Wild Lands

by Nicole Alexander

  The bash to Kate’s head came from nowhere. One minute her heart was pounding, her fingers curled around the useless pistol, waiting for the attack to be over, and the next she was upside down, the blood roaring through her brain, the ground a moving, murky blur of sand, mud and water. Her arms were hanging uselessly and her head … the pain was shocking. The ground shifted. Something peppered her face and arms, pinpricks of grit and dirt. She spat out soil. The pain grew worse. Kate was sure she would be ill, then a creeping blackness began to descend. Death, the oblivion of it, the nothingness that awaited, scared her more thoroughly than she could have imagined. The threat of it forced her to focus.

  The warmth of another human being; she could feel it now. Someone carried her, she’d been flung over a shoulder, and they moved quickly. Twisting her neck, Kate caught sight of a brown arm. It swung back and forth holding a wooden club. Summoning all her strength, she screamed. The next moment she was spinning through the air and landing with a thud on the hard earth. Someone or something had collided with them.

  Adam. Kate heard his voice, low and threatening, like a growl. He said the warrior’s name, Mundara.

  The sides of the gully were steep as Kate grabbed at the shifting dirt, scrambling awkwardly up and away from the narrow waterway where the two men now faced each other. Her head spun. Adam dropped his musket and unsheathed a knife. His attacker leant forward, tossing the club from one hand to another. The native was tall and wiry. It was not a body or face one would soon forget, especially if you’d been dragged by the hair, certain of death or, she suddenly comprehended, had been attacked while journeying northwards to the Hardy farm. This was the third time that Kate had seen this savage, but the man was not as dark as she’d supposed; up close there was a lightness to his skin.

  The two men rushed at each other.

  The black struck out with the club, hitting Adam on the side of the head. The blow pushed him slightly from his path, momentarily dazed, but he gathered himself and wielded the blade swiftly, slicing through Mundara’s bicep and, instantly spinning on his heel so that the knife was driven forwards with the full force of his body, cutting through the shirt the black wore and finding flesh. The man retaliated by diving forward, forcing Adam to the ground and straddling him. He gripped Adam’s knife hand and the two men locked eyes.

  Adam lifted a knee and the impact of bone against Mundara’s back unbalanced him, jolting the attacker forwards and forcing the loosening of his grip. Instantly Adam plunged the blade upwards and the knife lodged deep in the man’s chest. Mundara fell lifelessly to the ground.

  Pulling the blade free, Adam wiped the blade on his trousers and went to Kate’s side. ‘Come now,’ he said gently. Helping Kate to stand, he wrapped an arm about her for support. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked softly.

  Kate probed tentatively at the growing lump.

  ‘Here, let me see.’ Very gently Adam examined the wound, before brushing away the long strands of dark hair from Kate’s eyes, and resting his palm against the soft contours of her face.

  Kate lifted a hand, partially encircling his wrist with her fingers. ‘Don’t.’ She was breathless and shaken, so why was she saying no to this man’s touch when all Kate really wanted was for Adam to hold her.

  ‘Why not?’ Adam asked.

  A click sounded. Major Shaw aimed a musket at them, as George Southerland limped towards them. The overseer was bashed and cut up about the cheeks and eyes and a bloody wound to his thigh had turned his trousers wet with blood.

  ‘Step aside, Kate,’ James ordered.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Kate replied angrily.

  ‘Give me the knife, Adam.’ James beckoned with his hand.

  Kate moved to stand a few feet away. Adam gave the officer a hard look but dropped the blade in the dirt, the point lodging in the soil.

  ‘You’re under arrest for the murder of Archibald Lycett.’

  ‘Who?’ Kate queried, confused. ‘Who is Archibald Lycett?’ And then she remembered, they were a settler family, friends of the man who’d just saved her life for a second time.

  Adam was mute. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Winston had accused him of his father’s murder? From the direction of the Stewart property three men on horseback were approaching at the gallop.

  George Southerland bent over the dead black’s body. ‘Well, we’ve seen him before. He was part of a group that attacked our wagons. Bloody half-castes.’ He spat in the dirt.

  ‘What are you doing, James?’ asked Kate, outraged. ‘He just saved my life.’

  ‘As any man should, Kate.’ He gestured for his captive to turn and Adam did so as the overseer tied his hands behind his back with a short piece of leather.

  The Major pressed the end of the barrel into Adam’s back. ‘Walk.’

  ‘James, please?’

  Kate’s plea was ignored. The men’s attention had been diverted by the arrival of Jardi. He stopped ten feet short of the group and, lifting his musket, aimed it at the Major.

  ‘Leave him be,’ Jardi ordered.

  The Major remained steady. ‘George, you take aim between his eyes and if the boy makes one move, shoot him.’

  The overseer levelled his weapon reluctantly. ‘I’ve got no quarrel with you, lad.’

  ‘This is not your fight, Jardi,’ Adam told him, ‘you know this. Leave me. Tend to Bidjia.’

  The boy was outnumbered.

  ‘Musket first,’ James demanded.

  Adam nodded for Jardi to comply. He did so unwillingly, dropping the musket on the ground, his upper lip curling. The officer picked it up, handing it to the overseer.

  Jardi, clearly unsure what he should do, looked to Adam for help. ‘Bronzewing?’

  ‘Bidjia? How is he?’

  ‘My father says the spirits call him, my white brother.’ Jardi’s skin glistened with sweat in the remnants of the sun’s light. ‘It is his time, for the moon is dying and the darkness is coming.’

  ‘Get on with you,’ James gestured to Jardi to move away, ‘lest you want to be locked up as well.’

  ‘Leave, Jardi,’ Adam told him, ‘you cannot help me. This is white man’s business.’

  Jardi began to back away. ‘I must sing the songs. I must tell the spirits that Bidjia comes.’

  A shiver ran down Kate’s spine.

  ‘Tell him. Tell Bidjia …’ Adam searched for the right word. In the end, no matter what he said, it would never be enough. ‘Tell him thank you.’

  ‘You are his son, you are of the clan.’ Jardi backed away reluctantly before returning to his dying father.

  ‘He helped us,’ Kate argued, ‘you must go and fetch Bidjia, James. We must tend to his wounds at least.’

  ‘No,’ Adam replied, ‘leave them be.’

  The pound of hooves grew louder. They waited for the approaching horsemen, who rode towards them across the wavering grass, kangaroo-hide coats flapping in the air. The men tugged on long reins and drew up in a spatter of dirt and gravel. The horses snuffled and whinnied as they came to a stop. The grit carried forward, coating those standing in wait with dust and bringing with it the scent of horse flesh and saddle-grease, sweat and tobacco.

  ‘George Southerland? What in the name of Mary Queen of Scots are you doing here?’ Mr Stewart ran an observant eye over the ragged group and dismounted. His men were wary. They were bearded, stocky types who surveyed the surrounding land with suspicion.

  ‘The Hardys have been murdered, Mr Stewart. I’ve brought Kate Carter here for safety and this is Major James Shaw. And that there’ – the overseer pointed to where Mundara lay dead – ‘is the bringer of the troubles.’

  Mr Stewart tipped his hat back on his head with the flick of a finger. ‘Mundara.’ He examined the body as his mare whinnied and backed away to nibble at herbage. ‘That’s his native name, we know him as Kent Harris. His mother was part white. He worked here for a time but took off
a year or so ago.’ His boot pushed at the prone body. ‘He was running with some blacks further south, rushing cattle and eating the fattest. Built himself a set of cattle-yards he did. Aye, Kent was a sly one, but he came back before the end of last year, right melancholy and talking about some dark-haired woman who’d murdered his half-brother. I put him back to work and then after a month or so he’d gone again.’

  Adam and George Southerland looked at Kate, Mundara’s reason for vengeance becoming clear.

  ‘I thought he’d come back, but …’ He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. ‘I’m sorry for the Hardys, real sorry. And the little girl?’

  The overseer shook his head. ‘There were no survivors that we know of. The place was burnt to the ground and what men weren’t killed probably ran off. I could use some help to get their sheep mustered, shorn and the fleeces to market.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like you’ll be sitting on a horse anytime soon, George.’ Mr Stewart clucked his tongue thoughtfully, eyeing the wound to the man’s leg. ‘But no doubt we can come to some arrangement that’s beneficial to all. Well, we best get you lot back to the house. The dark’s setting in and although we’ve had no raids or attacks for a week, it’s best not to tempt fortune.’ The Scotsman turned towards Adam. He placed his hands on his hips, the action pushed aside the brown skin coat he wore, revealing a brace of pistols. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘This man is under arrest for the murder of a settler west of the mountains near Bathurst.’ James pushed the end of the barrel roughly into Adam’s back, jolting him forwards.

  ‘He saved our lives,’ Kate countered, taking a step towards Mr Stewart. ‘He should not be arrested.’

  ‘You’ve been fully occupied, Major,’ Mr Stewart commented dryly, looking from the officer to Adam and then Kate. He whistled for his horse and the animal came immediately, although the mare shuffled slightly back and forth as he remounted. ‘Well, come on, lass. You best give me an arm,’ Mr Stewart told Kate. ‘You look as if you could faint at any moment.’ He extended a hand to her.

  Kate glanced at Adam. She didn’t want to leave him. James was wrong.

  ‘Go,’ Adam told her.

  Reluctantly, Kate walked towards Mr Stewart and was heaved up roughly behind the Scotsman onto his horse. She rubbed at her shoulder. It felt as if her arm had been pulled out of its socket.

  ‘Marcus and Riley, stay with this lot and I’ll return with a couple of horses.’

  ‘There’s one thing,’ Adam finally spoke, ‘a man’s dying out there, a friend, his son is with him.’

  With the setting sun the expanse of pasture was made dark and impenetrable.

  ‘Blacks,’ James explained. ‘I’m pretty sure one of them was involved in the same attack as this man,’ he pointed to Adam, ‘but by the sounds of it he won’t last the night. As for the younger one we’ve no quarrel with him and he’s not armed.’

  ‘Fair enough, I’ll let them be for now, however, just in case you can put the prisoner in the smokehouse. He’ll be secure there.’ Mr Stewart gathered the reins and turned his horse homewards. ‘Hang on, girl.’

  Kate did as she was told, wrapping her arms around the barrel-chested Scotsman as the horse changed effortlessly from a trot to a canter. Mr Stewart was soon commenting on the murder of the Hardys, on how lucky the group had been to make it through unscathed. That his wife Nettie would be pleased to have a bit of company. Kate knew she shouldn’t do it, that she daren’t glance behind as they rode away. But she did. Adam’s silhouette was unmistakeable in the twilight.

  Across the country came a terrible wail. A moaning cry that grew thick with pain. The sound never varied, never weakened or grew stronger, but remained constant, throbbing. The noise echoed across the grassy plains, hovering among trees and spiky-headed grass. It was all around them as Kate rode on, away from the dreadful declaration of death. Her cheek was pressed firmly against the Scotsman’s broad back as tears streamed down her face. She thought of the Morning Star Adam spoke of and Kate wept for all of them, dead and alive, friend or foe. She wept for the land that black and white bled for and the life that fate had given her.

  I have seen

  Your rays grow dim upon the horizon’s edge

  And sink behind the mountains. I have seen

  The great Orion, with his jewelled belt,

  That large-limbed warrior of the skies,

  Go down into the gloom.

  ‘The Constellations’ by William Cullen Bryant

  (1794–1878)

  Chapter 29

  1838 July – the Stewart farm

  It was dawn when Kate woke. A pale light revealed a chair and washstand. The light increased, sliding up close-fitting timber walls and into well-crafted corners. The night had been filled with dreams that Kate couldn’t recall, only the memory of a constant wailing came with her into this new day and a fiery glow out beyond the buildings, on the grassy plain. This hadn’t been some fantasy of her imaginings. Kate had watched as the red-gold reached up towards the sky.

  She blinked and yawned, blinked again, wondering if it was Jardi who’d lit the fire and whether the old man, his father, was dead. Rubbing at sleep-crusted eyes, she realised that she was propped up by numerous pillows in an actual bed with thick blankets and a pale coverlet. She was thirsty and on the washstand she could see a pale pink pitcher with a glass next to it. Kate really didn’t want to move. Didn’t think she could. The dull ache that had lodged in her brain after the attack yesterday remained constant.

  She stretched out her legs and wriggled her toes. The sheets were intact, without holes or sprouting ticking and the scent of lavender pervaded the bedchamber. Leaving the bed, with its four posters rising to the timber ceiling and the thick mattress, was the last thing that appealed but finally Kate gingerly turned back the coverlet, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. A dizziness slowed her movements, but the light-headedness and accompanying ache did not detract from the amazement Kate experienced at her surrounds: a brightly coloured mat, floorboards and a round mirror hanging on the wall directly above a plain wood dresser. The cabinet held a matching bone-handled brush and comb, a number of glass bottles with stoppers and on the chair there was a clean skirt and bodice. Kate swallowed. Tears welled.

  There was a tap on the door and Nettie Stewart entered with a tray. ‘Good. I was hoping you’d be awake with the birds, for the noise this household makes doesn’t suit those who need rest. Now, I’ve brought you hot tea with a bit of sugar, Kate, and bread warm from the oven. Major Shaw told us that none of you had eaten much so we don’t want to tempt chance by stuffing you like a bush turkey.’

  Kate clutched at the high-necked nightgown that she could barely recall dressing in the previous evening. Was it true? Was this petite woman in her plaid skirt and dark bodice, with the laughing eyes and sun-creased skin, the same kindly woman who’d greeted her last night? ‘M-Mrs Stewart, please. You don’t have to wait on me. If you point me in the direction of the kitchen, I’ll make myself useful. I’m sure the cook –’

  ‘Nettie, lass. My name is Nettie. We didn’t come all this way to live the way we had in the past. This is a new world and a new world deserves new rules, don’t you think?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘As for a cook?’ The older woman gave a lilting laugh, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. She continued chuckling as the tray was placed on the dresser. ‘We’ve no cook, dear. I’ve three daughters aged fifteen to twelve and a right terror of a ten-year-old son and, believe me, they cause enough of a commotion without paying good wages for more trouble. So I can’t be responsible if the tea’s stewed or the bread’s as hard as riding tack.’

  A cloth was lifted from the tray and the sweet smell of bread and tea was enough to make Kate swoon.

  ‘This morning, however, there’s a semblance of quiet for my eldest are setting the fire to get the copper in readiness for the laundry while the younger two have already scampered off to the huts with their father. The shearing of the shee
p is only part-way through.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kate accepted the tea and bread and sipped at the hot drink. She wanted to gulp and gobble down the offering in one go, but Mrs Stewart was right. Her stomach was barely used to food.

  ‘Of course they were up half the night, what with that black terrorising them with his melancholy whining. Just like a dog it was, but twice as frightening for the little ones, especially in the dark of the moon. Why they let him be,’ she gave a dramatic sigh, ‘well, I can’t say I share my husband’s thoughts on the establishment of beneficial relations. Not after what’s been happening lately. And I doubt the blacks are too fond of the pretension either.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Mrs Stewart.’

  ‘Nettie, Kate. Now my eldest Joanna is about your size.’ Mrs Stewart held up a dark blue skirt with a faint pattern running through it and a similarly coloured long-sleeved bodice. The colours of the garments were bold. ‘But I’m afraid there’s nought we could do about shoes. Yours are close to ruined but we mended them a little so they’re wearable.’ She lifted Kate’s shoes up that had been left near the door and turned them over – one of the soles had been replaced with new leather. ‘I’m surprised you could walk at all with that foot. Red raw and blistered it is.’

  Kate looked down and saw with some surprise that her left foot was bandaged from the toes to the instep.

  ‘Now let’s have a look at that head of yours.’ Nettie opened the internal shutters on the window.

  A single pane of glass, although cracked from corner to corner, made Kate feel that more than ever she had indeed returned to civilisation. Her spirits lifted in spite of her aches and pains.

  ‘On the bed, lass.’