Wild Lands

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘I can’t offer you much in the way of stores.’ Mr Hardy wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘The blacks raided us some weeks back, near cleaned us out.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Mr Hardy, but we’re pretty self-sufficient.’

  ‘Really?’ His brow wrinkled. ‘Well, that’s more than I can say for most of us. You better stay for a feed then. Mrs Horton isn’t the best in the kitchen but she can turn out something that will fill a man up.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t. I have to get back to my party. They’ll be wondering where I am and I don’t want them wandering off.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ the older man agreed. ‘I’ve heard tell plenty of stories of men who’ve got lost in the bush. You know the way then?’

  ‘I do.’ He passed his empty pannikin to Kate, holding her gaze for longer than necessary. ‘Thank you.’

  Kate wanted to say something, but she was at a loss for words. He was a stranger after all.

  ‘Keep an eye out for blacks,’ Mr Hardy warned.

  Adam dipped his chin to Kate. ‘I will. Take care, miss.’

  ‘And you,’ she replied, clutching the warm pannikin.

  ‘Who was that man?’ Mrs Hardy limped out onto the verandah as the stranger walked away. ‘I heard voices but I didn’t realise we had a visitor. You should have said something, Samuel, offered him a bed for the night, to dine with us, to –’

  ‘I did that but he had to be on his way, Sarah. He only came to warn us that the blacks were uppity.’ Mr Hardy resumed his seat at the verandah table. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  Kate watched as the man walked swiftly downhill past the fledgling orchard and began to head across the valley.

  ‘But who is he? Where is he from? What’s his name?’ Mrs Hardy was curious.

  ‘He’s a fool that’s lost, Sarah. He was trying to make his way to the sea. The sea. Port Macquarie is miles to the south.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ his wife answered.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Outside the kitchen Kate waited for the man to fade to a distant speck on the far side of the valley. Even when he’d finally disappeared she kept watching, as if expecting him to reappear. It was only a little later, in the midst of rendering sheep fat for the lamps, that Kate discovered that the feeling of distraction she’d felt earlier had left her. For the first time in weeks she felt calm.

  Chapter 20

  1838 June – the Hardy farm

  The potatoes were brown with dirt. Selecting one of the larger ones Kate wiped the earth free, watching as it fell in little clumps, the table growing messy with soil. Brushing the earth aside, she washed the potato in a bowl of water. As the cleaned spuds began to form a pile, Mr Callahan could be heard yelling out in pain. Through the slab walls of the kitchen, his voice merged with the crack of the whip. With each lash stroke Kate shuddered. Mr Hardy may have been a hard person but she’d never believed him capable of such a terrible sentence, especially one he had to carry out himself. Her employer was nothing like his cousin Mr Kable. In fact, in Kate’s eyes he was less than half the man.

  ‘He shouldn’t have done it. Thieving is thieving. Then he made things worse by not keeping his mouth shut.’ The thin-haired cook entered the kitchen holding a large bush turkey, shot by Mr Hardy and partially mauled by the dog. Dropping it on the table with a thud, she poked at the burning log in the fireplace. ‘Damn bird. Peppered with shot and all chewed up.’ A steady stream of smoke wafted up through the hole in the bark ceiling. A line of sweat striped the back of the cook’s dress from neck to waistband, where a roll of fat bulged comfortably on either side of her apron ties. Pulling up a chair made out of candle boxes, she began plucking the bird. ‘’Course, it’ll be a change for them having a bit of bird for dinner, if they don’t bust their teeth on the shot inside. I ain’t got the time to be a-digging for it. But there’ll be a bit left over for a tasty soup for the two of us. I’ll boil the bones down good.’

  The whip cracked again. Then there was silence.

  Kate prayed that Mr Callahan’s punishment had ended.

  As the cook worked, sweat dripped from her brow onto the turkey. ‘He knows what Mr Hardy is like,’ she began. ‘He’s a fair man if firm, but you can’t be expecting him to put up with the likes of Mr Callahan, not out here, not after what’s been going on. Everyone’s talking about settling scores.’ She gave a huff. ‘Gone too far those men did, killing those black women and children. And then ride on and kill more? You can’t tell me someone from their lot won’t want revenge. An eye for an eye.’

  ‘But you’ve never cared for the natives, Mrs Horton,’ Kate replied stiffly. The cook could make all the excuses she liked but flogging Mr Callahan was wrong.

  ‘Make me right frightened, they do. Nothing wrong with that. Don’t you be forgetting they attacked us once, afore your time. Holed us up in here. In this very kitchen and they stole my stores. I can’t forgive ’em for that. They ain’t like us, but what those white men did, stirring up trouble for the sake of it.’ She shook her head. ‘Daft. Just daft. I’m not one for the killing of women and children. Bit of give and take is what’s needed, but now everyone’s looking over their shoulder.’

  Kate dropped the peeled potatoes into an iron pot and sat it next to where the cook worked. ‘It’s because of what’s been happening that Mr Callahan stole that musket. Surely he shouldn’t be punished for wanting to protect himself? And even then it doesn’t call for a flogging. And where’s the law? Have they been notified?’

  ‘The law? You best have a look about you, girl, and remind yourself of where we are. Anyway, Callahan knew what would happen if he were caught. He’s a ticket-of-leave man, second time lucky. He didn’t tell you that, did he? Thought not. By rights he should have been hung by the neck until he was dead, but the man’s got more lives than a cat he has.’

  ‘Whatever he may of done, Mr Southerland trusted Mr Callahan enough to give him a musket when we were attacked travelling from Sydney. And there are other stockmen with muskets, men who were once convicts too.’ Kate mopped the table free of dirt with brisk movements.

  ‘They’ve earned the right. Callahan hasn’t. So you best keep your opinions to yourself.’

  ‘But he’s an old man.’ Kate knew there was no point arguing but she felt so useless.

  The cook lifted the roughly plucked bird and flipped it over on its other side. The bird hit the table with a dull thump, rattling a bowl that held an assortment of unwashed carrots.

  Kate peered through the fist-sized air-hole in the wall. Outside the chooks ambled across the dirt, pecking half-heartedly. ‘We’re entitled to our opinions,’ she said bitterly, her breath appeared as puffs of steam in the morning air.

  The plucking finished, the cook wiped the bird down with a damp cloth and then sat it in the pot with the potatoes. Into it she poured water and added a pinch apiece of salt and pepper. A good dollop of rendered mutton fat completed the ingredients. ‘Keep quiet’s my advice. They say one of the landholders has ridden to Syd-e-ney to report the slaughter. Everyone’s got the willies, Kate. Who’s to say the blacks don’t come after us?’ The lid of the pot clanged over the meat and potatoes. Lifting the camp oven Mrs Horton sat it amongst the coals. ‘We don’t need the likes of a hardened man like Callahan carrying a musket. I don’t trust any of that lot. If there’s an advantage to be had he’ll take it. What if a bushranger showed looking for food and horses?’ Mrs Horton continued. ‘Do you think Callahan would defend us with his life or join ’em? Do you think if the blacks rose against us that he’d stay and fight to protect the Hardys or us?’ She glanced over her shoulder and, assured they were alone, lowered her voice. ‘This is a hard place we’ve come to. Keep your nose clean, that’s my advice.’

  Mrs Hardy appeared in the kitchen doorway, Sophie clutching her mother’s hand, the mongrel dog by her side. ‘Are there many potatoes left, Cook?’

  ‘A month’s worth at best, Missus.’

  ‘Not enough. I wonder what we w
ill be eating in two months. Kangaroo and bread, no doubt.’

  ‘I’ll do me best, Missus.’

  ‘I thought we’d left such punishment behind us,’ Mrs Hardy began. ‘That was one of the few consolations of journeying here. Was your father ever flogged, Kate?’

  ‘No, Mrs Hardy,’ Kate answered curtly.

  The lady of the house frowned. ‘And what about you, Cook?’

  ‘I came across with my parents, Mrs Hardy. We was immigrants. There isn’t any convict blood in my kin.’

  ‘Of course. I forgot. It looks a dreadful thing to be flogged. And one’s marked for life. I can’t understand it. We’ve had little problems with the assigned men.’ She grew breathless.

  ‘Everyone’s uppity, Missus.’ The cook stoked the fire.

  ‘Yes, yes they are. Well, Mr Hardy would like you both to leave your duties and join him outside. Come on, now.’

  Kate didn’t move. She had a terrible feeling that Mr Hardy wanted to show them his handiwork, and she just couldn’t bear to see poor Mr Callahan suffering.

  Mrs Horton wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Begging your pardon, Missus, but I need to keep an eye on this bird. I don’t want you chewing on boot strap.’

  ‘Now.’ Selecting a pannikin from the shelving on the wall, Mrs Hardy limped from the kitchen hut. Outside she dunked it into one of the wooden barrels filled with the last of the rainwater. ‘Follow me.’

  They passed the woodheap and copper. Young Sophie ran ahead, the dog by her side. Child and dog gave chase to the chickens and immediately the air was filled with squawking and the flapping of wings. Mrs Hardy yelled at the dog to sit down and then reprimanded Sophie. A rare event. When the scuffle finally ended Kate shooed the chickens back to their pen with a handful of potato peel.

  Mrs Hardy and the cook waited quietly and then the three women circled the two huts, and began to walk along the track that led towards the men’s quarters. Mrs Hardy limped along slowly, stopping to catch her breath frequently. Ahead a tripod of wooden beams had been erected.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ the cook whispered, ‘it looks like a crucifix.’ She duly crossed herself.

  It was here that Mr Callahan was bound. His wrists and feet tied to the timber so that he was spread-eagled, his body stretched tight so that the taut skin would increase the damage done by the whip. The two women waited at a distance and tried not to stare at the bloody mess that was once a man’s back, as Mrs Hardy limped on ahead.

  ‘Is he alive?’ Kate whispered, horrified by the sight of her friend.

  The cook grimaced in response and looked at the ground. A trail of red meat-ants were making their way towards the whipping place.

  Mrs Hardy was deep in conversation with her husband, her back turned firmly against the wretched man behind her. He listened intently and sipped the water she’d brought him as little Sophie and the dog ran around the bleeding figure.

  ‘People shouldn’t be treated like that,’ Kate whispered. She felt sick to the stomach.

  ‘Well, then you’ve come to see Mr Callahan.’ Mr Hardy wiped his beard with the back of his hand and passed the cup back to his wife. ‘He’s alive, aren’t you, Callahan?’ The man didn’t respond. ‘Come closer, Kate, you too, Mrs Horton. Have a good hard look at what happens to rabble-rousers and thieves.’

  The two women did as they were told, although their feet dragged and they kept their heads bowed until the very last moment. When they were still some feet away they lifted their eyes reluctantly. Mr Callahan’s back was latticed with deep cuts. His head sagged. Small black flies were gathering. Kate dry-retched at the sight.

  Mr Hardy waited for Kate to compose herself. ‘Of course it’s to be expected. Once a convict, always a convict.’ Mr Hardy flicked sweat from his brow. ‘He was sent over for stealing and then in Sydney Town he did it again, didn’t you, Callahan?’

  ‘I told you he couldn’t be trusted,’ the cook hissed at Kate.

  Mr Hardy turned to the flogged man. ‘We housed him, fed him and gave him an honest job and after less than a year in my employ he becomes a troublemaker. Well, we don’t want troublemakers. We don’t need thieves or liars. Not out here. This country’s on the brink of war. Whites being murdered. Blacks being massacred. You women take heed of that for I’ll not be swayed by your sex. Understand?’

  Kate and the cook bobbed their heads in unison.

  ‘Off you go.’ Mrs Hardy attempted to sound lighthearted but her voice was strained, though whether from the morning’s events or her illness, Kate was uncertain.

  ‘I don’t blame Mr Hardy for the flogging he gave Callahan,’ Mrs Horton mused as they returned to the kitchen hut. ‘We can thank the agitators and the do-gooders for leaving us with ticket-of-leave men. Emancipation ruined New South Wales. We’d all be better off having convicts who could be locked in their huts every night. Chained like the dogs they are.’ The glance she shot at Kate suggested that the woman was keen for an argument.

  In the kitchen Kate angrily spooned leaves from a tea-caddy into the teapot, added water and sat it in front of the cook along with the chipped cup that she liked the most. Was she really the only one who thought that the Scotsman’s punishment was too harsh? ‘I should take Mr Callahan some water.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ the older woman snapped. ‘We come into this world by ourselves and we leave the same way. If the Scotsman dies from thirst, through folly, instead of going peaceful like, that’s of his choosing. He don’t need no friend.’

  Kate walked outside and stared across at the valley. The sadness and anger welled up uncontrollably until large tears slid down her cheeks. If she could leave the farm this instant she would. The lands beyond the outer limits were not the place for her.

  It was late afternoon by the time the men came in from the paddock. The sun was dipping through the trees, turning the hills blue-black against a pale sky and it seemed to Kate that she was never further from civilisation than at that moment. The horse’s hooves and the faint call of pigeons echoed as sweat patched her dress, running in rivulets from her hairline. Although it was cold outdoors the kitchen was hot and stuffy with the heat of the fire. She’d spent the hours since midday trying not to think about poor Mr Callahan. Kate had darned the Hardys’ clothes and then rendered down fat for soap. The dough for the next day’s bread was the last of her chores. With that task completed Kate picked at the drying water and flour lodged beneath her fingernails, thinking of a time when she had watched Madge doing the exact same thing in another kitchen far away. She pressed her forehead against the rough timber of the doorway, relishing the coming of evening. Behind her the cook snored at the table. Outside the yellow dog lay sprawled in the shade of the water dray, one of the wooden barrels dripping into a bucket beneath.

  The lead horse came into view, emerging from the thick bush on the narrow creek track. Mr Hardy rode straight-backed, his coat-tails flapping over his mount’s rump, Mr Southerland close behind. Two unknown riders trailed him, and a man on foot. One of the shepherds. For a moment Kate wondered if the dark-eyed stranger had returned and with the thought she felt a twinge of anticipation. She focused on the approaching group. Two of the riders wore red tunics. The military. In the kitchen she scrubbed the dough from her hands and then washed her face briskly, exchanging her filthy apron for a clean one. It may not have been the man she’d thought, but any visitor was welcome. Quickly re-pinning her hair, Kate shoved unruly tendrils beneath a straw hat, picked up an empty bucket and walked outside.

  The riders bypassed the huts and headed directly towards the flogging post and Mr Callahan, the yellow dog straggling behind. In comparison to the soldiers, the other two men appeared rough. They wore their beards long and kept their reins tight, and were it not for the fact she knew her employer and the overseer they looked the type that at any moment might bolt into the scrub.

  Kate moved a little closer to loiter behind the Hardys’ hut, seemingly to pick up something from the ground. The animal
s’ rumps were glossy with sweat, the men’s backs a wall of haphazard proportions. Although the grouping of men around the post were at least two hundred yards from the buildings, one of the figures was familiar. The taller of the soldiers was wide-shouldered and slim-hipped. For an instant he was blocked by the ring of men and then Mr Hardy stepped aside. Kate did indeed know the man. It was Major Shaw. And he had seen her.

  ‘What are you doing, Jelly-belly?’ Sophie unfurled Kate’s fingers. ‘Why are you collecting pebbles?’

  ‘Shush, child,’ she replied. The sight of the Major was quite unexpected. Kate’s mind raced at his reason for being there.

  The Major had turned away.

  ‘What do you want?’ Kate said curtly. ‘Why must you always be following me? I’m sick of it, do you hear?’

  The girl kicked at the bucket. ‘Look, they’re cutting him down.’

  Kate sighed. ‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘Mama, Mama,’ Sophie called out, skipping towards the hut.

  The convict, Gibbs, walked slowly up the track. Kate ran to him. ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘They’re with the coppers what came north,’ the convict replied. ‘The Major says that we’re to be armed, that many a convict on runs further out have firearms. Hardy, well he’s none too happy, but the officer said that convicts have been carrying muskets and pistols out Bathurst way since the ’20s, probably afore the ’20s. ’Course it’s been on the quiet, though them that make the law know. You can just see the looks on the swells if they all knew that us convicts were armed.’

  George Southerland cut the ropes binding Mr Callahan and then together with the unknown soldier the two of them half carried and half dragged the older man towards one of the horses and hefted him onto the animal. Kate couldn’t believe it. If only the Scotsman had waited another couple of days.

  ‘You best tend to his wounds, Kate,’ called out Mrs Hardy from the rear window of her house.