Wild Lands (2 page)

‘Get out,' she yelled, ‘get off with you!' She raised the thick branch as if she were shooing away chickens. ‘Go away.'

One of the men rushed forward and hit her with a club. Florence staggered and fell. There was something sticky on the side of her face and for a moment her eyes dulled. Dazed, she heaved herself up onto her elbows and began to crawl towards the humpy. She pushed at the door as a wave of dizziness came over her. Florence looked at the far wall. A piece of bark had been removed from the rear of the hut.

Adam was gone.

The blacks rummaged through the humpy, stepped over Florence and walked towards the creek. With her remaining strength she rolled onto her side and watched as her attackers disappeared into the bush. They carried blankets and the quart pot, but there was no sign of the boy. The creek gurgled and gushed. She didn't know how long she'd been lying in the dirt, but the morning was now sunny and bright. Florence thought for the first time how beautiful this place was, how quiet. The ground grew warm, as though ready to embrace her.

The canoe appeared like an apparition. It slid into her field of vision, gliding along the creek soundlessly, carried by unknown forces. There was a black sitting in it. The black from the rock, who had brought the meat. He looked at her.

Behind him a white child, a boy, reached out his hand and called to her.

Florence closed her eyes.

Ten years later
1827 June – eight miles west of Sydney

A cooling draft wafted in through the shuttered window, bringing with it the sweet scent of rain. Ten-year-old Kate Carter lay listening to the sound on the roof and the moaning howl of a dingo. It was the third time she'd heard the wild dog in as many nights and she wondered if he too felt lonely as she did. On her left, one of the two older women in the cramped room coughed and muttered in her sleep. Pushing aside the coarse blanket, Kate shuffled her way to the end of the bed. The tampered dirt floor was cold underfoot as her palm slid across the surface of the roughly mortared wall, bits of protruding oyster shells grazing her hand. She moved soundlessly to the end of the room and reached the window, which looked out across the rear of the garden. The room that adjoined the kitchen smelt of cooked mutton and a full chamber pot but the open door allowed the heat from the fire to take the chill from the air, and Kate was comforted by the wan light that the embers produced.

At the window she pushed the shutters open and rested her arms on the sill. At the end of the garden a fig tree glistened in the
patchy moonlight, its green leaves glossy with moisture. The great woody plant reached up into the heavens, the uppermost branches appearing to caress the stars. The tree was dense with leaves but from the highest branch there was a good view of the countryside. The Reverend's farm, where Kate lived, was surrounded by other farms in an area thick with natives and highwaymen. Only last year one of the fanciest homes in the area, Burwood House, had been robbed and the men responsible were captured and hung by their necks. The two women she now shared space with had been sent with the rest of the convicts to be reminded of the grisly end such actions caused, but the women had thought it a fine outing, one that spared them a few hours of work.

Kate drew her thoughts from images of taut ropes and kicking feet and pretended she was atop the fig tree. If she looked westward to Parramatta she imagined she could see the cemetery where her father lay buried. In the topmost branches, surrounded by birds and leaves, she spoke to him, telling him of the small things that filled her days. Of course she never told anyone of these conversations, not even her mother. She'd promised her father that this would be their secret and Kate was proud that there was something special that only she and her father shared.

Yesterday she'd told him about the cabbage-tree hat that she was learning to make. The Reverend employed convict women to weave the palm leaves together to form the flat-brimmed hats nearly everyone wore. Her mother said he made a good shilling supplying free settlers and convicts but that wasn't his main occupation. The Reverend was a farmer as well. The convicts sniggered that he was a Presbyterian pastor with trade inclinations, although why everyone in his household called him Reverend, Kate didn't know.

With the darkening sky Kate couldn't see the thick roots that sprawled out from the fig tree's base like legs, but it was not difficult to imagine the hollow at the rear of the tree where she sat,
once she climbed down from the boughs above. It would be cold at the base of the tree tonight, cold and wet. It seemed to Kate that there were now only two places of her very own in the world. The fig tree and the pallet that lay next to Madge's. When her father was alive she'd had her own room in a little stone house with a bark roof. His passing had changed everything.

On the floor behind her the cook, Lambeth, and the scullery maid, Madge, snored and muttered in their sleep. Kate leant out the window. Rain peppered her face and arms. Tilting her head towards the sky, droplets pricked her skin and outstretched tongue. She licked her lips and smiled as the air grew thick with the cloying smell of damp earth. A flash of creamy whiteness, a ghostly owl, flew past the window to land on the nearby woodpile, and as the rain grew heavier a gust of wind blew the shutters closed with a bang.

‘What you doing then?' In the dark room Lambeth's voice was harsh. ‘Get away from there before we all get the sickness, or worse.'

The shutters rattled violently as the storm grew heavier. Kate slid the latch across firmly and muttered an apology.

Madge, a girl of eighteen, was out of bed quickly. She grabbed Kate by the ear and led her back to the pallet.

‘Ouch,' Kate whimpered.

‘I told you she gets up and about of a-night,' Madge said harshly. ‘Pokes around the place, she does, sticks that fine nose of hers into a person's business, probably tells on us to the Reverend. Stay there.' The older girl gave Kate a shove and she fell onto the pallet. ‘Think yer better than us, don't cha?' Madge grabbed Kate's blanket. ‘Give it.'

‘I wasn't doing anything wrong,' Kate argued, rubbing her ear.

‘How many times have I told you to keep the blooming shutters closed?' Lambeth said with frustration. ‘Anyone could crawl through that window, robbers and such-like.'

Madge gave a chuckle. ‘Well, if some handsome highwayman jumps through that window, he's mine.'

‘You're as bad as the youngin,' the cook complained. ‘Now get to sleep the both of you.'

Kate brushed away tears. It was best not to answer. To do so usually led to a slap across the face or a cuff behind the ear, and her mother had enough to fret over without worrying about Kate. Although Kate did her best to hide the truth of things in their new home, occasionally the line between her mother's eyes deepened and she would give her daughter a disbelieving stare. Kate guessed that there were only so many trees you could climb and keep falling from. She turned on her side, bringing her knees to her chest.

Lambeth and Madge often talked about Kate and her mother, Lesley, and at these times they were not of a mind to worry if Kate was in earshot or not. It seemed they knew everyone's story. It didn't matter if you were the Governor or a soldier's wife or a free settler, the two convicts who ran the kitchen knew all about everyone and they knew more about Kate than Kate.

They reminded Kate regularly that her mother's parents had been among the first free settlers in the colony, while her convict father had been pardoned. For Lambeth and Madge, this meant that as Kate and her mother were free and native born that they thought themselves high and mighty. Far better than everyone else working on the Reverend's farm who were convicts toiling fourteen or more hours a day. It was best, Kate's mother advised, not to say anything, even though it was true that convicts were beneath them, especially mealy-mouthed London women of questionable reputation assigned to the colony. It was a matter of hierarchy, her mother explained. Kate still didn't know what the word meant.

The room soon grew chilly. Kate reached tentatively for the stolen blanket but Madge had cocooned herself within the material and, although asleep, clutched at it with both hands. There was nothing to do but lie where she was and shiver to warm herself by the kitchen fire. Kate snuck from her bed, picking up Lambeth's shawl, which had slipped to the floor from the woman's bedding.
Careful not to fall over the sacks of wheat that lined the wall, she went next door to the kitchen, wrapping the shawl about her shoulders. The embers glowed in the large hearth and the few cut lengths of wood she placed on the smouldering coals from the wood box caught fire quickly.

Kate sat cross-legged on Lambeth's shawl, watching the dancing firelight, tiny red-gold figures of licking flame moving haphazardly along the burning timber. If her father were there he'd tell Kate to cheer up and be grateful for the roof over her head and food to eat. At the thought of him she felt a little better and she found herself staring at the stone fireplace that was large enough for her to walk into. Its internal ledges held clothes irons ready for heating, kettles and pans, while overhead, large iron arms could be swung back and forth to hold pots over flames. Lambeth may not have been the nicest of people, but she prepared delicious chunky stews of birds, kangaroo and possum. Miraculous concoctions of potatoes and flesh were made rich with gravy, her speciality a lavish braised liver sauce. Even the Reverend remarked that the cook's clear soup of boiled bones was not to be sniffed at.

The smoke curled through the hole in the bark ceiling above the fire as rain fell. Kate's sleeplessness had come a few weeks after her father's death. At first it was her mother's tears that woke her in the middle of the night and then Lesley's frequent pacing in the small parlour, which had been her pride. Whatever the reason, Kate had grown used to waking when the household was asleep and because her movements were strictly supervised by Lambeth during the day, she enjoyed her nightly wanderings. Wrapping Lambeth's shawl about her shoulders, she opened the kitchen door. The slab stone step was freezing underfoot and the rain had intensified. Mud splattered her feet as large droplets splashed the dirt of the narrow track that led to the cottage. The building was out of bounds to everyone except those who were assigned specific tasks, such as cleaning and the serving of meals and tending to the
fire. This rule was especially difficult for Kate, whose own mother slept in the cottage's second bedroom.

Wiping rain from her cheeks, Kate ran between the two dwellings, mud squelching between her toes. She wondered if her mother would be awake. On previous occasions when she'd snuck into the cottage there'd often be a light beneath her door, but she didn't dare disturb her. It was enough to sit outside her mother's room, to remember what it was like to be a family, until sleepiness overcame her and Kate was ready to return to bed. The front door handle turned easily. Kate wiped one foot over the other and stepped into the austere parlour. The room was in semi-darkness. She shut the door quietly and waited, listening, then tip-toed across to the fire. Kate could tell that the Reverend had only recently gone to bed. The stink of a slush lamp hung in the air, an open bible sat on a table and the Reverend's coat was folded carefully over the back of a two-seater sofa.

Outside a rumble of thunder was accompanied by a flash of lightning. Kate flinched, watching as the brightness lit the white-washed walls, emphasising the plainness of the room and the musket sitting on brackets above the mantelpiece. Droplets of moisture sprinkled the timber floor as Kate lay the shawl across a chair to dry and then warmed her hands by the fire. She knew she would be in dreadful trouble if she were caught in the cottage, but she couldn't help it. Kate didn't see much of her mother. She was always busy penning the sermons the Reverend dictated and running his household. Lambeth said it was just plain wrong for Lesley Carter to sleep under the same roof as the Reverend, but it didn't really bother Kate, except that there was no room for her.

A light still shone from beneath her mother's door. Kate placed her palm on the timber frame as thunder rattled overhead. In between the sounds of the storm Kate was sure she heard a rustle from within and the murmur of voices. Perhaps her mama had taken to saying prayers, as it was said the Reverend did so day
and night. But then it was two voices she could hear, a man and a woman's, her mother's and … The keyhole was cold against her skin. Kate pressed hard against the lock, straining to see within, and under her weight the door partially opened. The breath caught in her throat, but the movement went unnoticed as the storm raged on.

Her mother sat on the edge of the bed. One by one a length of blackness fell to her shoulders as she unpinned her hair and placed the pins on the bedcover. A slush lamp silhouetted her with a weak yellow light and for a moment Kate thought her beautiful mother looked how she imagined an angel would. On the grey blanket next to her was the hairbrush Kate had used to brush out her mother's hair before they had arrived at the Reverend's. Kate often thought about sneaking into the room. It would be like the old days, when her father was still alive. She remembered kneeling behind her mother brushing her hair, as her father smoked his pipe and told them about the wool yield he hoped for or when rain was needed for the newly planted wheat. One hundred strokes. Her mother counted each stroke aloud and Kate would repeat the numbers. She'd learnt to count that way.

Her mother ran long fingers through her hair, and stretched her neck from one side to the other. Outside, the wind blew forcefully. Surely her mother would let her stay for the night, let Kate cuddle next to her. Hadn't she done everything her mother asked of her since their arrival? Hadn't she been seen and not heard as the Reverend demanded? Kate was about to walk into the bedchamber when a white blaze of lightning illuminated the room. A man's cough followed the thud of a lightning strike. Kate's eyes widened as she cautiously peered around the door.

‘Always remember the consolations of religion, my dear.' The Reverend observed her mother from the other side of the room, a spluttering candlestick in one hand. ‘The demands of the Lord must be accepted for only through his work can we show the true
way to the light.' He held his palm above the flame, wincing in pain before drawing it away. ‘Think of our meeting place, of our little church. It may only be of mud brick, with a thatched roof and plank seats, but the faithful come every Sunday to hear God's words, words that you help compose. Now think of that same space as a school. A school for the children of settlers and convicts alike, a school you would be mistress of.'

Kate pressed her shoulders against the wall and looked anxiously across the parlour. If she ran now it was possible that no-one would notice her. If she ran now the whistling wind and rain would conceal her footsteps, muffle the click of the door. If she ran now, she'd not be accused of spying, of sneaking into the cottage when she shouldn't be here, of being blamed for some missing item, and then who knew what would happen.

‘Plain education will be the hallmark of our school. In our small way we will be instrumental in stimulating a sense of moral and religious duty so that the impoverished will grow up to be faithful servants while ensuring they remain within the bounds of the lower status that they were born into.'