The Roving Party (15 page)

They belong to the Plindermairhemener, he said.

What’s this headman doin? Is he runnin from us? Or huntin us?

Bill fingered through the ground litter for a green gum leaf
which he sucked as he spoke. You can be sure he has it reckoned out. He was born for this weather.

The Dharugs were sent out after sign of the clans. The assigned men and Bill and Batman spent the interval making ready their pieces by oiling down the iron, filing back the rust spots and cleaning the frizzens. Within the hour the Dharugs returned but they had no news. They stood about, shifting from leg to leg as Batman questioned them.

I see plenty dog track, said Pigeon.

What of the clansfolk?

They cunnin buggers. Walk them dogs through camp. All around. Now plenty dog tracks no bloody blackfella tracks.

What, none?

Maybe they rode on them dogs. Like bloody horses. Pigeon grinned. Beside him Crook held a pair of invisible reins and goaded his horse on at a trot.

Sweet hangin Christ, said Batman.

T
HEY FOUND THE WEST ARM OF
the Swan River two days later, the sight of which meant the crossing through the eastern ranges was done. Fragile cloud was stretched across the sky’s ribcage and the rovers spread along the riverbank filling their canteens, watching crows circle above them. They followed the whitewater for miles through a rainforest of man fern and sassafras where everything, every rock and tree and root, was shrouded in moss and every breath brought them the stink of decay. They followed the river and after descending a hill on dusk the forest dried and became the brittle gum scrub of the plains. The bark scrolls crackled once more underfoot and grass swept around their knees. Black Bill called attention to the blue trunk of a gum to which he’d pressed his hand. It was marked with another of the broad arrows. The men looked at it and then at John Batman. But he merely hefted his shotgun up on his shoulder and kept on walking. They camped on a desolate stretch of country around a fire which burned
hot and clear and in its ashes roasted a damper. The party men eased back and picked their teeth with twigs as the stars arrived like snow. The pipes went around each man and they listened to Horsehead hold forth on the circumstances of his imprisonment.

You want some mashey? this fellow says. I knew his face from about the place. Knew it well. So I asks him, Are you a ganger? A ganger’s a fool, he says. I says, I know you come the queer with Rolley’s lot. I heard it from old man Rolley.

The boy watched him intently. You took his mashey then? he said.

Well he reveals a shillin and gives it to me. I study it in me hand. It aint even round. But the house where I drank, you see, the bitch behind the counter always had a skinful. I reckoned it probable she would take it.

Ow much you pay?

I give four shillins over and he gives twenty back.

Twenty is fair, the boy said.

Fair if you can pass them, you mean.

I could’ve passed them.

You might well could have. A cunnin thing like you.

Well? What did you do?

We head into town for a pot of hotegg dont we. I pay me bad shillins to this bitch and smile like I mean it. About as liquored as any woman ought to be, she was. Sodden. You never saw nothin like it. Rough old bitch too. Had all her teeth knocked
out by her husband who was amiss in the head. He’d gone after this bitch with a poker one night then carried her bloody teeth into the street and told strangers he had done for her and passed them out as if they was boiled lollies. A nasty sort she was ever since and I’ll attest to it.

She got you good.

She did that. I wont never forget that face when she tapped on the winderpane. We was there takin our hotegg outside when she tap tap tapped on the winder. She’s callin me back. Holdin up that mashey and showin her gums. I look at young Houghton, me mate, and we just bolt. Full pelt. That might have been the end of it, you know, but God dont take warmly to me now, does he? We run, Houghton and me, but there upon the street is a constable takin a leisurely stroll and he sees us pair and his interest is raised. He produces his baton and clobbers the both of us. Just like that. We might a bin runnin for our lives for all he knew. Where’s the justice in it? Course the old bitch from the taproom comes bustin around the corner, dont she. Sees the constable there. Shows him the bad shillins. He belts us again a few times until we was black about the ears and he had us in the lockup by dark.

Howell Baxter cast aside the bone he had been gnawing and he turned to Horsehead and the boy where they sat in conversation. Now here you be, in a prison with no bars.

That’s it, said Horsehead. Suffering my years of it. But I done it and I’ll wear it. You wont never hear me cry foul.

At that point John Batman interjected. He was standing with one leg cocked up on a stone, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, a curved pipe set to one cheek. He plucked the pipe and jabbed it at Horsehead. The ticket’s the thing, you see. Get that and yer as good as free.

The ticket. Yes. I swear on me balls when I get the damned thing that bitch will be the first to know. She’ll piss her petticoats as I bowl through the door with me pistols. And her with nothin but a wet rag. She’ll be sorry for it then.

The barwoman? I should have thought the constable was the cause of your sufferin. He was the one what took you.

Horsehead looked at Batman. His eyes pinched against the breeze. You what?

Seems plain as the nose on yer head. He’s the one.

No. That whore spoke in the dock. She sent me here.

Aye, she spoke. But he caught you.

Howell Baxter leaned in like a conspirator as he addressed Horsehead upon the same point. I’m with Mr. Batman here, he said. How it goes the constable ought rightly to be the mark. Tis simple, given that you might otherwise be free.

Horsehead’s face clouded up. His eyes darted between them and his forehead pulled into a series of deep folds. He tapped the points of his fingers together. I have never spared a thought for the constable, he said.

High time you did, said Batman. He’s the wretch you want.

They were silent a moment. Jimmy Gumm was picking his teeth in the gloom and he threw the pick on the fire. He sucked at his front teeth and sat upright. Listen, he said. You cant hit a woman, can you? I mean even one what deserves it. She’s still a woman, aint she?

Mate, I dont care if she’s a baby in its crib, said Horsehead. She’ll get it all right.

Women aint got sense enough to plan nothin. She didnt fink about it, she just acted out of her nature and that’s all. But that ganger. Well. He sold you that shoddy knowin full well you would get caught. He took yer shillins and he sent you on a fool’s errand, didnt he? Forget the woman. Find that man of Rolley’s and show him yer pistols, my friend, and then you can sleep easy.

Horsehead threw up his painted hands. The woman, the ganger, the watchman. Am I to kill em all?

Through the murk of smoke they watched him and they all began to speak, each putting forward his own counsel.

Said Gumm: Yer a fool if you hunt that constable.

The woman spoke against you in the dock so it ought to be her, said the boy.

It is the watchman took you, said Batman, and it’s him deserves your fury.

In the midst of that discussion Black Bill lifted his gaze and assessed the men from where he was seated within his blankets. When you wade into the river you muddy the water downstream, he said.

They watched Black Bill, frowning, but he offered nothing further on his thesis. They shook their heads or dismissed him with waves of the hand.

What’s a black know, they said, of justice?

And the rovers debated on into the night the merits or otherwise of Horsehead’s avengement and the means by which it might be secured, certain crooks in Liverpool he should call upon, the worthiness of wheel locks or dog locks, the superiority of various flints for ignition, ways to escape once the act was done.

After a time a quiet fell upon the campsite. Bill sat back and kicked out his boots, the pipe alight in his lips. He knew justice and it knew him.

Come morning the hoarfrost had rendered all the heath as white as sea salt and Bill was shivering over the campfire and blowing life into the embers. He blew until flames burst on the pile of tinder then he laced his rimed boots and struck out across the grass for a piss in the dawn light. A warm cloud of steam rose from the earth and as he was taking stock around him he saw two rows of prints trod across the frosted mud towards the plains. He buttoned up his pants and bent to study the pressings. Men and barefooted. He walked back to the camp where Pigeon’s blankets were heaped upon his knapsack and
Crook’s too. So they’d risen before sunrise for God only knew what reason. Bill peered after the footprints but saw nothing resembling the willowy men of the Dharug anywhere.

As the sun ascended the frost softened and the prints lost definition but still the Dharugs had not returned. Jimmy Gumm settled the billycan in the flames and the assignees scooped out mugfuls and drank while they waited for the men to show. Batman swabbed his tea with damper then sucked his fingers clean. It was another mugful each before the Dharugs made an appearance. They came ambling back, appearing in no hurry. But as they neared, Pigeon called to the campsite.

Saw smokes, he said.

John Batman scanned the skyline and there in the windless morning air stood a chimney of white.

No blacks?

None. But it’s proper good fire.

Is it?

Smoke got right shape. Right colour. Them native buggers I reckon.

The green wood on their cook fire squealed and smoked damply. John Batman rubbed his heavy eyes. All right, he said, all right.

They walked to the rim of the heathland, walked through melted frost with the prison slippers dragging around their feet and only the barefoot blacks moving with ease. Shards of sharp sun jagged across the heath so that fine black shadows ran off
every grass blade and the men visored their eyes onehanded as they walked, watching the smoke bend in the fresh wind. In this manner the party pushed miles east of the Swan River and into the hills before noon. Here the bush took on a different cast and they made good ground up the incline through the spindle. In the early afternoon Horsehead called for a rest.

Let’s just sit here a minute, wont you? he said.

It was a request Batman had to allow as Horsehead dropped to his knees and could not be raised. Sweat ran freely from his forehead and his few squalid strings of hair stuck to his pate. The company stood their pieces together, triangled in the fashion of infantry, and they lay up on the rocks while Horsehead held his wounded hand tenderly. The Dharugs took no rest but rather kept up an audit of the sky and ground. After a moment they hurried the men to move.

Get along, get along, said Pigeon. We losem all. Lose that big chief. Get up.

Horsehead muttered into his newgrown beard and pushed Pigeon away when he tried to pull him up by the arms.

All right, I’m moving, he said.

Oldun like you got no business out here.

I aint old, you redarsed ape.

Us younguns we plenty strong enough.

I’ll keep up.

What?

I said I’ll keep up.

You bloody dead soon look at you.

Yeah. Well. I might be and all.

But soon they were pushing off into the foothills strung along the throat of the Swan River, illshaped gems fashioned from the fabric of the earth itself. The front-marking Dharugs led the party into the range where the mid-afternoon sun was cast over by the cloud banks assembled in the east.

At first the hills appeared slight but soon they found themselves dragging on saplings or stones to reach the blowing heights above. They rested on the peak, looking down upon the heathland, away past the Swan as the glacial wind whirred in the crevices and ransacked the dwarf gums along the cliff. The storm ran snow from the South Pole three thousand miles across the sea and as it fell the landscape faded. Bill plucked a leaf for his lips but found no comfort in the act. He took one last glance at that wounded country and tossed the thing aside.

They beat across the peak following the wallaby runs snaking through the paraffin bush and tufted grass. Storm heads formed above in a broad armada and the temperature dropped until their fingers ached in the cold.

After a time Black Bill walked out ahead of the party to scan the heavens for native smoke. The Dharug men soon joined him and the forward party paced through the alpine country as peels of snow fell soft as ash. They turned up their faces to the sky—snow caught in Crook’s beard and spattered the maroon sock cap he wore, and the damp draggles of Pigeon’s
hair clung to his cheeks—but any sight of the native smokes had vanished. They walked through the thickening drifts and left tracks between the immature musks. The rovers came behind stepping in the holes they’d made in the snow. It was melancholy work they found there on that hillside as the storm scrubbed it over. The assigned men pleaded with Batman to make a shelter out of the weather but he held his belt pistol drawn and primed as he brought up the rear, herding those men onwards.

Before long the Parramatta men and Black Bill came upon a stone field angling away down the hillside. It was a steep piece of country denuded of trees or bushes and littered with boulders, decorated now in light snow. They looked at each other then looked back at the white men trailing some distance behind.

They wont lose us, said Bill.

You go, old man, said Pigeon. We follow you.

Crook was cradling his bare feet to warm them a little but he stood up and yanked his cap low over his ears when Bill moved off across the stones. The Vandemonian clambered several yards down the rocks and he turned to see if the Dharug men were in train but what he saw instead startled him so thoroughly that he tumbled back on the stones. A clanswoman was watching him from beneath a ledge. She was stationed there out of the weather and she held her furs to herself and frowned at the whitened world and the black man come lately upon it. He brought his gun around.