Wild Lands

by Nicole Alexander

  The beginning of the day brought relief. Kate found it strange how quickly one grew accustomed to a new life, to the endless monotony of travelling, and the men about her, but she was not without fear. Night had become a living thing. It moved around her, over and under her, like a wild beast circling. Sounds echoed, things moved and there was no sturdy door between her and it. With the sun’s rising some comfort could be gained. The impenetrable countryside was at least visible and there was movement of man, horse and bullock, a distraction from the images that pursued her when the shadows lengthened.

  In the pre-dawn gloom came a shuffling noise. It would be the Major sitting in the dirt pulling on his boots. His sleeplessness, which alternated impressively between grunts and snores, kept Kate firmly aware of his presence throughout each night. The man’s nocturnal wanderings involved hefting himself up from the rough ground by hanging onto the wheel of the wagon. This action caused the creaking of wood, which invariably disturbed Mr Southerland, who was quick to reach for his Brown Bess musket. The false alarm brought muttering and oaths aplenty from the two convicts, and relief from Kate, who’d grown used to waking wide-eyed. The fact that the men had taken to sleeping in shifts in order to keep an eye on the camp and that Major Shaw was intent on checking that the man on guard stayed awake, should have allayed any fears. It didn’t. The men remained uneasy.

  The jangle of iron keys announced that the Londoners, Jim Betts and Harry Gibbs, were being released from their nightly leg-irons. The Major was a stickler for protocol although where he thought these two felons would wander off to remained a mystery. Even Mr Southerland, the expedition leader, thought it an unnecessary precaution, although for the first part of their journey there were villages and shanties along the way. Betts and Gibbs were assigned to the colony for stealing, and with months of provisions packed into the two bullock drays, including muskets and ammunition, Kate believed such caution was needed.

  From beyond the wagon came a whistled tune. The presence of the convivial if rough Scotsman, Mr Callahan, was a boon. Grey of hair and beard, no doubt as much from the harshness of his life as age, he’d been granted a ticket-of-leave and from the beginning of the journey had assumed the role of cook. ‘Nothing like a good fire. Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat it was this morning,’ the Scot exclaimed to no-one in particular.

  To date their group had travelled together reasonably well. Generally complaints were short-lived for, depending on the perpetrator, punishment could run to the withholding of food from the felons through to the Major’s withering gaze, should anyone query the slightest of things. But the final word on nearly everything invariably lay with their designated leader, George Southerland.

  The three chickens roosting in the timber cage on the ground squawked on waking and the rooster gave a single call. The Major lifted the birds. ‘Miss Carter?’

  Kate sat up and wrapped the blanket tightly about her cotton shift.

  ‘I thought you’d be awake.’ He pushed the cage into the rear of the wagon, his voice betraying his discomfort at disturbing her. ‘I hope you slept well,’ he muttered as he turned to walk a short distance from the campsite.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Kate replied over the noise of the flapping chickens as she reached in the dark for her clothes. It was reassuring to have the Major sleeping next to her wagon, even if he did disturb her during the night and made a point of ensuring she was awake every morning. Kate was not happy that he was soon to depart. The Major’s ablutions carried across the shadows, loud and long. None of them were precious about keeping close to the camp’s perimeter when nature called. Mr Southerland had been strict in his rules. No walking off, no dawdling and no complaining. Men had wandered into the bush and got lost and he wasn’t one for chasing after lunatics.

  ‘There’s many a Scot who’d lay claim to a pint of piss on a cold morning, Major Shaw, sir,’ Mr Callahan commented when the Major reappeared.

  ‘But then I’m betting you’d be one for pure alcohol,’ the Major replied, ‘and I can’t help you there.’

  The Scot gave a throaty laugh. ’Tis true, it’s a sad day to be out bush and not even a shanty to be had. When I think of those fine establishments we passed …’

  The timber boards were pitiless beneath her knees as Kate peered through the wagon’s opening. A harder night’s sleep she’d never experienced, but it had been at her insistence. The thought of the cold, hard ground held little appeal while they travelled through mountainous country and the heavy dew that covered the land was reason enough to stay in the wagon. It also allowed the removal of the boned bodice she wore and a few hours’ respite from the men who surrounded her every day. She’d never been party to such continued male companionship before, to their looks and innuendo, and at times Kate wished she’d given more thought to the irreconcilable decision made some weeks prior.

  Kate had decided that if the colony of New South Wales had a creator, then surely it was a man. No woman would conjure brown dirt, patchy grasses and rough ground. No woman would make a sun that dried the land and those that walked upon it, nor create the fractious natives who’d killed one of their own, a harmless girl no less. Kate rubbed her arms and hands briskly, coaxing warmth into stiff limbs, begrudging the men their spots by the fire where, bodies outstretched, they enjoyed the freedom of a warm night’s sleep.

  Now the men were risen Kate hiked up her skirts and climbed down from the rear of the wagon. There were three men standing near the fire, their dark figures silhouetted by yellow light. The two convicts were waiting for the quart-pots to boil, while Mr Callahan was dolloping spoonfuls of a lumpy mixture – flour, water and salt – onto the griddle. The flat iron disk with its upturned rim was the Scot’s favoured cooking item. He’d hung the chain that was attached to the hoop handle from a sturdy bough, supported by two upright branches, and the johnny-cake mixture sizzled as it hit the hot metal.

  ‘That be the only good thing to come out of Scotland,’ the convict Betts stated.

  ‘Apart from me,’ the Scotsman chuckled.

  Kate’s stomach growled as she picked her way carefully to the edge of the rim of light and, hiding behind a tree, gathered up her skirts and squatted. It was weeks since the Kable farm had vanished from view. In its place was the rough life of the traveller, with long days of being jolted across uneven ground, limited conversation and the problem of being the only female in a party of eight men, including the Aboriginal, Joe.

  Kate tugged at her petticoat, tied the string on her drawers and sniffed the breeze. The smell of smoke, beyond that of the camp fire, hung in the air. At various stages of their passage they’d seen smoke on the horizon or passed through country previously burnt. It was a harsh scent, bitter to the throat and stinging to the eyes. And it rarely dissipated. Mr Southerland told her the natives did it to entice the regrowth of grasses, which in turn brought the animals that were part of their food supply. A less sinister reason could not be devised. A female she may well be, however Kate knew when she was being placated.

  She walked back to the wagon. Lieutenant Wilson and Captain Gage were leaving today with the Major. They had already travelled farther than they intended as Maitland was a good three days’ ride south. The infantrymen who’d accompanied them from Parramatta and who’d been seconded to join mounted troopers based in Maitland had not journeyed with them further. Their leaving made the reduced party so much the quieter and after this morning their numbers would be smaller still. The horses whinnied and shuffled their feet.

  The convicts were grumbling about the cold as Mr Callahan advised them to cheer up, for it would be another perfect day. ‘There was a red sky last night. You be forgetting the signs, Betts.’

  ‘You and your signs, old man. I didn’t grow up surrounded by fields. It’s you who should be the shepherd, not Harry or me. We’re not born to it.’

  Mr Callahan told them to finish their johnny-cakes and save their talk for those who were interested in hearing it. ‘It’s not right t
o force a man to come out here,’ Harry Gibbs said woodenly. ‘I don’t know nothing about nothing out here.’

  ‘Excepting that it’s full of blacks,’ Betts added, ‘and that some men make their fortunes and others lose what little they had and those that do the work are just as likely to be speared in the back as die as paupers.’

  ‘You two will be just fine then, for you’ve nothing to lose,’ Mr Callahan answered brightly. ‘Besides, I’ve heard tell that a convict can do well out here. Put your mind to the task at hand, do what you’re told and you’ll make a go of things.’

  ‘If a man’s not speared.’ Gibbs slurped his tea.

  Kate had grown used to the comforting crackle of tinder and the black sugary tea which followed, and with the chill wind blowing this morning the hot drink would be doubly welcome. Spring may have been upon them, yet the hills were unkind once the shadows encroached.

  ‘Here you are, Miss Kate.’ Mr Callahan deposited a pannikin of tea and a two johnny-cakes in her hands. ‘There’s sugar in your tea, just how you like it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And I sprinkled a bit on the cakes.’

  ‘You’re too good to me, Mr Callahan.’ She ate quickly, moistening her dry mouth with sips of tea, her eyes still crusty with sleep.

  The bullocks were being walked back to the wagons by the convicts, ready to be hitched. Their complaining bellows signalled they would soon be leaving and it paid to be ready on time. Kate rolled up her bedding and, securing it with a leather strap, stowed it safely away, then she set about brushing her hair and gathering it into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  Now that the convicts had left to attend to their allotted tasks, the soldiers and Mr Southerland gathered near the fire and broke the night’s fast with gulps and belches as they ate, and then they too completed packing up their gear, rolling swags and kicking dirt onto the fire. By the time the bullocks were hitched Lieutenant Wilson was waiting as he did every morning to assist her up into the wagon, where, once seated, Mr Callahan would talk to her from the ground as he walked, barely drawing breath for the entire day. Kate knew the rest of the men thought it a great joke that she’d been lumbered with a man that Mr Southerland said had the vocal constitution of his dead mother-in-law. The comment made her wonder what happened to Mr Southerland’s wife.

  ‘I would be pleased to see you again.’ Lieutenant Wilson held her hand for longer than necessary as Kate stepped up to her seat, a battered sea-chest. In the half-light the paleness of his skin made the young man appear almost sickly in pallor. He only ever spoke to her at this time. It was as if in the minutes between night and day, when features were partially concealed and the bustle of departure was upon them, that he felt comfortable in conversing with her, away from watchful eyes and the smirks of the men. ‘You will take care, Miss Carter.’

  Kate clasped the side of the wagon as the bullock team took a few steps forwards in anticipation. ‘I fear you worry too much. There are plenty of women settling beyond the mountains.’

  ‘Not so many where you are going. You will be in demand.’

  Mr Callahan was at the lead, speaking to the animals as if they were children, reminding them of the cargo they carried and of the miles he expected the team to travel this day.

  ‘Were you able to write to me you could send it care of the barracks at Parramatta.’

  Kate should have guessed by the Lieutenant’s attentiveness ever since they’d first met that his departure today would not occur without comment. ‘You have honoured me with your attention, but I have no idea how long I shall be away for.’ He was a soft-hearted young man and for that quality alone Kate liked him. Over the past weeks she’d learnt a little of his life. The youngest son of a wealthy northern English family, whose father had purchased his commission, the Lieutenant was intent on proving his ability to both his family and himself. He would be a loyal friend, but it was clear that where Kate was concerned, such a relationship was not on his mind.

  ‘Time matters little,’ the Lieutenant pursued. ‘I have been promised land. You would want for nothing.’

  The Major approached on horseback as the faintest touch of colour tinged the sky, a pre-dawn pearling light. ‘Lieutenant, if you’ve finished holding Miss Carter’s hand perhaps we could get a move on?’ His gaze lingered on Kate as Wilson backed away reluctantly. She busied herself, rearranging the shawl across her shoulders. Kate knew she should have said something, anything, at least thanked the Lieutenant for his interest. His was a fine offer, a far better offer than what may have been available to her if she’d been born in England.

  ‘You will listen to George?’ The Major’s horse breathed a fine mist. ‘He may not have the subtle niceties that you’re used to, Kate, but he will keep you alive and you have yet weeks of travelling before you.’

  It was the first time that he’d addressed her by her first name. ‘Of course, and I wanted to thank you, Major, for staying longer. It has been something of a comfort to –’

  ‘Call me James, Kate.’ The mare lifted each leg in turn, shifting the weight on its feet.

  Kate wanted to say that she would miss him, that without his solid presence some of the courage within her would depart when he did, but unlike the conversations she’d shared with the Lieutenant, the Major had maintained a level of politeness that until this morning had been difficult to breach.

  ‘Our availability to protect Mr Hardy’s expedition while escorting the troops to their next posting was fortuitous, however these extra days were unplanned, Kate. Please keep alert to your surrounds. That is my best advice.’ He hesitated. ‘The only advice I can give you, apart from wishing you a safe journey.’

  ‘May I ask the cause of your concern?’

  James gave the request some brief consideration. ‘Where you are headed,’ he said, ‘there have been problems with the natives.’ When this news was not commented upon, he continued, ‘And in Maitland I learnt that a respected settler has been killed west of the mountains, his wife went missing and one of his convicts also speared. There are blacks on the run and a renegade white travels with them. No-one wishes to see another uprising.’

  ‘And you think these outlaws are here?’ Kate glanced over her shoulder. The memory of a line of natives chained neck to neck and being led down the main street of Maitland came to her.

  ‘Doubtful, but certainly we must, all of us, be on our guard. Heed Mr Southerland’s advices and you will do well, I have no doubt of it.’

  ‘A compliment? Such a rare occurrence,’ interjected George Southerland. ‘You should remember that, Miss Carter, for James’s praise is rarely given.’ His firearm rested across his saddle as he rode towards them. He wore a kangaroo skin hat and possum hide coat, and blended with their environment like one of the dead animals he wore. ‘They’ve gone west. Joe followed them for six miles.’

  ‘Who has gone west?’ Kate queried.

  It was the Major who broke the short silence. ‘Nothing you need worry about, Kate.’

  George Southerland cleared his throat at the familiar use of her name and spat on the ground. ‘There’s not much point pretending the two of you are in some fancy drawing room in Syd-e-ney, James. Blacks, miss. Troublemakers. They kept their distance while we had the extra soldiers with us, which was just as well. We can’t fight them in the hills, they know the terrain too well, and we were real fortunate to have the company of the redcoats up to Maitland. But there’s a nice open valley ahead of us and in that country, with our muskets and our horses, we have the advantage. We can chase the bastards down real quick on horseback and the crafty ones know that, so they took off for easier pickings. At least for the time being.’

  ‘But what do they want?’ The fact that natives had been following them and Kate had not noticed made her feel foolish.

  ‘To cause trouble mostly, although they don’t mind a twist of sugar, and they’re right partial to a tomahawk, so pretty much anything that we’ve got, but usually as long as we keep moving we’ll be right.’ Mr Souther
land’s reply didn’t comfort Kate. ‘It’s when we stop,’ he continued, ‘when the white man stays, that’s when the problems start. This is their land, you see, and as far as they’re concerned, we’re taking it from them, but to travel through it? Well, most of the tribes are real hospitable, they’ll show you where the water is, where the best grazing is for the horses and bullocks. Show them a bit of courtesy, be generous in return, give them a bit of tucker and the odd trinket and they’ll wave you on your way. But stay put, well, that’s when the troubles can begin if a person’s not careful. And those that have gone before us haven’t always given thought to the fact that the blacks consider this land theirs.’

  ‘But how can they think it their land?’ asked Kate, incredulous. ‘New South Wales is a British colony.’

  The Major crossed his wrists, resting them on the saddle. ‘You see, George, terra nullius. No-one owned this land before the British Crown took possession of it.’

  ‘Really?’ The older man tugged at the brim of his hat. ‘A bit of paper drawn to suit another’s purpose means nothing to them.’

  ‘For a British subject, George, you are inordinately disloyal.’

  ‘Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the facts.’ Leaning from his mount Mr Southerland handed Kate a small pistol. It was a beautiful piece with an intricately engraved wooden handle. ‘I’ve been saving this for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you know how to shoot?’ the expedition leader asked.

  ‘Of course she doesn’t,’ the Major interrupted.

  ‘Yes, point and shoot.’ Kate sounded more confident than she felt.