Beneath the Southern Cross (7 page)

Thomas felt wretched for the part he had played in Benjamin's murder. For a long time he remained kneeling by the body and, although not a religious man, something inside him begged forgiveness.

At dawn he trudged the several miles back to the settlement, leaving behind him the slaughtered men where they had fallen,
weapons in hand. There would be an investigation, he knew, and the scene would tell the truth with graphic clarity.

On Thomas's return a team was sent immediately to investigate the massacre, and detailed reports were made to a deeply concerned Governor Phillip.

There had been no Aboriginal raiding party, that much was clear—the convicts had died with their knives in their hands. After the slaughter the natives had not even taken the weapons from the corpses.

Thomas was called before the Governor to give his account of the events, which he did, omitting nothing, save his role in Private Waite's death.

‘There were two native women present, sir,' Thomas could see them clearly, Wiriwa protectively holding the other woman close, ‘which is unusual if the men are up to mischief. I don't believe they take their women on raiding parties. Leastways not to my knowledge, sir.'

Phillip said nothing but waited for Thomas to continue.

‘It's my belief, sir, that the lads tried to interfere with the women.'

Phillip nodded. ‘And why do you think you were left unharmed, Kendall?'

Thomas stared back at the slight man in the powdered wig. Although the eyes which met his were mild, benign, the authority behind them was unmistakable.

‘I believe it to be because I was not part of the attack, sir.' It sounded a little lame even to Thomas. ‘And they could see I was unarmed, sir.'

Thomas had decided that to mount a defence on Wolawara's behalf, to admit to their friendship and his personal belief in the man's good character, would not serve the Aborigine's cause. A soldier had been killed and there must be no identification of those involved. Governor Phillip was a humane man, sensitive to the plight of the natives, and if the attempted rape of their women by convicts had resulted in the deaths of those convicts, he would not exact punishment upon the Aborigines. But a soldier had been killed in the performance of his duty and that was not to be tolerated.

‘Reports indicate that you have displayed a certain rapport with
the natives, Kendall.' Phillip looked out the window of his makeshift office in the unfinished garrison. He gazed in silence across the expanse which would one day be a fine parade ground, and Thomas held his breath. Did the Governor suspect something? The killing of a soldier, or the interference in the performance of his duty, meant the hangman's noose.

‘Communication with the natives is a good thing, Kendall.' Phillip turned to Thomas. ‘We must make every effort to maintain good relations with them. This is not only my personal view but is contained in my Royal Commission, you understand?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘King George himself has instructed that every endeavour be made possible to open an intercourse with the natives, and that all of His subjects are to live in amity and kindness with them.' Phillip quoted directly from his commission, the words indelibly etched in his mind. ‘I am further instructed that, should any of His subjects wantonly destroy the natives, or give them unnecessary interruption, it is His Majesty's will that such offenders be brought to punishment.'

Thomas remained silent.

‘Had it not been for the death of Private Waite,' Phillip continued, ‘this matter would be closed, and whilst no recriminations will be brought upon the Aboriginal peoples in general, if the parties guilty of the murder of Private Waite are found, they will be punished accordingly.'

It seemed the interview was over but, as Thomas waited to be dismissed, Phillip added.

‘Perhaps in your communications with the natives, Kendall, you could instil respect for His Majesty's Men. Fear if need be. Make it clear that the death of a soldier by a native hand will bring death upon that native's people.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You may go.'

Thomas left. Thankful. But confused by Governor Phillip's request. It sounded very much as if the Governor knew that the Aborigines had spared Thomas's life out of friendship. If so, why had Governor Phillip not demanded a fuller explanation? Why had he not demanded Thomas identify the attackers? Was he letting the matter rest because he did not wish to bring the natives to a
white man's justice when they had simply been protecting their women?

A week later Farrell's body was discovered ten miles from the site of the attack, a spear staked through his heart in what appeared to be a ritual murder. Thomas was relieved that no witness remained to the events of that night, and for forty years he told no-one of his secret. Until the day he told his grandsons.

It was dusk when Thomas returned home with William and James, to find Mary in a barely controllable rage. She had been pacing the floor of his front parlour for two hours, refusing to be placated by Emily and the girls. When she finally laid eyes on her son, hatless, dishevelled, scratched and bleeding, she was at first speechless.

‘We had a splendid time, Mother.' James had forgotten the hour and his appearance. ‘Grandfather Thomas told us such stories of the old days …' James knew he mustn't mention Wolawara, but he couldn't contain the excitement of his afternoon, ‘… when the town was nothing but tents, and when they first brought the convicts ashore and …'

That was when Mary's anger reached the point of hysteria.

She had known this would happen, she screamed. She had known that by leaving James in Thomas's care, she was risking the very life of her only son. ‘You disgusting old man, you care nothing for your kin,' she shouted. ‘You will not be satisfied until you have dragged this whole family down into the gutter with you and your disreputable kind! You will be the ruin of us all.'

At first Thomas was amused to see Mary so uncharacteristically out of control. James and Phoebe, however, cowered at their mother's wrath, while William and Hannah stared at their aunt jaws agape, never having witnessed such rage.

‘If the ruination of my family were my true aim, Mary,' Thomas replied mildly, ‘surely it should be of little concern to you. You are no longer a Kendall.'

‘And I never will be!' By now Mary's face was apoplectic with fury. ‘Neither me, nor my husband, nor our children.'

Thomas's amusement evaporated, for this sounded suspiciously like a threat.

‘If you continue to boast of your loathsome past,' Mary presented her ace with menacing triumph, ‘you will never see your grandchildren again.'

Thomas interrupted, still calm but with a steely edge to his voice. ‘Tell my son to come and see me tomorrow. I have business to discuss with him.'

The wind was taken out of Mary's sails for an instant. She'd expected apologies, even some grovelling. Perhaps the old man took her threat to be the idle ranting of a distraught woman. ‘Look at James!' She dragged the boy, speechless, terrified, to her bosom. ‘Just look at him! He's wounded, bleeding. Do you think for one minute that Richard, when he sees his son like this, will—'

‘Tell Richard he is to see me tomorrow.' The old man's tone brooked no argument.

‘My husband is not at your beck and call, Thomas,' she replied, fighting to recover her dignity. ‘He has important work at hand. Meetings with people of standing in the community, people of influence. You can no longer click your fingers and expect—'

‘He is to have a meeting with his father tomorrow. At noon. Tell him that if he does not come,' Mary was about to interrupt, ‘he will be disinherited, and so will his children. Now get out of my house.'

‘You cannot possibly be serious, Father.'

It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon and Richard stood in Thomas's front parlour on the very same rug upon which his wife had stood yesterday as she hurled her venom. Mary's instructions, however, had disappeared from Richard's mind. He was to have threatened the old man with the denial of his grandchildren's company unless he conformed to society's dictates; it had seemed relatively simple.

 

‘You cannot be serious,' he repeated.

‘I am in deadly earnest, Richard. My friend Wolawara and his family are to have the lands adjoining yours by the Parramatta River.' Richard was silent, shaking his head in disbelief as he stared
back at his father. ‘The land is useless for cultivation,' Thomas continued, ‘which is why I did not include it in the property gifted to you on your marriage. I am sure Wolawara will be kind enough to grant you grazing rights for your domestic stock, should you wish it.'

Thomas could have laughed out loud at the sight of his son. Goggle-eyed, slack-jawed, the usually dapper Richard Kendall looked utterly foolish. Thomas pretended bewilderment. ‘You appear worried, Richard.' Then realisation. ‘Ah … of course, I understand. I shall extract a promise from Wolawara that none of his clansmen are to kill and eat any of your livestock.'

‘You are simply going to hand over the Parramatta land to this Aborigine and his kin?'

‘Yes, I simply am. For as long as he and his descendants wish to live upon it.' Again Thomas pretended bewilderment. ‘Do you have some objection, my boy?'

Thomas's only regret about his planned course of action had been the alienation of his younger son. However, Mary's threat had angered him so deeply that he now cared little for Richard's reaction. And if he were to be denied his grandchildren, he would live long enough, he swore to himself, to see those children of an age when they had minds of their own. Then, by God, he'd teach them a thing or two about the bigotry and intolerance of their wretched exclusivist upbringing.

‘But, Father, our new house, which we built just last year, is by the water. You've not yet seen it, I realise, but you know that we built it there specifically for the river views.'

‘Yes, I believe it's a grand home, quite a mansion I've heard.'

So that was it, Richard thought. The old man was piqued that he'd not been invited to see the new house. Richard had told Mary at the time that they should ask Thomas to come and stay for a day or so, but she'd ignored the suggestion. Damn it, he should have insisted. Now, after the heat of yesterday's row and Mary's melodramatic threats, the old man had decided to make these perverse intimidations in order to teach them a lesson.

‘I'm sorry, Father, it's been very remiss of us not to have extended an invitation to you. You're most welcome to visit us, as you know, at any time. Perhaps next weekend?'

‘I'd be delighted, my boy. I shall look forward to seeing your
new home and spending sometime in the company of my grandchildren.' Thomas took his hat from the brass hatstand which stood in the corner of the parlour. ‘Now, if that concludes our business, and if you won't partake of the tea I offered earlier, I shall call on Wolawara and tell him the good news.' He opened the door to the hall and waited for the reaction which he knew would come.

‘Father, in God's name you cannot be serious!'

‘That is the third time you have said that, Richard.'

‘But we will be living right beside the natives.' Richard dropped all pretences, forgetting to choose his words with care. ‘Mary won't have it.'

‘Then Mary can build another new house,' Thomas replied, ‘somewhere else, where the view will not offend her.'

For the first time Richard recognised the hurt and anger beneath his father's resolution. He crossed to Thomas and rested his hand upon the old man's shoulder. ‘She didn't mean it, Father. You will never be denied your grandchildren, you have my assurance of that.'

‘She meant it.' Thomas knew that, despite his son's genuine concern, if Mary decided upon a course of action, there would be little Richard could do about it. He was a pitifully weak man with not a shred of his wife's strength. Mary had guts and a will of iron, Thomas had to give her that. ‘My decision regarding Wolawara has nothing to do with your wife's threats, however. It was a decision I made before her ridiculous outburst.'

‘Why? Why make such a decision?'

‘Because the man is my friend. And if I cannot address the terrible wrongs done to his people, which I obviously cannot, then I can at least help a man to whom I owe my life.'

Richard realised that he must somehow assuage the old man's cantankerousness, ‘Father,' he said gently, ‘I understand and admire your feelings regarding the natives, it is a shocking state to which they have been reduced. Believe me, if there were some practical way of addressing their plight, I would lend my own assistance, I swear I would.'

In that instant Thomas despised his son. He wanted to call him aliar. He wanted to accuse him of being a shallow man. A spineless man. One with no true human depth whatsoever. But instead,
as disappointment overwhelmed him, the old man let his son lead him to his favourite armchair and he sat wordlessly as Richard spoke with all the earnestness of a teacher trying to communicate with a backward ten-year-old.

‘You don't understand, Father. Governor Macquarie himself attempted to settle several of the Aboriginal clans years ago. He provided land for them, and implements, and farming instruction. But it was useless.'

‘And you remember that, do you, Richard? Remarkable. You were only a lad at the time.'

Old Thomas Kendall remembered the experiment clearly. It had been under the governorship of Lachlan Macquarie that Thomas, like so many others, had been granted his pardon, had acquired lands at Parramatta, and had been encouraged, along with other emancipists, to contribute to the colony as farmers, architects and builders of the new Macquarie towns. It was under the governorship of Macquarie that many emancipists had become valued citizens of the colony of New South Wales. But, much as Thomas admired Macquarie's governorship and humanity, the Aboriginal experiment had been a mistake. The Europeanisation of a nomadic race had been, from the outset, doomed to failure.

‘I remember hearing of it, Father,' Richard replied patiently. He found his father's sarcasm offensive, but he took pains to hide his annoyance. ‘And it didn't work. These people will never become farmers.' Thomas was silent. Richard started again. Patiently. Reasonably. ‘You don't understand. You see—'

‘No, Richard.
You
don't understand.' Thomas heaved himself out of his armchair. Today was one of those rare days when he was feeling his age. ‘If my friend Wolawara did indeed wish to become a farmer I would have chosen to give him arable land. Perhaps the land further to the west which, as you know, is currently being held in trust for your children.'

It was an unnecessary barb—Thomas had no intention of disinheriting his grandchildren—but he was in the mood to shock. Futility and frustration, he was worn out by both. The futility of finding a true solution to Wolawara's predicament—certainly, the land would be a salve in old age to both Wolawara and Wiriwa, but it was no solution to the problems of their children and their children's children—and the frustration of attempting to communicate with the
pig-headed, self-righteous members of colonial society, such as his son. ‘But Wolawara does not wish to be a farmer,' Thomas assured his horrified son, ‘so he will receive the marshy land by the river which will be far more to his liking. I am tired now, my boy, I am going to lie down, excuse me.'

 

‘Parramatta,' Thomas said, ‘
Baramada
, the place where the eels lie down.'

Wolawara smiled and nodded, he knew Baramada well. The fishing was good there.

It had taken Thomas sometime to explain his offer to Wolawara, that the land would truly belong to him and to his clans-people. He had insisted that Wiriwa join them, and together they sat beside the hut in Rushcutters Bay and the men spoke their strange mixture of Dharug and pidgin, Wiriwa concentrating on their every word, her brown eyes darting from face to face, scarcely daring to believe her ears.

‘But what am I to do with the land, Thomas? My people do not farm like the English man.'

‘I understand this. It is not what is expected of you.

‘You will do with the land as you have always done, Wolawara. You will fish and hunt and visit your sacred sites. And when the time comes, you will die in peace on the riverlands of your ancestors.'

The men embraced upon parting. ‘
Gamaradu
,' they said as they swore allegiance.

‘When I dream you are there, Thomas.'

‘When I dream you are there, Wolawara.'

Thomas was sad as he walked back to town. A deep sadness, as if a part of his life were over. Something told him he would not see Wolawara again. As he reached the top of the hill and looked down over Sydney, Thomas Kendall felt very alone.

 

‘Your father is deranged,' Mary insisted. ‘We must enlist the help of the family. Together we must convince him of the insanity of such an act.'

‘Matthew is as radical as Father,' Richard argued. ‘He will approve the old man's decision, you know he will. He approves of all of Father's causes. Dear God, they even go to the emancipists' meetings together!'

‘So what exactly do you propose we do?'

‘Nothing.'

They were sitting on the upstairs balcony of their grand new sandstone house which overlooked the river, the late afternoon breeze rising, welcome, from the water. Mary stared long and hard at her husband and there was criticism and accusation in her gaze.

‘I am not merely giving in to pressure, Mary,' Richard said defensively. ‘Old as Father may be, he is still very active in business. His connections with both the military and the private quarter are invaluable to us.'

Mary listened as Richard rambled on about the importance of Thomas in their water transport service, the barges which daily plied their trade between Parramatta and Sydney Town, delivering grain and supplies to the military and the merchants.

They didn't need Thomas Kendall at all, she thought. They should sell their share of the business back to the old man and buy into a partnership with Leyland Harvey, the shipping man. Imported quality goods, that was where the future lay.

Richard was saying something about the loyalty they owed his father for the farmlands and the coach service gifted them upon their wedding. Rubbish, she thought. It was through her social connections that the coach service had become the success it was today. And as for the farmlands, why, they had been barely cultivated! Successful businessman he may be, but Thomas Kendall was no farmer. Had Richard forgotten the invaluable assistance given them by Captain John Macarthur and his wife Elizabeth, perhaps the wealthiest and most successful farmers in the colony? And how had the relationship with the Macarthurs come about? Through none other than Mary's own father, Captain Robert Farrington.