. Instead he felt wounded, as though Dawkins had managed to hit him after all. He stood for a few moments to catch his breath, then turned away, leaving Dawkins lying there.
For the first time he became aware of other people around him. The drunken natives gave no sign of being conscious of anything but the two black troopers were watching him from the waggons, eyes wide, faces incredulous. Benson, too, was staring at him in stunned amazement. For some reason Jason felt he owed him an explanation.
‘The man in the hut is my friend,’ he said.
Asta’s face was ashen. She looked as though she had witnessed something she would rather not have seen. She turned to the whisky trader. I think you should pack up and move along, Mr Benson, before someone gets killed. And we,’ she said to Jason, ‘shall take Michael back to Whitby Downs until he’s had a chance to recover.’
‘If they’ll let us,’ Jason said, but none of the natives made any move to stop him as he went into the shelter, lifted Mura in his arms and carried him to where they had tethered their horses. Mura was semi-conscious now but incapable of sitting a horse unaided. Jason hoisted him onto his saddle and lashed him so that he could not fall, then mounted behind him. Mura was not a heavy man and Tommy, the horse he had brought from Burra Burra, gave no sign of noticing anything unusual about its load. Asta mounted also.
A Far Country Page 32
