‘Of course. Perhaps Mrs Horton can make up a salve to apply.’
‘No,’ Mrs Hardy replied. ‘Rinse the wounds with brine, that will do. Mr Hardy would want it so. Once a convict, always a convict. And don’t dally over at the men’s quarters, Kate. They’ll be testy, the lot of them. It only takes one person to put everyone out,’ she said pointedly. ‘One of them will have to take on that man’s tasks. Mr Callahan won’t be anyone’s friend by the end of this.’
‘If he survives,’ Kate countered, hoping against hope that he would recover.
‘That kind always do.’
In the kitchen Kate waited for the cook to mix up salt and water in an iron bucket. It was a crude and painful disinfectant, but neither woman suggested going against their employer and taking something more soothing. Once the concoction was ready Mrs Horton handed Kate the bucket along with some clean rags. ‘Don’t dally, girl.’
‘I won’t,’ Kate assured her, although if the chance came to speak with the Major, she would risk an ear-bashing for the opportunity. Never would she have imagined that James would turn up at the Hardys’ farm.
The men’s hut sat downhill less than half a mile away and was ringed by lightly timbered country thinned by the daily need for wood. In the distance, men’s voices could be heard. Kate rounded a corner and saw the building. Next to it was a rough lean-to that served as stables for the horses, although they currently wandered freely to graze, their progress limited by the leather hobbles they wore. There was a fire burning. The smell of roasting meat and smoke grew strong. Men’s voices rose and fell like the rumbling ocean. Overhead the sky turned a reddish pink, the change in light creating a moment of enchantment as a cascade of colour spread through the bush. The men’s voices grew angrier.
At the door to the hut Kate announced her arrival, hesitated and then called again that she was there to tend to Mr Callahan’s wounds. A nervousness turned her stomach.
‘Brine.’ Gibbs’ disgust showed itself in flaring nostrils as he met her at the door. ‘Come in, I’ve cleaned him up as best I could.’
‘I better not,’ she replied. She’d never taken to Gibbs. A guffaw of crude laughter sounded.
‘The rest of them are out back, eating.’ He leant close. ‘That fancy Major and the others ’ave ridden down to the creek. There’s fifty or more sheep ’cross the other side, some speared, others with their hind legs broken. Seen it before, Southerland has, a handful maimed, says they do it so they can find a feed real easy. Sheep can’t move too fast with a broken leg. But fifty? It’s a sign.’
Kate followed the convict down the length of the narrow room lined with sagging beds. Although she didn’t say it aloud Kate agreed with Gibbs. It sounded like the blacks were looking for trouble by causing it. Or was it revenge? A prone body lay on a cot at the far end beneath a shuttered window. Fading light seeped through the ill-fitting timber boards, something scuttled across the bark roof.
‘A man should never have come up here. You best keep your eye out, girl, for not all of us will be staying to fight for the likes of him.’
Mr Callahan lay on his stomach moaning, his forearms and hands resting on the dirt floor.
‘If you run, they’ll go after you, Gibbs.’ Kate sat the bucket on the ground and squatted until she was almost level with the injured Scotsman. His breath was raspy.
‘Maybe, but we’ll take our chances,’ the convict replied.
Kate couldn’t blame the man. ‘I’ve only got salt and water, Mr Callahan.’ The long, dark room smelt stale. There was a trickle of liquid as Kate dunked a cloth in the brine and then wrung some of the fluid out. The waistband of the Scotsman’s trousers was crusted with blood. His back, red raw. Kate was revolted by the messy wound, but she swallowed her disgust as the meaty scent of the injury began to fill her nostrils. She repeatedly soaked the material in the brine and squeezed the mixture carefully across the ravaged back. Her patient groaned loudly, flinching with every drop to his skin. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Callahan. It’s the best I can do.’ He lifted a hand and she took the sweaty skin in her grasp, squeezing gently. ‘I’m here.’ Her eyes grew moist.
‘A man has the right to arm himself,’ Gibbs said righteously.
Kate completed her ministrations and dropped the bloody cloth in the bucket. ‘I best go before it gets dark,’ she told the convict, wiping at her damp eyes. ‘Take care, Mr Callahan.’ The old man didn’t answer.
‘And this, flogging a man till he’s near death, I’ll not stomach it no more.’
‘It’s a bad thing,’ Kate agreed. ‘I thought Mr Hardy better than this.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
Kate waited until Gibbs left and then with a final check on Mr Callahan, she too went outside. The air was chilly as she tossed the bloody water from the bucket. She could hear a horse approaching along the track and she moved to the side lest the rider round the corner and knock her over. But the rider, a soldier, had seen her and he drew his mount up hard and fast.
‘Miss Carter.’
‘Major Shaw.’ She grew almost breathless at the sight of him.
‘You are well, I hope?’
‘Well enough,’ she replied cordially, trying to stem her delight at seeing him.
He looked down at her, his mount shuffling its legs back and forth impatiently.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Kate told him.
‘Then I have the advantage.’ His voice grew soft. ‘You shouldn’t be out here, Kate, it will be dark soon.’
‘There is trouble?’
‘Enough, to the south and west,’ he told her.
‘Why are there not more of you then?’
The Major crossed one hand over the other and leant forward in the saddle. ‘There are, to the east. We’re scouting, meeting with settlers. You best get indoors.’
The echo of another rider galloping towards them caused a shiver to run down Kate’s spine. The Major dismounted quickly and, pulling Kate behind him, drew his pistol. Horse and rider came from the south-west, from across the creek, cutting between the huts on the hill and heading along the rough track towards them. The unknown man, a youth, yanked on the reins on seeing them, stirring dirt and gravel. He muttered a string of garbled words.
‘Steady, boy,’ the Major soothed, holstering the pistol he’d drawn and taking hold of the boy’s bridle.
Kate moved to stand by the Major’s side, grateful for his protection.
The lad was wide-eyed. He tightened his grip on the reins and appeared as if he were about to bolt for the safety of the scrub. ‘The blacks have risen up,’ he began with the breathless tone of a frightened woman. ‘There’s smoke rising from the Stewarts’ run. You all best arm yourselves.’ He noticed Kate. ‘And lock your women folk up for protection.’
‘When?’ the Major asked.
‘Today, yesterday, who knows when it began.’
‘By the sounds of it,’ Major Shaw interrupted, ‘it’s never stopped.’
‘I heard it from one of the shepherds, who’d heard from another. They say the Lago Superintendent has been missing more than a week. They told me to spread the word.’ The boy was white with terror and tiredness. ‘I ain’t staying out there watching sheep no more. I don’t care if they put me in a chain gang.’
‘Go around the back of the men’s hut, ask for Gibbs.’ Kate pointed in the direction of the convict and the other men, whose fire was visible from the smoke that rose behind the building. ‘Tell him I sent you. They’ll look after you.’
‘Will it be safe here?’ The boy peered into the timber anxiously.
‘Yes, off you go,’ the Major commanded.
‘Bless you, lady, bless you.’
As he rode away Kate repeated the question. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Let’s just see you back to the house and once you’re there, stay inside, Kate.’ Remounting he extended an arm to her. Kate dropped the bucket.
‘Tuck your skirts up, Kate.’
She did so, swin
ging up onto the horse’s back with difficulty. ‘You’ve never ridden before?’
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Well, put your arms about my waist. Tighter. Tighter. Right, hang on.’
The animal took off at the gallop. Kate, afraid of falling, drew her arms tightly against the Major, pressing her cheek against the width of his shoulder. She’d never been so pleased to see someone in her entire life.
Chapter 21
1838 June – to the south-east
of the Hardy farm
The smoke was acrid. Adam crawled on his stomach below the tainted air, which rose gradually on a rising wind. Carefully he reached out a hand to lift sticks and branches from his path, anything that might make a noise. Snaking his body across a log, the edge of the burnt-out grass appeared through the dense smoke. The fire was creeping to the south, coerced by the northerly breeze. Jardi tapped his shoulder, gesturing that all was clear. Bidjia was already padding across the smoldering ground. The two men rolled their eyes and rose as one.
The white man lay on his back near a camp fire, a spear protruding from his chest. The remains of a haunch of meat suggested he’d been cooking at the time of the attack. He was young, perhaps twenty, with stubbly growth on his chin. Adam closed the dead man’s eyes and then, placing his boot on the man’s ribcage, pulled at the spear. The spike caught on a rib. There was a cracking sound and then the weapon came free. The point of it was barbed.
The hut behind the dead youth was partially collapsed and still burning. It was this dark smoke that they’d seen in the distance. The building had been torched, which in turn started the grass fire. They walked around the dwelling. It had been one-roomed with a stone fireplace that still stood. A few pots lay on the ground, next to a blanket and some stores. A small book, partially blackened, was the only other thing not totally destroyed.
Bidjia and Jardi examined the footprints left in the ash. ‘It could be any number of warriors seeking payback.’ Bidjia contemplated.
‘But it’s not, is it? You think it’s him? You think it’s Mundara?’ Adam asked.
‘I cannot be certain.’
‘The girl would be with them.’ Jardi referred to the captured woman on the riverbank the day they met Mundara. It was not the first time he’d mentioned her.
‘Forget about her.’ The light finally dwindled to nothingness. ‘The moon grows fat tonight and we must move on, as others will be moving.’ Bidjia pointed to boot marks in the ash and led them away from the isolated hut to the north-east.
‘The spear was barbed,’ Adam reminded the older man, ‘and the stores have not been taken.’
‘There will be many spears now and more muskets loaded with shot.’
Yesterday they’d come across a well-built homestead. The three men had run under cover, seeking shelter behind trees and logs in order to get closer without being seen. There were grape vines and roaming chickens, a separate building for the smoking of meat and a handsome set of yards near what remained of the stables. Two of the outbuildings were torched and still burning, the occupants of the farm holed up inside the house. Planks of wood had been nailed over some of the windows and muskets could be seen poking out through sections of shutters. There’d been little point in stopping.
‘Now what?’ Jardi grew moody. He pointed out the footprints belonging to the attackers. They led to the north. ‘Bronzewing, we must do something. There are only four of them.’
‘This is not our fight. You forget why we came to these lands and why we must keep moving.’ Bidjia walked on, padding across the ground at a steady pace, spear at the ready. He’d recovered much of his strength after a few days’ rest.
‘I remember everything,’ Jardi complained to Adam. ‘The loss of my clan, our lands. The women and children dying from disease, the old people melting away as they grieved for their country. And now us, running, always running. Would my father have another clan destroyed? Would he see that girl used as a man uses a waterbag? Would he see her dead?’
They caught up with Bidjia near a stand of wilga trees. One of their kind was propped up against a knobby trunk. Legs splayed and arms lank, the man’s breath was ragged. It came in gasps that produced small bubbles of blood that sat on his top lip like gathering flies. The men squatted next to the stranger. His shirt-front was glossy with blood. Fully clothed, a musket and pistol lay within reach although he would not have use for these weapons again. The blucher boots he wore were near new, a sure sign he was hired labour.
‘Maybe stockman,’ Jardi suggested.
Bidjia prodded the wound to the man’s chest, carefully prising the shirt free of the injury to check the colour of the blood. ‘Musket shot. He will not survive.’
‘I wonder if he gave chase to those that attacked the boy,’ Adam pondered, ‘or if he was one of the attackers and the boy shot him?’
Eyelids fluttered open, a hand scrabbled uselessly in the dirt for a weapon.
‘You’re amongst friends.’ The look of doubt in the man’s eyes was strong. ‘Are you with one of the settlers?’ Adam searched the blackfella, turning out his empty pockets as the stranger scrutinised every movement. ‘What’s your name?’ A metal disc with the initial J roughly etched on it was tied to a piece of leather cord about his neck. ‘We came across a burnt-out hut back a bit; a man had been speared. Do you know anything about that? About the big run a bit further to the south?’
‘Whitefella dead?’ The black’s breath was shallow.
‘Yes,’ Bidjia answered.
The man gave the slightest of nods. ‘Good.’ His head slumped to his chest.
The three men looked at each other.
Untying a powder pouch and one of shot from the man’s waist, Adam gathered the weapons. ‘He must have joined with Mundara.’
Jardi took the musket, Bidjia a pistol. ‘This is an impossible war.’ Jardi shoved the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. ‘Who is friend and who is enemy?’
Adam found himself thinking of Winston Lycett and then of the dark-haired girl on the Hardys’ farm. He’d not mentioned her to his companions for although he could do nothing else, it felt wrong to have left her there. Trouble was brewing.
The moon was beginning to appear, a slither of light rimming the earth’s crust, eating away at the shadows and casting the land in a soft glow.
‘Come,’ Bidjia urged.
Chapter 22
1838 June – the Hardy farm
The moon rose quickly. It clipped the trees to hang hard and bright, dulling the stars and casting elongated shadows across the ground. Major Shaw linked an arm through Kate’s and she slid awkwardly to the ground with a thud. ‘Stay inside.’ His tone, although firm, was kind.
Her heart beat quickly. The ride from the men’s hut had been delayed by the arrival of Mr Southerland, who’d stopped them midway seeking the youth who’d ridden in. Kate spent the time the two men conversed doubled-up behind James, wishing for George Southerland’s departure. Kate was desperate to know of the Major’s moves, if he was heading south, and if so, if he would help her return to Sydney, but the chance for such questioning never came. The convict, Gibbs, was the next to delay them, seeking further information and now they were already returned to the kitchen hut, and Kate was feeling helpless, scared and very much alone. There was something solid and familiar about the presence of this man. Kate didn’t want him to leave.
‘Major Shaw? James?’
‘This isn’t the time, Kate.’ His attention was already drawn to the Hardys’ hut. The overseer and the other soldier who’d arrived earlier were on the verandah speaking with Mr Hardy.
Kate rested a hand on the warmth of the horse’s neck.
‘Everything will be alright.’ James surveyed the musket holes in the kitchen wall. ‘Don’t forget what you’ve already endured. Few women would have made the decision you did, Kate Carter. Truly, everything will be fine.’
That was the second time he’d said as much. Once was a comfort, Kate thought, t
wice was not. ‘How do you know?’
‘Go inside and stay there.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Are you armed?’
Kate drew the flintlock pistol from the folds of her skirt. He smiled. ‘Point and shoot.’
‘Point and shoot.’ She felt a blush come to her windblown cheeks.
‘You’ll be safe here.’ His mount took a few steps back and forth, the horse nickering in the cold of the night air.
The thought of him leaving sat badly with her. ‘Will I see you in the morning?’
‘Go.’ He watched her retreat towards the kitchen hut, pulled on the reins and was about to steer his horse away when he turned back. ‘Yes, I’ll see you in the morning, Kate. Keep the door shut and that pistol loaded.’ His boots touched the mare’s flanks, and they trotted away, disappearing around the corner of the building.
In the empty kitchen, Kate surveyed the mess. A rushed supper had been served in her absence and the dirty plates and platters sat untidily on the table. There was a stench of rancid fat from the slush lamp, around which varying sized insects flew. Pouring hot water from the fire-blackened kettle into a large basin, she began scrubbing the crockery with a brush, intent on keeping her thoughts from that of the Major, from what may be out lurking beyond.
‘There you are.’ Mrs Horton arrived carrying an empty tray. ‘And haven’t I had a to-do of things tonight what with Mr Hardy calling everyone a bastard after what happened to his sheep and the Missus too ill to leave her bed and then them two soldiers appearing like wraiths. I had a time scratching up food for them, I tell you. Bread and soup was the best I could do. Left it for them, I did. I ain’t going outside again this night. It’s enough to give a woman a fit of the vapours, it is.’ Dumping the tray on the table she sat heavily on a candle-box. ‘Blacks and full moons, gives me the willies. And that lean-to of ours, I never liked the place. Walls as thin as parchment, might as well be half open to the wilds. Not that it matters. I lie awake most of the night wherever I am. But after what happened to them poor sheep, well, I ain’t leaving here. Besides the moon’s full and I ain’t lying outside to be touched by it. There’s plenty a person who’s gone to sleep under a full moon and woken up a lunatic. And it goes without saying that it’d be worse out here. This moon, well, it’s nothing like an English moon. A person can’t escape from it here.’ The cook scraped the box across the dirt floor closer to the table, one eye fixed on a hole in the wall, as if a moonbeam could strike her at any moment. ‘Well, serve us up a bit of that watery soup and cut us some bread, Kate. Good, now that rendered fat. After what I’ve been through I don’t mind gobbling down more than my share.’ Dipping a spoon into the bowl of dripping, she smeared the bread with it and then pushed the bowl towards Kate. ‘Get it into you, girl.’ The cook raised an eyebrow. ‘What else do you know? For a chatterer like you, you’re being too quiet. You best tell me.’
Wild Lands Page 31
