Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  A flash of something bright caught her attention and she stared wide-eyed at the straggling, ragged group of women who shuffled in their chains along the quayside towards a large wooden shed. Each woman was dressed in yellow. Mostly bare-foot, covered in scabs and sores, none of them looked as if they’d had a square meal or a wash in months. Some, she noticed, had had their heads shaved and looked even more cowed than the rest.

  ‘Convicts,’ muttered Lady Fitzallan. She shook her head in disapproval. ‘The authorities dress them in yellow as a mark of shame. They shave off their hair if they’ve broken the law during the journey.’ She clucked sympathetically. ‘Poor souls. Most of them have never been outside the hovels of London. They must think they’ve been transported to hell. But I suppose anything’s better than hanging.’

  Rose’s spirits fell even further as she noticed how many of them had small children hanging on to their skirts. ‘But what about the children? Surely they haven’t been transported?’

  Henry cleared his throat and spoke over Rose’s head. ‘Poor souls indeed, Mother. But you must remember why they have been sent here. Criminals, the lot of them.’ He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief, leaving red smears on the linen. ‘As for the children.’ He shrugged. ‘Some of them are here under sentence, but for many others it would have meant begging on the streets in London, prostitution, starvation, probably death if their mothers had left them behind. Here they’ll get an education, be taught a trade. This is a good country for those who are willing to put their backs into it. There’s clean air out in the interior – plenty of space for a man to work his own land and prosper.’

  Rose gazed up at him. It was a long speech for someone who was obviously spare with words, but his declaration had betrayed his passion for this new land and the deeply held belief that nothing but good could come out of it.

  ‘What will happen to the women?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are they being taken to prison?’

  He shook his head, his hazel eyes flitting over her thoughtfully. ‘They’ve just arrived off the Posthumous. They’ll be found work in the homes of the squatters, on sheep stations or in business establishments. The authorities don’t like imprisoning women – they cause too much trouble, and it means more barracks being built to keep them separated from the men.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Lady Fitzallan asked querulously. ‘I would certainly not employ a convict maid. I could never trust her.’

  Henry smiled. His light brown eyes gleamed with humour, making him suddenly appear younger and less careworn. ‘Every new arrival says that but they soon change their mind, Mother. Convict labour is cheap and there isn’t a house or a business that doesn’t have at least one convict servant. Most of them are ticket of leave – men and women who have served most of their time and are allowed to work to prepare for when their sentence is over. It gives them a chance to build something for the future. Very few return to England.’

  ‘Aren’t they dangerous?’ asked Rose, shielding her eyes to watch a long line of men shuffling along the street, their legs chained, their heads bowed. They looked so pitiful, that even as she spoke, she knew it could not be so.

  ‘Not the ones I mentioned before,’ he said softly. ‘But those men are the hardened criminals. That’s a chain gang, off to the quarries in the hills. They will never be free.’

  Rose watched them shuffle out of sight. The grey pyjamas marked them for what they were, and with their bowed heads they seemed somehow degraded, as if they regarded themselves as less than human.

  Henry must have noticed her distress for he sighed again. ‘The same rules govern the body who stole a loaf of bread as the murderer with no remorse. If they break them, they know they will suffer several strokes of the lash and extra time put on their sentence. At worst, he or she will be sent to Port Arthur or the penal islands of Maria and Sarah.’ He shook his head. ‘None of them wants that. They are said to be hell on earth. But for those who work out their time with good behaviour, then this land is open to them to make a good life for themselves and their families. There are plenty of ex-convicts in the colony who are now leading honest lives, and those men and women have the spirit and courage to lead this new country of ours into the next century.’

  Lady Fitzallan shuddered and grasped his arm. ‘Convicts in charge? The Queen would never allow it,’ she said stoutly.

  ‘Her Majesty is a long way away, Mother, and if a man or woman can survive their years of penal reform to make something of themselves, then they are made of the right stuff to do Her Majesty proud.’

  He smiled down at the two women. ‘Enough of my lecturing. You look fit to drop, the pair of you. Come. We will have tea in the hotel and then you must rest. We have three days before we begin the journey out to the Mission.’

  *

  There were sixteen oxen in all, their broad backs rolling like ships in a sea of red dust as they trudged along the track pulling the loaded wagons behind them, on the way to Yantabulla, where Henry had his land.

  Rose and her employer had soon learned from those more familiar with the colony, that it would be sensible to do away with the clothes they had brought with them, and dress in thin cotton. Rose was only too delighted to cast off the heavy woollen dress and hampering petticoats, but Lady Fitzallan had refused to believe a lady of breeding would ever dare to be seen without her corsets. It was only after a rather frightening fainting spell at the Governor’s dinner party on their third night, and the earnest reassurance by the Governor’s wife that nobody in the colony ever wore stays, let alone a dozen petticoats – that she had been persuaded to comply.

  The dowager soon came to realise the wisdom of wearing as little as possible, but because of her fair colouring, had to wear a hat and thin gloves, and always carried a parasol to protect her from the sun. Rose on the other hand relished the warmth on her skin after all those years in the cold and damp of England, and she abandoned her hat along with her corsets and petticoats and was soon the colour of mahogany.

  Rose sat on the bullock cart, rolling with it as she had done with the ship, the dust of the beasts’ hoofs coating her in a veil of red. Mountains soared all around them as they left Sydney far behind. Cruel, shadowy gorges yawned within inches of the creaking wagon wheels, and the red and ochre hills loomed over them like ancient guardians. Exotic flowers blossomed in rock niches and trailed amongst giant ferns and tangling vines. Water poured down from the mountains to splash into verdant valleys that echoed with birdsong, and strange loping beasts hopped away into the bush or shyly watched from the shadows of ghost gums.

  Lady Fitzallan became so exhausted by the heat and the dust and the long hours of sitting on a hard wooden seat that she no longer stared in awe at the beauty surrounding them and had long given up asking the names of the different birds and animals. She sat slumped beneath her parasol, chin resting on her chest, snoring softly. The once plump, bustling little body had grown thin, the round face drawn, and although she put on a brave show at the end of each day, Rose and Henry knew the journey was proving too much for her.

  But Rose was full of restless energy as she watched the white cockatoos preen in the trees and the eagles soar above the gorges. Flocks of grey and pink parrots swooped and swirled overhead, and she smiled at a tiny blue wren with cheeky tail feathers cocked above its rump like an oversized windmill sail. This was a land of magic and wonder, as old as time itself, as new and fresh as the Garden of Eden, and she still experienced a thrill at knowing she was amongst the first to travel this winding, tortuous road that had been hacked by convicts through the mountainous bush. The ruts of their wagon wheels and the plodding of their oxens’ hoofs were marking a new territory in a new land – one she was determined to make her own.

  During those long but never interminable days and weeks, Rose had plenty of time to compare this new life to her old one. The scenery was more striking and startling than the soft greens and yellows of Sussex, but it was a lonely place, especially for women. This was a ma
n’s world, where muscle was needed to work the land, fight the elements and build an empire, and she felt very small and insignificant amongst the vast emptiness of it all. And yet she was old enough to realise that women had their place here, just as they had at home. For if this new country was to prosper, then it had to be populated – and that was something men couldn’t do alone.

  Perhaps the lack of women was the reason for Otto Fischer’s persistence, and the admiring looks she’d received from the men in Sydney? She thought of the German and smiled. He was an energetic man, full of ideas and enthusiasm for his newly planted vineyard, and she had enjoyed his company during their short stay in the city.

  She blushed at her own thoughts and looked across at her employer. Thrust into one another’s company because of their sex, they had found they liked each other and had formed a friendship that would have been unthinkable back in England. To imagine Lady Amelia Ade making this journey made Rose’s smile even wider, but her expression saddened as she thought of John in his brightly covered wagon. How he would have loved this journey into the unknown. To travel free and unmolested, to live as he pleased amongst people who saw the man not the gypsy.

  Rose blinked and brushed away the tears. She must not think of John. He was in her past. The future was all that mattered now.

  The bullockies were a brotherhood of the track, renowned for hard language and even harder drinking. The man who led the team of sixteen oxen wore the usual garb of red shirt, moleskin trousers and plaited cabbage tree hat. He rode a sure-footed, mean chestnut pony and carried a fearsome sixteen foot long whip which he flicked over the heads of the oxen to keep them in line and moving. He knew every water hole, creek and river on the outback track, and the stories he told around the camp-fire at night became more colourful as the journey progressed.

  Rose loved listening to the stories, and although she wasn’t sure whether she should believe them or not, she had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. For Bullocky Bob made the most delicious bread which he baked in the embers of the fire, and the strongest tea she had ever tasted in the metal can he called a billy.

  He was an ugly man, with a sun-creased face and his hands were rough, the nails broken and filthy. Yet there was a gentle side to him, and although he wouldn’t have appreciated anyone knowing, Rose had seen him take the locket from his greasy trouser pocket and look at the picture inside it with soft eyes. She was intrigued as to what kind of woman waited for him at the end of this lonely track – but she never dared ask.

  They had been travelling for weeks and were all exhausted. The rain was heavy, drenching them in seconds, turning the dirt into a quagmire, veiling the bush in a curtain of water. The oxen bellowed, Bullocky Bob swore and cracked his whip and Rose and the old lady tried to shelter beneath the canopy. The heat was still intense, and as the rain persisted, the mosquitoes swarmed and steam rose from the bush, smothering them in fetid humidity. Paradise was suddenly showing how treacherous it could be.

  Henry had ridden on ahead to see if the Darling river was passable, and returned in a flurry of mud and water, waving his hat. ‘We’ll have to be quick,’ he yelled to Bob. ‘It’s about to run a banker.’

  Bob chewed his tobacco, spat into the mud and cracked his whip. ‘Don’t tell me, mate,’ he rasped. ‘Tell these buggers.’

  The oxen were reluctant to move, but the whip urged them on and they set off again with a lurch and a roll that almost unseated the two women. Clinging to the sides of the wagon, Rose peered through the downpour at the scene before her. The river was wide and swollen, the water rushing over giant boulders, frothing over small falls and swirling in dangerous eddies. The banks were slick and steep.

  ‘You’ll have to get off,’ shouted Bob over the thunder of water. ‘Wagon’s likely to turn turtle.’

  Rose helped Lady Fitzallan down, and with Henry’s help, hoisted her up behind him on the saddle. ‘Hold tight, Mother,’ he shouted. ‘Whatever happens, don’t let go.’

  The old woman looked down at Rose with fear in her eyes, then she buried her face in her son’s sodden back and clung on.

  Rose climbed up behind Bob. ‘You’ll be right if you hang on tight, girlie,’ he reassured her, folding her arms around his whip-thin waist. ‘Sit still and let me do the work,’ he warned.

  The oxen stood morosely by the side of the river, their ears twitching, their bellows almost drowned by the sound of the rain and the torrent of water. Bullocky Bob cracked the whip, and Rose clung to him as he turned his horse this way and that to encourage the beasts to move. But not for her the whimper of fear or tightly shut eyes. This was an adventure, and although she was scared witless, she didn’t want to miss any of it.

  With ponderous reluctance the leading pair of oxen slithered and scrambled down the bank into the water. The others could only follow, and soon the whole team were splashing and bellowing their way across the racing swirl that reached almost to their shoulders.

  The water was icy, reaching nearly to her knees, and Rose could feel the tug of the undertow threatening to tear her from the saddle. Yet the fear did nothing to dampen the excitement, and as she clung to Bob, she knew this was just another experience to add to all the others she’d had in the past few months – and if they survived – she would remember it always.

  The great heads of the oxen gleamed damply and their horns were raised skyward as they struck out and headed for the safety of the other side. Their bellows were fewer now, for they needed all their energy to push against the rip-tide that threatened to sweep them downstream. If one lost its footing or stumbled, it would take them all, as well as the food, furniture and supplies that were stacked in the wagons behind them.

  ‘Get on yer bastards, yer lazy mongrels. Move yer arses, yer flea-bitten buggers.’ Bullocky Bob had worked too long and too hard to risk losing his prime stock, and he swore and spat and used his whip to keep the animals moving.

  Rose clung to him, her wet hair plastered to her face and back. Steam rose from the beasts and from the banks, mosquitoes flitted and bit, and the water swirled around her legs. The tough little horse beneath her never lost his footing, pitting his wiry strength against the force of the water as he plodded alongside the complaining oxen. The wagons tilted, their precious cargo tightly bound by leather thongs and rope, creaked and jarred against the restraints. Wooden wheels jolted on hidden boulders, scraped and rumbled over the stony river bed until Rose thought they would surely snap.

  Then they were clear, scrambling up the bank of mud and onto the scrubby grass. Rose slid from the saddle and sank into the mud, gasping from the cold, the excitement and the fear. She’d done it. She’d come through the first test.

  Bob looked down at her. ‘You’re a dinky-di little sheila, I’ll say that for yer,’ he said gruffly as he pushed back the plaited hat and wiped his face. ‘Y’came good when it mattered. But you’d better see to Ma over there. Looks crook.’

  Rose hurried across to Henry and helped Lady Fitzallan down from the horse. She did look pale, but there was a fire of excitement in her eyes that surely mirrored her own.

  ‘If I look half as bad as you, then thank goodness no one can see us,’ she laughed. ‘What would they say in the Governor’s drawing room now?’

  Rose grinned and smeared her wet hair from her face. ‘They’d probably say you were a dinky-di sheila,’ she yelled above the downpour. She saw the frown of incomprehension on the older woman’s face. ‘I’ll explain later,’ she said with a grin. ‘Come on. We need to get you into some dry clothes. Bob’s setting up camp down the road.’

  In the late afternoon of the next day they arrived in the new settlement of Yantabulla. The sky looked fresh and very blue but the heat was unrelenting, striking hammer blows to the head and the backs of their necks.

  As the oxen team ponderously plodded along the wide main street, Rose and Lady Fitzallan stared at the neat wooden houses with their red tin roofs, and the small parade of verandah-shaded stores that were festoone
d with all the necessities of life in the interior. Pots and pans, canvas for tents, spades and picks, axes, buckets, billies, saddles and bridles. No tourist geegaws here. No bright fans and fancy shawls.

  There was a hotel, the only building on the main street that was higher than one storey. Its paint was white beneath the layer of red dust, the verandah and balcony shaded by wrought iron that looked like lace. Men sat in rocking chairs in the shade, eyes shadowed by their dusty hats as they watched the procession pass. Horses dozed at the hitching posts, tails and ears twitching to ward off the flies. The church was built of wood with a narrow steeple and a scrubby front yard behind a picket fence, the cemetery shaded by a vast pepper tree that was alive with bees and butterflies.

  Rose eagerly looked for the Mission house amongst the neat new buildings, but the oxen trundled along the main street and soon the town was behind them, masked by a cloud of red dust. Ten miles further on they drew to a halt.

  Henry swept off his hat and pointed to a rusting, dilapidated shack that seemed to be held up by the tree that grew beside it. ‘Here we are. Welcome to Yantabulla Mission.’

  Lady Fitzallan paled. ‘It’s a shed,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve brought me all this way to live in an outhouse?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Only for a little while, Mother. See that plot of land behind it? And the building? That will be our home eventually.’

  Rose followed her gaze. The rough frame of a large house was sitting in the middle of an overgrown field, but it seemed to have been in that state for a long time. ‘There’s no one working on it,’ she said doubtfully.