Beneath the Southern Cross (10 page)

Not only would her treatment of the Aborigines be judged more proper and more Christian than Thomas's, her actions would drive the old man insane. She would undermine, at every turn, his well-laid plans for his native friends.

‘Yes, Murrumuru, I do believe I could offer you employment.' The woman flashed a radiant smile, but Mary did not smile back. ‘There will be conditions of course,' she added briskly, aware that Peg was scowling from the sidelines. Familiarity from the native woman must be firmly discouraged. ‘I suggest you return tomorrow and we will discuss the arrangements.'

‘Thank you, missus, thank you.' Murrumuru nudged her son. ‘Say thank you, Turumbah.'

‘Thank you, missus.' Turumbah beamed up at Mary. He was out of trouble and perfectly happy again. ‘Turumbah see Gran'sun James?'

‘No, Turumbah. Not now.' Not ever, Mary thought. The friendship between her son and the heathen black boy was terminated
forever. ‘I shall see you tomorrow morning, Murrumuru.' Mary gave a brusque nod to the woman, another brusque nod to Peg and went inside. But she left the door ajar and heard Peg stride up to Murrumuru.

‘You listen to me, missy,' Peg said, ‘and you listen good and proper. You learn your place. If the mistress wishes to employ you, and God knows why she should, you'll be answerin' to me, do you understand that?'

When Murrumuru had gone, and Peg had picked up her washing basket preparing to return to her duties, Mary confronted her ‘You must mind
your
place, Peg.' Peg looked at her mistress, bewildered. ‘That woman is, after all, a free woman,' Mary said. ‘Unlike many in this colony, she has committed no crime. You must not forget that, Peg.'

‘Do not involve yourself too deeply with these people, Mary,' Elizabeth Macarthur advised. ‘Not only for your own sake, my dear, but for theirs as well. You may do them more harm than good.'

Mary Kendle's plan had progressed slowly but, after a year of perseverance, she was finally making some headway in the education and betterment of her native neighbours. Much as he hated it, young Turumbah now regularly attended the mission school at nearby Black Town, and he and his mother accompanied Mary and her children to church on Sundays, Murrumuru occasionally bringing her elderly aunt, Yenada, with her.

The church outings were the only times Turumbah was allowed in the presence of his friend, Gran'sun James. And even then Gran'-sun James barely acknowledged him. Whilst Turumbah pulled faces and tried to attract his attention, James would remain staring fixedly at the priest, concentrating on the interminable sermon.

Murrumuru would nudge her son, slapping his hand, fearful that his antics could cost her her employment. The missus had threatened that it might. And, all the while, Mary Kendle remained rigid, staring at the priest just as she had instructed her son to do. The native boy would learn eventually. His mother would teach him.

Young James Kendle was not happy. He missed his friendship with the Aboriginal boy, but fear of his mother's wrath overrode any desire to rebel. He never once attempted to sneak off to the riverbank where he knew Turumbah would be waiting. And now he was a prisoner in his home, his mother his gaoler. He no longer
swam naked amongst the mangroves. He no longer watched Murrumuru cook the eels. Young James Kendle had lost the one brief taste of freedom he had ever known.

James had always been frightened of his mother, just as he was frightened of most things. In fact he had surprised himself with the boldness of his friendship from the very outset. The gift of his hat to Turumbah and the acknowledgement to his own mother of his action had been for James, a timid child by nature, acts of great bravery. Acts he would neither regret nor forget, but which he would never be able to repeat.

To Mary's great frustration, none of the Aboriginal menfolk could be persuaded to attend the church services, but she had employed several of them from time to time to repair fencing around the property. And once a week a growing number of Aborigines lined up, in orderly fashion, outside the servants' quarters for the bread, flour and sugar which, upon Mary's instruction, Timothy O'Shaugnessy dispensed amongst them.

Mary would have preferred a speedier conversion of the natives but, all in all, she was proud of her efforts, and Elizabeth Macarthur's words of warning were unwelcome.

Her displeasure was quite evident. ‘Oh Mary,' Elizabeth assured her, ‘I know your intentions are honourable, but you must be aware that others have experimented along these lines. The government itself has made repeated attempts to convert the natives to our way of life, with little success.'

Mary looked sullenly back at her friend. She so admired the older woman, so desperately sought her approbation, that she was hurt and disappointed at the note of censure in Elizabeth's warning. She had expected encouragement, even congratulations.

Elizabeth knew she was being a disappointment, but she continued nonetheless. ‘Missionaries have tried, Mary. Men of faith, clergy trained in such matters. All have attempted it at one time or another, and all have failed.'

‘But the clergy had no true feeling for these people,' Mary argued defensively. ‘Why, the Reverend Samuel Marsden himself said that there would be no good done until we were rid of the natives. What Christian care is there in that attitude? And I do care for Murrumuru and her family, Elizabeth, I swear I do.'

Mary cared nothing for Murrumuru personally—the woman
was a black servant, no more, no less—but she had persuaded herself that her mission to Christianise and educate the natives surely meant that she cared in principle.

‘I am sure you care for the woman, Mary. And if she wishes to be cared for, and if you can help her, then it does you credit. But you cannot take on her entire tribe. It will further neither your cause nor theirs.' Elizabeth felt obliged to fully spell out the dangers, remembering only too well as she did, the terrible European and Aboriginal conflicts of Parramatta's early days.

‘You are supplying the natives with food, you say?'

‘Those who show proper decorum and courtesy, yes. They are most polite when they queue up on Sundays, there is no unruliness amongst them …'

But Elizabeth appeared not to have heard. ‘The word will spread,' she warned. ‘It will be only a matter of time before they will come in numbers for the free food you are offering. Then there will be the odd theft of stock. A chicken here and there. Then they will start on the sheep of the nearby farms. And then the army will be called in. Be aware of the dangers, Mary. The dangers not only to yourself and your property, but to these people for whom you profess to care.'

Mary took her leave ten minutes later, courteously, wishing Elizabeth well. She had heard that John's illness had worsened of late, that he had been declared medically insane. But she couldn't help feeling, for the first time, a little superior to Elizabeth Macarthur.

 

Wolawara was deeply disturbed by the turn events had taken. He and Wiriwa had been happy in their new home. Content. Their family was healthier, their son was no longer begging in the streets of Sydney Town.

When his daughter had boldly announced that she was going to seek work at the big house, Wolowara had tried to dissuade her but, wisely, had not forbade her to do so. He could see that Murrumuru was bored, restless. She had grown accustomed to working in a white man's house. The fact that she had enjoyed such a life had always been a mystery to Wolawara. Servitude was not a part of his people's culture. To be a servant was to be a slave, and a person should be a slave to no-one.

Wolawara had decided that, if it would make Murrumuru happy to work in the big house, he would not stand in her way. But at times it troubled him to watch her, dressed in her grand new clothes, affecting the manners of the English missus.

When some of his clansmen accepted work digging fence posts at the big house, Wolawara could not blame them. They were paid a small amount of money and given as much food as they could eat. And he could not blame the others of his family when they lined up on Sunday to accept the bread and flour and sugar offered. But it did not bode well.

He was getting too old to make the decisions for the clan on his own, Wolawara thought, and lately the pain in his stomach seemed to attack more often and with greater ferocity. Even the healing potions Wiriwa gave him—the leaves and plant roots she ground and boiled in water—which normally provided comfort, now offered little relief when the pain twisted like a demon inside him.

So Wolawara did nothing. He and Wiriwa kept mainly to themselves, and during the days when he was free of the pain, he felt a great sense of peace. In his hut by the river, upon the land which he knew to be his own, Wolawara felt a sense of contentment greater than he had known in years.

Despite his reclusive behaviour, Wolawara still had a stabilising effect upon his clanspeople, the mere knowledge of his disapproval keeping an orderliness within the camp. Those who joined the Sunday queues outside the servants' quarters conducted themselves with ‘decorum and courtesy' not so much to please the missus, but because they were concerned that Wolawara might be watching.

Occasionally, two or three of the young men stole into the township in search of rum, which they paid for from the money they had earned from their honest labour, but they never brought liquor back to the camp. And there was only one amongst them who regularly visited the streets of Parramatta to beg from the passers-by in order to feed his craving for rum and gin.

No-one told Wolawara about his son. No-one had the heart.

It was nearly five years after the clan's move to Parramatta that Wolawara mysteriously disappeared during the night. He had sat with the elders at the campfire the preceding evening but, come morning, he had gone, Wiriwa with him, and the younger members of the clan wondered at his absence. The elders, however, appeared
to find no mystery in Wolawara's disappearance and when, four days later, Wiriwa returned to the camp, tired and drawn, they grieved with her for the loss of their kinsman.

 

Thomas Kendall was informed of Wolawara's death, strangely enough, through his daughter-in-law. Indirectly, of course. He had not seen, much less spoken to Mary since that day in the front parlour of his old house in Pitt Row.

The day Richard told him that Wolawara had died, Thomas was seated in the back garden of his cottage, high on the point near the windmill. His young granddaughter Hannah, who visited him regularly, was sitting with him, enjoying the warm sunshine.

Thomas's had been the first residential dwelling to be built on the point. Below, on the banks of the bay, seethed the taverns and brothels and gambling dens of The Rocks, where sailors and fishermen vied for whores' favours, drank rum together, then fought each other for the sheer pleasure of it. The cottage looked over this colourful potpourri of vice to the harbour beyond, where Fort Macquarie stood, ever vigilant, on the opposite headland, and where fishing boats nestled comfortably in the bay. It was a view of which he never tired.

‘Mary asked me to tell you,' Richard said awkwardly, as his father stared out across the water. ‘It happened several days ago. He had been ill for sometime, I believe.

‘He and his wife left the camp apparently, and four days later she came back with the news of his death,' Richard continued. ‘Evidently it was quite expected.'

Of course Wolawara would have left the camp, Thomas thought, if he had had the option. Dying on the property would have affected his clanspeople—Aborigines would not live or camp at a death site. It was good that he had had the company of Wiriwa, and Thomas hoped that his old friend's death had not been too painful.

Richard waited for a reply from his father but none was forthcoming. ‘I'm not even sure if Mary ever met the fellow, he kept very much to himself. I certainly never met him. She has met quite a number of the others though. She's been very good to them, Father, you'd be surprised.'

Richard knew he was gabbling, but he couldn't seem to stop.
He looked to Hannah for help, but his niece had simply taken the old man's hand in both of hers, seemingly unaware of the awkwardness of the situation.

‘Mary has formed a relationship with the Aborigines over the past few years,' Richard continued. ‘She's given them medicine for their children and so on …' Richard faltered. In truth, Mary no longer seemed interested in her Aboriginal cause, and for months now things had not been right in the Kendle household. Richard knew he was to blame, but for how long must he pay?

At first she had kept her hurt and anger to herself, presumably for the sake of the children, but over the past month she had been openly hostile. Even when he went out of his way to please her, which he did regularly. Richard didn't know what to do. The childen were being neglected and the natives were becoming more and more unruly.

Their numbers had been increasing ever since Wolawara's death; the queues at the servants' quarters had grown longer and rowdier, Mary no longer bothering to maintain control. Previously, at the first sign of disorderly conduct, she would have the food withdrawn. Now she was not even present at the Sunday disbursements, Timothy simply doling out the supplies as a matter of custom. Drunkenness had become evident in the camp and Richard told himself he would have to order Timothy to cease the disbursement of supplies, for his wife was too caught up in her own unhappiness to care.

‘Anyway, Father,' Richard resumed lamely, wishing that Thomas would at least look at him, ‘as I say, Mary wanted me to tell you the news as soon as possible. Which of course I would have done without her bidding,' he added quickly. ‘I know this man was your friend.'

‘Thank you, Richard.' There was an awkward pause.

‘Is there any message you wish me to convey?' To whom, Richard wondered even as he asked. The man's wife? There were several elderly women at the camp, Richard had no idea which one might be Wolawara's wife.

Thomas finally seemed shaken from his reverie. He patted Hannah's hand, smiled briefly at her, and turned to his son.

‘Thank Mary for me,' he said. ‘I'm obliged for the news.'

Richard left minutes later, relieved to be gone, and Hannah sat
silently with her grandfather, understanding his grief. She knew the importance of Wolawara in her grandfather's life. She had not only met the man when she was a child, but her brother William had related to her every detail of the day Grandpa Thomas had sat upon the Sydney Common and told his grandsons his story.

Hannah remembered being jealous at the time—she should have been there to share in the event. She had even written the story in her journal, the impressive leather-bound diary which her mother had given her upon her sixteenth birthday.

‘Every young girl needs a diary, Hannah,' Emily had said with a conspiratorial wink, ‘to record her innermost secrets.'

But to Hannah it was not a girlish diary at all, it was a journal for the recording of special events. Boldly, she had told Grandpa Thomas that she had written his story, and boldly she had waited, prepared to shoulder the burden of his anger. But, to the contrary, he had given her a hug and told her he was proud of her. ‘I have learned my lesson, Hannah,' he had said. ‘I promise I shall not exclude you in future.'

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Grandpa Thomas?' she now asked.

‘Thank you, my dear, an excellent idea.'

He watched her fondly as she went inside. Hannah was still his favourite. At twenty years of age, an able-bodied, strong-willed young woman with a rebellious streak just like his own, she was more like a son to him than a granddaughter.