Wild Lands

by Nicole Alexander

  James’s eyebrows lifted in amusement.

  Mr Southerland chuckled. ‘Close enough.’ He beckoned for the flintlock back. ‘Watch carefully.’ Tipping black powder from a flask into the muzzle end, he then followed this with a round lead ball wrapped in a piece of paper. ‘That’s your shot. This,’ he pulled a short rod from where it was stored on the underside of the barrel, ‘is your ramrod and you push it all down hard. Add some powder – a small amount mind – to the flashpan at the top here and then close it up and put the safety on. To fire, undo the catch, cock, point and shoot.’ He demonstrated. ‘Understand?’

  ‘And try not to shoot yourself or Mr Callahan,’ James quipped.

  Accepting the pistol, Kate tucked it into her skirt pocket. It was unnerving to think that they thought she may well need to protect herself.

  Retrieving a map from his coat, Mr Southerland unfolded the parchment. Lifting the chart he studied the series of lines. The paper was cracked in places and frayed about the edges. The sight of the well-worn chart was comforting until Kate recalled the map that James had shown her prior to their departure. She wondered now if they were nearly beyond the known counties, if the engulfing whiteness which spread upwards from the line that signified the outer limits was close at hand. She couldn’t help but feel that they were heading into oblivion. He pointed at a gap through the timber. ‘A couple of miles of forest and then we’re in open country for a bit. The going should be reasonable across the valley and it will be safer. We’ve got a good few weeks of wagon tracks to follow before we have to keep a look-out for the blazed trees that mark the trail towards the outer limits. If all else fails, we simply keep going until we reach land that hasn’t been eaten out by livestock yet.’

  ‘And the weather?’ the Major queried.

  ‘Weather, what weather?’ The Englishman looked at his soldier friend as if he were daft. ‘Joe tells me that the coming summer will be bad for all concerned. No grass is one thing, but water is lifeblood for black and white alike.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not have to worry about muddy roads then.’ The Major shook hands with his friend.

  Mr Southerland lifted a shaggy eyebrow, folded the map and secured it in his pocket. ‘Don’t give those young troopers of yours too much of a hard time, James.’ He touched his hat in deference to Kate. ‘We’ve another solid day of travel, best we get a move on.’ With a cluck of his tongue the horse trotted off.

  ‘Callahan, keep an eye on Miss Carter,’ the Major instructed the Scot. He nodded in Kate’s direction, lingering as if there were words left unsaid.

  She too felt compelled to say something, anything, but the Major was already reining his horse clear of the wagon, not waiting for Mr Callahan’s reply.

  ‘Aye, I’ll do me best, Major Shaw, sir.’ Placing his cabbage-tree hat on his head, he winked at Kate and then cracked a long-handled whip. Eight feet of plaited greenhide unfurled to snap at the leading bullocks up front. The wagon began to trundle across the rutted ground as Mr Callahan walked alongside the team of fourteen bullocks, guiding them through the trees, the second wagon following close behind.

  James rode briefly beside Kate. ‘Goodbye, Kate Carter.’ He smiled.

  Kate smiled back, but too soon he was tugging on the reins and turning to travel in the opposite direction. She wanted to look back over her shoulder, to crane her neck around the canvas dome of the wagon. Instead she gritted her teeth and focused on the moving animals.

  Once the bullocks were walking at a steady pace, the Scotsman retraced his steps until he was level with Kate.

  ‘Peas in a pod those two, the Major and that leader of ours.’ He glanced ahead to where Mr Southerland was just visible. ‘Both of them got a hankering for adventure. Had I my druthers over I’d never have done what I did and been forced to leave Scotland. It’s bad enough to be branded a felon but to come here, to a land where everything can kill you – snake, spider, the pox, the natives – well, you have to wonder who decided to send a person to New South Wales. Of course it doesn’t bother the likes of Southerland, the man’s just trying to survive, and by all accounts he never applied to get his wife and child out here, unlike some of us. As for the Major, well, he’s here to make his mark before returning to the Mother Country. He’s got no interest in land out here. No, he’s after a bit of adventure and then it’s back to London and the high life. He’s a toff and toffs have only ever got one person in mind – themselves. Keep the scum from the toffs’ trough. That’d be his thinking.’

  Kate didn’t share Mr Callahan’s opinion. ‘You don’t like the Major?’

  ‘Miss Kate, the day the man gets off that horse of his to talk to the likes of us, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘Mr Callahan, I believe you have a problem with figures of authority.’

  His grin revealed a missing eye-tooth. ‘Aye, you’ve found me out. I do.’ The Scotsman cracked the whip and the team kept plodding along to cries of ‘move along there, you buggers’, ‘find your feet’ and ‘steady as’. Behind them the wagon load creaked and groaned. The bullocks lumbered onwards and out into a dark avenue of stately trees. Kate tied the shawl securely about her shoulders and licked sun-dry lips.

  ‘We should all have muskets,’ Mr Callahan called to her as the bullocks walked on, their sloping shoulders and hefty rumps swaying from side to side as if a galleon upon the sea. ‘But I’m glad for your sake that Mr Southerland gave you that fancy little piece. Where we’re going, a man would have to be mad not to be able to protect his person. We should all be armed now. As for worrying about them blacks stealing, it’s more likely they’d be lifting a spear in our direction.’

  Kate huddled on the hard chest. The area they passed through was all woody plants and dense foliage, beyond which lay the unknown. She’d be pleased when they were back in more open country. In such places Kate was content to leave the discomfort of the dray and walk alongside the slow-moving wagon. ‘We’ve not seen many natives,’ she replied. ‘Well, apart from the ones at Maitland. You’d think we’d see more of them, or at least hear them.’

  ‘They be out there, you can put coin on that. Hiding behind that tree, or that one.’

  Kate leant forward, examining the timber lining the track. She almost expected to see yellow eyes peering from between the woody plants. The trees were tall and straight, thick girthed and spaced so close together that it was almost as if they’d been planted.

  ‘They was born out here, Miss Kate. They’re like animals – knowledgeable, cunning. They know everything about this place. We know nothing. Best we all keep an eye out, for you never know when they’ll come for us.’

  It was unlike her companion to voice his concerns. Kate guessed he’d been aware of the blacks that had been tailing them and like the rest of their group had chosen to keep this fact from her, especially while their party was larger. Although she could have been annoyed at such collusion Kate was in fact grateful for their complicity. There had been much to contend with already without being in immediate fear of one’s life.

  ‘Maybe when we get to the farm, Mr Hardy will give you a musket,’ Kate suggested, the weight of the pistol dragging at the folds of her skirt.

  ‘Me? Not likely. I’ve only me ticket-of-leave, there’s no muskets for the likes of me. I’ve heard tell some settlers allow it, on account of plain common sense, depending on what you were sent out for, of course. But Hardy? Southerland says he’s a stickler for the rules. Which is why I keep me ticket in me pocket.’ He rubbed it for luck. ‘One day I’ll get that pardon. In the meantime I’ll work for wages and bide me time, again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I’ve had the odd problem with authority.’ He grinned. ‘So there you have it, lass. You and me we’re like chalk and cheese.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s not that much difference, Mr Callahan. My father was sent out for stealing.’

  ‘A currency lass, eh? Aye, I heard such a whisper. It took you some time to spit that out. Well, a woman’s g
ot to be born with a bit of gumption to do what you’re doing, miss. Good luck to you, I say, and if you need a helping hand with anything, I’m your man. Now what was we talking about yesterday?’

  The stench of fire was on the wind. The acrid scent seemed to grow more powerful every day. ‘The fires.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ He cracked the long whip, reminding the bullock team to retain their steady gait. ‘The blacks are all about burning, burning, burning. One would think they lived on fire instead of water. They’re trying to burn the whites out, Miss Kate. That’s what it is, for if they burn the grasses, what will the livestock eat?’

  ‘Mr Southerland told me it was so new grasses would grow, for the animals. The kangaroo and such-like.’

  Mr Callahan rolled an aching shoulder. ‘I’ve heard the same. He’s got a name he has, our leader, for getting on with both black and white. He pacifies us all with stories tried and true and somewhere in the middle is the truth.’

  Kate shielded her face with the end of the shawl as the bullocks kicked up dirt and dust. The track they drove along was rutted and dry, the tree branches overlapping so it was as if they moved through a dim tunnel. A few hundred yards on, the pink comfort of dawn greeted them as they left the forest and entered an expanse of open country. She smiled at her companion, but Mr Callahan was focused on the route ahead, on Mr Southerland and his dapple-grey mare and … three figures.

  Blacks.

  The Aboriginals appeared between the wagon and Mr Southerland, and ran directly towards them, throwing their spears in tandem. Kate screamed as a spear sailed directly at them. The warrior was tall and lean with a mass of dark hair and deep scars etched across his torso. In an instant Mr Callahan reached up, pulling her roughly. Kate fell to the ground with a thud and rolled on her side. The bullocks bellowed, the wagon rocked violently and lurched to a stop. The chickens within screeched as musket shot echoed.

  Kate got to her hands and knees. Mr Callahan was running towards the lead of the bullocks, Mr Southerland was at the gallop, his musket directed towards one of the natives. Another shot followed and one of the attackers dropped to the ground. Dazed, Kate retrieved the pistol from the folds of her dress, ran to the edge of the trees and fell to her knees. Her hand trembled violently, the pistol wavered from left to right. With difficulty she removed the safety and tried to steady a raspy breath.

  Wrenched to her feet and spun around in one movement, Kate looked up into the eyes of an Aboriginal. His hands were on her shoulders. There was a smell of animal fat, of the earth. A bone pierced his nose. He pushed her hard against a tree so that the scream within her was lost with the winding. His appraisal was brief, interested. Kate cocked the pistol and fired. Sparks flew. A burning sensation struck her hand. The native fell to the ground, clutching his stomach as she took a shocked step backwards. Feet away, the warrior with the matted hair and scars met her gaze. Then he was gone.

  The black tracker, Joe, rode past her, his horse jumping the fallen logs amidst the timber, then he too disappeared into the scrub.

  George Southerland galloped towards her and dismounted. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No.’ Kate couldn’t take her eyes from the moaning man writhing on the ground before her. His hands clutched at his stomach.

  Mr Southerland winced. ‘It’s a slow painful death you’ve given him, miss. But a kill is a kill, I suppose.’

  ‘I thought … he touched me. I thought …’

  ‘Come now.’ Taking the pistol from Kate’s shaking hand, he led her back to the wagon.

  Behind them Betts and Gibbs had left their bullock team and joined Mr Callahan. Mr Southerland handed his musket and shot to the Scotsman. ‘You know how to use it?’

  ‘Aye.’ The Scotsman took the firearm without further comment.

  ‘Keep a lookout then.’ He checked Kate’s pistol as she leant against a wagon wheel, reloaded it and handed it back into her care. ‘You’ll be right. You did good, girl.’

  Kate could barely find the pocket amidst the folds of her skirt, her hands shook so badly. As their expedition leader climbed into the rear of the covered wagon to emerge moments later with another musket and extra ammunition, she dry-retched onto the ground.

  ‘Here.’ Mr Southerland handed her a bottle.

  ‘No, I’m fine really.’

  ‘Drink it, Kate. It’ll fortify you somewhat.’

  It was rum. The drink burnt all the way down, but it stayed down and to her surprise Kate took another gulp. Their leader took two big swigs, stuffed the bottle inside a saddle-bag and then, remounting, gave chase to the fleeing black, and Joe.

  ‘Damnation.’ The bullocks bellowed and kicked out in fear and then one of the two lead animals fell to the ground. Mr Callahan wrenched the spear free of the animal’s mid-section as Mr Southerland galloped past. The Scot studied the spear, which had broken off inside the beast, and threw the weapon away in disgust.

  ‘Will it live?’ Kate walked closer, her legs still shaky. The bullock’s back legs scraped the dirt as it kicked out.

  ‘No, he’s near dead as a saint and just as useless to us out here.’ The man shook his head. ‘Damn fine beast. It’s just a waste, a waste I tell you.’

  Betts and Gibbs scanned their surrounds. ‘That be a first.’ Betts gestured to the musket. ‘Maybe we’ll be armed as well.’

  ‘And a good thing that would be,’ Gibbs decided. ‘Even the lass has a pistol.’

  Mr Callahan passed Betts the yoke key and ordered them to unhitch the dead bullock, while he stood guard waiting for the Englishman’s return. ‘They were a well-matched pair, my leaders,’ he told Kate as the metal bow that secured each bullock pair to a wooden yoke was undone and the central chain coupling each pair together in tandem was disconnected.

  Two shots sounded from the bush and minutes later Mr Southerland reappeared with Joe. They rode swiftly back to the stationary wagons as the two convicts took one of the less experienced bullocks out of the team and tied him to the rear of the wagon, then they backed up the team and re-hitched the old and new leaders.

  ‘Are there enough to pull the load?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Aye, lass. We’ll be right,’ Mr Callahan advised. ‘We’ve brought extra in case of loss.’

  ‘Anymore harmed?’ Mr Southerland didn’t wait for a reply. He ran an experienced eye over the bullocks and then the dead animal. ‘Cut a hind leg off it, wrap it in a blanket and put it in the rear of one of the wagons. We might as well treat ourselves to a bit of beef. Any problems, Mr Callahan?’

  ‘No problems, Mr Southerland. We’ll manage with what we’ve got, though they were a doughty pair, those two.’

  ‘Good as you are then.’ He flung a knife in the dirt at Betts’ feet and told him to cut the leg and be quick about it. The convict’s lip curled. He glanced from their leader to the black tracker on horseback but he did as he was told and, with Gibbs’ assistance, carried it to their wagon. ‘I’d be keeping a watch on things, Mr Callahan,’ their leader suggested.

  ‘Aye, you can be assured of that.’ He lifted the musket.

  ‘Keep it.’ The men exchanged nods. ‘We could be lucky, but I’m expecting we won’t. News travels fast out here. The blacks will know we’re coming, how many are in our party and what stock we have. And I fear we haven’t made a good first impression,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘They be after the muskets then, do you think?’ the Scotsman asked.

  ‘Those who have seen them know their limitations. The blacks prefer their spears, they’re faster and more accurate, unless you’re up close and friendly like Kate was. They’d rather use muskets to shoot birds.’

  ‘Did you get the other one?’ asked Kate, hoping so.

  ‘He was long gone.’ Mr Southerland trotted away to take up position at the front but this time he stayed closer to the wagons, his musket across his thighs.

  Joe reappeared from the timber line to canter his horse across and joined him.

  Kate climbed up into the wagon and sa
t on the chest, her heart still pounding as Mr Callahan enticed the bullocks to movement. The animals were testy. The wagon rolled back and forth unsteadily. She would get off and walk in a few minutes but her legs trembled at the thought of what she’d done. Point and shoot, she’d said earlier that morning.

  Ahead, Mr Callahan snapped his whip, once, twice and then resumed his position near the leaders as finally the beasts began to move. The black tracker shared a few words with Mr Southerland and then rode back to Kate’s wagon and, taking up a position alongside, kept pace with the bullock team.

  Kate felt unnerved by Joe’s presence. They’d never spoken directly to each other, which was as it should be, and yet she sensed his dislike, although whether his perceived animosity was for her personally or their expedition it was impossible to tell. ‘Can I help you?’ Kate asked, her fingers grasping the lid of the chest as the vibrations from the rough ground shook the wagon. Around Joe’s neck hung a metal disc with the letter J carved into it. Kate wondered at this trinket, looking quickly away when Joe saw her staring at it. In the grass lay the shot man. The team trundled past the killing spot and Kate couldn’t help but look. Red blood pooled on luminous skin and flies were settling on the body. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she turned away. For all the danger they’d been in, there seemed to be something terribly wrong with what she’d done.

  Joe turned to her. ‘You take a good look, Missus.’ He stared openly, his eyes hard and bright. ‘Welcome to blackfella country. You just done murder.’ He twitched the reins and rode away.

  Chapter 12

  1837 September – following the songlines

  The rifle shots echoed loudly across the countryside. Bidjia lifted a hand to halt their progress and then together the three men began to run down the hill in the direction of the noise to investigate. It was not yet mid-morning but the men were aware that the base of the tree-lined hills that bordered the valley below was a good place for an ambush. They kept their weapons at the ready, alert to anyone who may be escaping up into the safety of the slopes as they descended. They would be the unexpected strangers, once again moving through lands belonging to another tribe. Small stones scattered as they ran, but soon their path was slowed by the steep and rough terrain and by the time they reached the bottom, nearly an hour had passed.