The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  To do my sister justice, she never made the mistake of assuming that intelligence is confined to the higher orders. As I recall now, she made mention of those who, though gentlemen, are of a ‘low type naturally’—and claimed (on at least one occasion) that there is no position, however humble, from which men may not rise if they have a mind.

  Which is all well and good. But her mistake lay in classifying the stockman’s position as humble—for a less humble breed I have rarely encountered. What poetic figure is conjured up when one views a mounted bushman cracking his long whip overhead, urging his dogs to attack as he dodges the charge of a wild herd? Not that of a tradesman or labourer, certainly. Rather, one is reminded of a scene from Sir Walter Scott, save that the knight wears no mail. You might argue that there can be no comparison: that a man who earns his keep with a dog, a horse and a bullwhip cannot hope to emulate a man ‘valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage/such as were grown to credit by the wars’. But there is no confidence like the confidence of a man whose greatest desire is to have his horse killed from under him by the horns of a savage beast, that he may boast about it at night around a camp-fire.

  This, at any rate, is my opinion. And it is based on careful observance, for I have some familiarity with a stockman’s life. I have even tasted the fierce exultation of a headlong ride or two. There was a time when I spent many hours of the day on horseback—when I sought the limitless freedom of plains and forests as an antidote to the restrictions of a hopelessly confined social existence. Therefore I have some sympathy with stockmen. I even admire them. And I would never make the mistake of underestimating either their cleverness or their hard-won fortitude.

  John Atkinson, I believe, felt the same. What twelve-year-old boy would not? I have some notion that he grew up listening to tales of mustering, and of horse-breaking, and of ‘real Russian’ bulls which—though legged, thrown and tied fast—will yet break three strong ropes, one after the other, before charging everyone in the branding yard and leaping over a six-rail fence. Without doubt he must have had good grounding in the bushman’s art. I was told years later that he took a herd from Bong Bong to Moira Station, on the banks of the Murray, when he was only nineteen.

  But I digress. In 1836 John Atkinson was still aspiring to the stockman’s life. At that time he had mastered only the requisite cool-headed swagger, which he practised upon me with great enjoyment. He was already sprouting up towards the sun like a beanstalk, and had left me far behind; from his lofty vantage point he gazed down with a kind of benevolent condescension that I found most trying. Even so, I revered him. I could not help myself. For while his father’s manner was ponderous, as deficient in verve as it was richly endowed with unbending dignity, John Atkinson the younger had charm. This could not be denied. My mother called him conceited—and I suppose he was. But he had reason to be, because he possessed the sort of bright, avid gaze and clear-cut features that wring indulgent smiles from even the most hardened acquaintance.

  And I was not the least bit hardened, in those days.

  Picture me, then, in front of the Sutton Forest chapel at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. At that time Sutton Forest was barely extant. Beside the shabby weatherboard chapel stood the Anglican school, which comprised two neat little whitewashed cottages. Across the road could be seen Mrs Davey’s General Store, and the house of old Mr Wright, who at eighty-seven was still spry enough to attend the Sunday service. To the north, down the dusty ribbon of the Argyle Road, lay Captain Nicholson’s estate, which he had called ‘Newbury’—no doubt because my father had called his estate Oldbury. To the south, not far from the church, a small group of buildings clustered around the road: the Talbot Hotel, the Harp Inn, and a handful of slab huts. Beyond these dwellings, Sutton Farm and Payne’s Creek marked the end of Sutton Forest.

  Hardly the ‘busy haunts of men’, as you must agree. Yet this pitiful outpost was my notion of a metropolis. I had seen no larger settlement in my life. And I could imagine no happier excursion than a trip to Sutton Forest, unless it were a visit to Bong Bong. If I yearned for the Sunday service, it was not because I enjoyed the Reverend Vincent’s sermons on the Life Everlasting. It was because I wanted to press my nose against the window of Mrs Davey’s store, and admire the Throsbys’ horses, and hear the latest news from my cousin John.

  John, you see, had his ear to the ground. Though not a lover of books and learning, he was knowledgeable about the world in which he lived. Somehow he contrived to read newspapers. From an early age he had also developed a taste for the company of hired hands, spending much of his time listening to gossip in kitchens and stables and stockyards. By this means he had acquired a degree of bush lore that made him useful about the farm, even though he was still young; on more than one occasion his father—who could ill afford the array of staff that we supported at Oldbury—had been obliged to send John on various errands to Bong Bong, Berrima and Throsby Park. John had friends scattered about the countryside. My mother often said that John was running wild, and would bring much sorrow to his family if continually indulged. ‘I fear for him,’ she would sigh. ‘I fear that his spiritual education will be neglected, and that he will come to grief.’

  Personally, I entertained no such fears. It seemed to me that John was far better equipped for life than I was. He knew absolutely everything, and was happy to impart what he knew. No doubt he liked to impress his little cousin, but I will say this for him: having no imagination at all, he was never tempted to embroider his facts with fantasy. Nothing that he told me, to the best of my knowledge, was a lie. Indeed, for a boy so deficient in ‘spiritual education’ he was remarkably truthful. Perhaps he realised that the truth was all he needed to tell. My own acquaintance with the world was so limited that it required no wild flights of fancy to persuade me of my inferior status.

  Being the supplicant in our acquaintance, I did not wait for John to approach me. Instead, upon being released from the musty confines of the chapel that February morning, I charged ahead of my mother and ran straight up to my cousin, who was standing a little apart from his family, hands in pockets, surveying the nearby school grounds. John was at that time reed-thin. He was dressed neatly, but his clothes showed signs of wear—such as can be seen in the wardrobe of any active boy whose parents are beginning to feel pinched for cash. Only his hat looked new. It was a cabbage-tree hat, of the type then fashionable among country folk, and woven very fine.

  ‘Hello, cousin!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have a new hat!’

  A strange expression crossed my cousin’s face. I do not believe that I had ever seen it there before. Though fleeting, it was easily identified as embarrassment. My instant reaction was to ask myself: why is John embarrassed? Surely he is proud of his new hat?

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Yes, I got it yesterday.’

  ‘Can you roll it up, and put it in your pocket?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Obligingly, he removed his hat and rolled it up, to demonstrate how delicate the texture was—while all the time glancing over at his parents. I found this odd, because my cousin normally liked to emphasise his independence by ignoring his mother and father, unless they addressed him by name.

  ‘Very nice,’ I admitted, peering back at my own family. Sure enough, James was moving in our direction. I did not want him to spoil our chat with his tedious and noisy interruptions about scabs and dead beetles. I wanted my cousin all to myself. ‘Quickly,’ I said. ‘Come around here. I have to tell you something.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ John sounded sceptical. But there was a glint in his eye, and after one final glance at his parents, he followed me to a sheltered corner of the churchyard, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, the bright new hat once again on his head.

  ‘You will never guess what happened,’ I announced, hanging off a fence-post as I eagerly addressed him. ‘The police came to our farm. And Mr Throsby, too.’

  ‘Be
cause of the bushrangers?’ said John.

  ‘Oh.’ My heart sank. It seemed that I would not fill the role of herald, after all. ‘Did you hear about the attack, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ For some reason John cast a quick look over his shoulder. When he turned back, I could not read his face. The emotions written on it were complex—too complex for me. They belonged to the realm of adult concerns. ‘It was in the newspaper,’ he added.

  ‘The newspaper?’

  ‘The Sydney Herald. Didn’t you know?’

  I shook my head, speechless with astonishment.

  ‘They printed Mr Throsby’s official report,’ my cousin went on. ‘About Mr Barton and the flogging.’

  ‘The flogging?’ I was confused. ‘What do you mean? Were the bushrangers flogged?’

  John stared at me for a moment. ‘Not the bushrangers,’ he said at last. ‘I mean Mr Barton’s flogging.’

  ‘Mr Barton was flogged?’

  ‘Shhh!’ Once again, John looked over his shoulder. ‘If your mother has kept it from you,’ he said quietly, ‘maybe she doesn’t want you to know.’

  ‘Know what? What did it say in the newspaper? Tell me—you must tell me!’

  He hesitated. I still cannot be sure if his hesitation stemmed from a real concern for my peace of mind, or whether he merely wanted to savour my pleadings. Both, perhaps.

  ‘Hurry!’ I exclaimed. ‘Before James comes!’

  ‘I only know what I read,’ my cousin replied, with an elaborately careless shrug. ‘Your overseer was out riding with your mother, and they were set upon by two bushrangers, who stole their money, gave Mr Barton thirty stripes with a bullwhip, and put a gun to your mother’s head.’

  ‘Oh!’ This was a painful revelation indeed.

  ‘Was no one else there?’ John continued, lowering his voice and leaning forward slightly. His eyes were narrowed. ‘It seemed from the newspaper that your mother and the overseer were by themselves. But maybe that was false. Surely Mrs Atkinson took other men with her?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘They were alone, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John grunted. His eyebrows went up. Sensing trouble, I quickly asked: ‘Why? Was that wrong?’

  Again, John shrugged. He had the grace to look slightly abashed.

  ‘If there had been more people, would the bushrangers have stayed away?’ I pressed him, alert to something odd in his manner. ‘Is that what the newspaper said?’

  ‘Of course not. It was just a report.’ He began to retreat. ‘Your brother is kicking Will Throsby—look,’ he said.

  ‘John, wait!’ I grabbed his sleeve. ‘You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘The rest.’ I refused to let him go. ‘What else did it say in the newspaper?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Calm down,’ he said irritably, shaking me off. ‘It said that Mr Throsby’s stations had been robbed by two armed bushrangers in the last few weeks. And your mother’s, too. That was all.’

  ‘Do you think she should have stayed at home? Because of the bushrangers? Is that what you think?’

  ‘Charlotte, you are far too young to know what I think,’ John rejoined, in patronising tones.

  ‘I am not too young!’

  ‘At any rate, I have to go,’ my cousin added. ‘Mama is calling me.’

  Was it delicacy or cowardice that drove him away? To this day, I have no idea. All I know is that he left me there to puzzle over his strange reticence. He had been hiding something. That I did understand. For he had demonstrated far less interest in the flogging than in the fact that my mother had been riding alone with her overseer.

  Why?

  I was only a child, then, and very innocent. I could find no answer in my heart. Yet as I wandered back towards the church, I began to sense a curious restraint among the familiar congregation. At first glance, nothing appeared to have changed. Mr Throsby was talking with my uncle about the magistrate’s court. The Reverend Vincent was complaining about the shortcomings of his parsonage to Mrs Williams. Mrs Throsby and Miss McRae were both struggling fruitlessly to keep the seven Throsby children from running amok. Yet it was almost as if these people drew away from me as I passed. No one greeted me, or smiled at me, or commented on the new silk ribbon that trimmed my Tuscan bonnet. Instead, I noticed curious pauses in the conversations that were being conducted far above my head. When I caught the eye of old Mrs Wright, she turned her face quickly.

  In the midst of all these people, my mother stood alone. Wearing her dark widow’s weeds, she looked stark and sombre against all the fluttering, sun-bleached ginghams and tarlatans. She smiled bravely as she held James’s hand and balanced Louisa on her hip. Yet the space around her was empty.

  I ran to her, filled with a sudden protective instinct.

  ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘Where is Emily?’

  ‘Is she not with you?’ my mother asked. ‘Perhaps we should form ourselves into a search party.’

  ‘There she is,’ said James, pointing. And there she was: a woebegone figure dragging her feet, with wet cheeks and a distraught expression on her face. The crowd seemed to part before her, yet no one bent to offer comfort. Later, when I was more conscious of our plight, I could not recall any hostility in the air. There was more a sense of confusion. Or so I thought.

  Emily approached us, and buried her face in my mother’s skirts.

  She would not tell us what ailed her.

  ‘Never mind,’ Mama said. ‘It is very hot, and you must all be hungry. I have some peaches in the gig for my darlings. Who wants to go home? Yes?’

  So we departed from Sutton Forest, and did not return until ten days later—when my mother married George Bruce Barton.

  Six

  An interlude

  Why did my mother marry such a man?

  This question tormented me for more years that I care to acknowledge. Looking back, I can see now that I was never free of it. Sometimes it became an obsession, filling every waking moment and many dreams as well. At other times it was relegated by more urgent questions to the darkest corners of my mind, where it festered like a corpse. Once or twice it thrust itself upon me when I was frantically busy, with little time to spare for idle speculation. (How I would curse my own wayward thoughts!) This only occurred, however, when new evidence slyly presented itself, in the form of newspaper extracts or chance meetings. Then the old, bitter question would spring back to the forefront of my mind, dragging with it all its associated resentments and complexities.

  Take Charles Throsby’s report, for instance. Many long years passed before I finally read it—some twenty-five years, in fact. I was on my way to Goulburn from Berrima, with my husband and children. It was a cold, wet winter’s night. We had stopped at a species of inn that you will find nowhere, these days: a subsiding slab hut, propped up by many flimsy additions that served as cellars, larders and private rooms. This hostelry may have been at Marulan, though I can no longer be sure. After forty-five years, my memories of it are not as clear as they should be.

  Wherever it was, and however humble, still we were glad of it. How relieved we were to be enjoying a roof over our heads! For we had been travelling by dray, exposed to all the elements; the day had been blustery, and the road very soft. Perhaps for this reason, there were not many travellers abroad. We practically had the whole inn to ourselves, and were easily able to secure a private room—which, though not luxurious, was at least big enough to contain us all. The publican, moreover, was a kind and decent man, who made us very welcome. He apologised for the lack of fireplace in our room. His wife brought extra blankets for the children, and stewed up a beef broth especially for little Ernest, who was feverish. I cannot remember this good couple’s name, unfortunately. I only recall that they were both Irish.

  For that reason, my husband sat up late in the public room. I did not. (It is my belief that a lady of proper upbringing can ne
ver feel really comfortable in any hotel, however lavishly appointed.) So I retired to our bedroom, where I sat amongst my slumbering children, listening to the rain and watching for leaks. I had been alerted, you see, by the stains on the walls. They were reddish stains—almost blood-coloured—and they suggested to me that some missing roof-shingles had been replaced by slabs of bark overhead. It was hard to tell how recently this might have occurred. While new sap will often give water that peculiar reddish tint, there was no knowing how long the stains had been present. Perhaps the damage was old, and the roof had been repaired. Peering closely at the sheets of newspaper with which the walls had been lined, I saw that many of them were of considerable antiquity. The Illustrated Australian Magazine, for example, was a journal long defunct. So was the Illustrated Sydney News. The Sydney Herald had for the past eighteen years been known as the Sydney Morning Herald; it was odd to see the old masthead again.

  I was studying it idly when my gaze slipped down past the advertisements to another page, which was plastered almost at eye level. And suddenly my own name leapt out at me.

  Atkinson.

  I never paused even to take note of the honorific placed before it. Instead my gaze travelled swiftly back up to the headline, which had been set in capital letters. ‘FLOGGING OF AN EMIGRANT SETTLER BY RUNAWAY CONVICTS’, it read. And in smaller type, beneath: ‘The following statement was sworn before me at Oldbury on the 4th of February, 1836.’

  I turned away, gasping. It was as if someone had kicked me in the chest; I could hardly breathe. I rose and moved towards the mean little window, fleetingly conscious of a need to fling it open. Of a need to escape, perhaps? Yet for all that, I was drawn inexorably back to the grimy newsprint—which had been waiting there patiently for so many years.

  This is how, after a quarter of a century, I was finally able to acquaint myself with the content of Charles Throsby’s report on the incident at Belanglo.

  The report itself was quoted in full. In the words of ‘George Bruce Barting’ (sic) it described how, about ten miles from Oldbury, ‘the deponent’ had been going down a steep mountain, leading two horses, when he was stopped by a pair of armed bushrangers who sprang out from behind a rock. They told him to set loose his horses. When he refused to comply, they ordered him to remove his jacket and hand over all his money. Barton then surrendered both the jacket and twenty-one shillings.