Wild Lands (37 page)

1838 July – the Stewart farm

The Stewart farm came into view gradually. It was another hour before the speck became a distinct mass, and still the farm flickered in and out of sight, as if playing hide-and-seek among the scattered stands of timber. At one point Kate imagined that she could almost make out the clutch of bark and wood outbuildings, which sat low to the ground, in the middle of the narrowing valley. The main homestead was not yet visible, but twirls of smoke drifted in the dying daylight hours. It was as if they approached a small village for Kate counted five smoky streamers high in the cooling air. Such signs of civilisation were a welcome sight and the tiredness seeping through her limbs dissipated a little. There was not much further to go. They would rest and make plans.

She'd not noticed before how the sweep of timber on the distant sides of the valley had grown in thickness, nor how the trees now collared the edges of the tapering flat. The simple process of continuing to place one foot in front of the other had consumed Kate's thoughts but now she found the dense foliage and the closeness
of this forested area disconcerting. Was it her imagination or had their small party increased their pace? Don't be silly, she mumbled quietly, calm yourself, soon their labours would be rewarded and they would arrive at Mr Stewart's farm. The Scotsman had visited the Hardys' property once only, the day of the argument regarding the boundary between the two runs. Kate remembered the man as one who could be reasoned with and hoped his wife was equally affable. She'd had her fill of puffed-up settlers' wives.

Their escorts still flanked them. Bidjia was on the eastern edge, a quarter-mile away, his son a little closer on the opposite side, while Adam's position remained unaltered. Kate thought of what she'd told the overseer and then considered what the man ahead of them may have been guilty of. James's attitude towards Adam had been fractious from the beginning and yet here they all were, depending on him for their very survival. Kate observed Adam's steady stride, the continual turn of his head from left to right as he scanned the surrounds, the way he held the musket at the ready. But she saw other things as well. The thickness of the man's dark shoulder-length hair, the taut pull of material across the width of his shoulders, the leanness of a body honed by rough living. This man was a breed apart.

The sound of barking dogs, intermittent in the air, carried across the grassland, drawing everyone's attention to the great sweep of movement that appeared in the south-east and headed steadily towards them. At first Kate couldn't make out what approached from afar but it soon became obvious. A big mob of sheep were being driven over and down an embankment like a cascade of bubbling white-water, spilling outwards across the land.

‘Now that's a welcome sight,' the overseer commented, ‘especially with the sun close to setting.'

To the west the rim of the sun was indeed not far from touching the tops of the soft peaks. With the earlier cloud having grown streaky and insubstantial, a halo of golden light stretched out
towards them, gilding the swaying grasses and infusing the treetops with vibrant colours of russet brown and green.

Lifting a hand, Adam halted their small party as Bidjia stood motionless, directing his attention to the timber that was less than a half-mile away. James and Mr Southerland urged Kate onwards.

‘If they're going to attack there's little point standing here and waiting for the bastards,' James muttered, pointing to a gully ahead of them.

‘Take cover!' Adam yelled.

The Aboriginal rose from the tall pasture like some mythological being from the underworld.

Adam dropped to one knee, aimed and fired, but the native's spear had already been thrown and the shot missed. The target, Bidjia, turned swiftly to avoid being hit but the barb found its mark, striking the old man in the side of the ribs, the impact throwing him to the ground. Another native rushed George Southerland. The overseer responded with fire, wounding the man, who barely faltered in his attack. Black and white fell to the ground fighting, as Jardi sped across the grassy plain towards his fallen father.

James pushed Kate forwards and she ran towards the narrow gully, tumbling down the steep short sides. Her feet touched water, a thin brown-green excuse for a stream. She stepped away from the muddy edge to peer over the top of the ravine. Shots were being fired, precious seconds were now needed for the men to reload. Kate fumbled for the pistol in the folds of her skirt. The light was beginning to fail them. She had no extra powder and what was in the pistol had been placed there three nights ago when they'd hidden in the burial ground. If the powder had become damp, Kate couldn't be certain that the flintlock would still fire. Pointing the weapon over the embankment, she watched. James was running back to where Mr Southerland was fighting his attacker in the grass. Adam ran towards Jardi, who in turn pursued the man who'd speared his father.

The bash to Kate's head came from nowhere. One minute her heart was pounding, her fingers curled around the useless pistol, waiting for the attack to be over, and the next she was upside down, the blood roaring through her brain, the ground a moving, murky blur of sand, mud and water. Her arms were hanging uselessly and her head … the pain was shocking. The ground shifted. Something peppered her face and arms, pinpricks of grit and dirt. She spat out soil. The pain grew worse. Kate was sure she would be ill, then a creeping blackness began to descend. Death, the oblivion of it, the nothingness that awaited, scared her more thoroughly than she could have imagined. The threat of it forced her to focus.

The warmth of another human being; she could feel it now. Someone carried her, she'd been flung over a shoulder, and they moved quickly. Twisting her neck, Kate caught sight of a brown arm. It swung back and forth holding a wooden club. Summoning all her strength, she screamed. The next moment she was spinning through the air and landing with a thud on the hard earth. Someone or something had collided with them.

Adam. Kate heard his voice, low and threatening, like a growl. He said the warrior's name, Mundara.

The sides of the gully were steep as Kate grabbed at the shifting dirt, scrambling awkwardly up and away from the narrow waterway where the two men now faced each other. Her head spun. Adam dropped his musket and unsheathed a knife. His attacker leant forward, tossing the club from one hand to another. The native was tall and wiry. It was not a body or face one would soon forget, especially if you'd been dragged by the hair, certain of death or, she suddenly comprehended, had been attacked while journeying northwards to the Hardy farm. This was the third time that Kate had seen this savage, but the man was not as dark as she'd supposed; up close there was a lightness to his skin.

The two men rushed at each other.

The black struck out with the club, hitting Adam on the side of the head. The blow pushed him slightly from his path, momentarily dazed, but he gathered himself and wielded the blade swiftly, slicing through Mundara's bicep and, instantly spinning on his heel so that the knife was driven forwards with the full force of his body, cutting through the shirt the black wore and finding flesh. The man retaliated by diving forward, forcing Adam to the ground and straddling him. He gripped Adam's knife hand and the two men locked eyes.

Adam lifted a knee and the impact of bone against Mundara's back unbalanced him, jolting the attacker forwards and forcing the loosening of his grip. Instantly Adam plunged the blade upwards and the knife lodged deep in the man's chest. Mundara fell lifelessly to the ground.

Pulling the blade free, Adam wiped the blade on his trousers and went to Kate's side. ‘Come now,' he said gently. Helping Kate to stand, he wrapped an arm about her for support. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

‘Are you alright?' he asked softly.

Kate probed tentatively at the growing lump.

‘Here, let me see.' Very gently Adam examined the wound, before brushing away the long strands of dark hair from Kate's eyes, and resting his palm against the soft contours of her face.

Kate lifted a hand, partially encircling his wrist with her fingers. ‘Don't.' She was breathless and shaken, so why was she saying no to this man's touch when all Kate really wanted was for Adam to hold her.

‘Why not?' Adam asked.

A click sounded. Major Shaw aimed a musket at them, as George Southerland limped towards them. The overseer was bashed and cut up about the cheeks and eyes and a bloody wound to his thigh had turned his trousers wet with blood.

‘Step aside, Kate,' James ordered.

‘What do you think you're doing?' Kate replied angrily.

‘Give me the knife, Adam.' James beckoned with his hand.

Kate moved to stand a few feet away. Adam gave the officer a hard look but dropped the blade in the dirt, the point lodging in the soil.

‘You're under arrest for the murder of Archibald Lycett.'

‘Who?' Kate queried, confused. ‘Who is Archibald Lycett?' And then she remembered, they were a settler family, friends of the man who'd just saved her life for a second time.

Adam was mute. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Winston had accused him of his father's murder? From the direction of the Stewart property three men on horseback were approaching at the gallop.

George Southerland bent over the dead black's body. ‘Well, we've seen him before. He was part of a group that attacked our wagons. Bloody half-castes.' He spat in the dirt.

‘What are you doing, James?' asked Kate, outraged. ‘He just saved my life.'

‘As any man should, Kate.' He gestured for his captive to turn and Adam did so as the overseer tied his hands behind his back with a short piece of leather.

The Major pressed the end of the barrel into Adam's back. ‘Walk.'

‘James, please?'

Kate's plea was ignored. The men's attention had been diverted by the arrival of Jardi. He stopped ten feet short of the group and, lifting his musket, aimed it at the Major.

‘Leave him be,' Jardi ordered.

The Major remained steady. ‘George, you take aim between his eyes and if the boy makes one move, shoot him.'

The overseer levelled his weapon reluctantly. ‘I've got no quarrel with you, lad.'

‘This is not your fight, Jardi,' Adam told him, ‘you know this. Leave me. Tend to Bidjia.'

The boy was outnumbered.

‘Musket first,' James demanded.

Adam nodded for Jardi to comply. He did so unwillingly, dropping the musket on the ground, his upper lip curling. The officer picked it up, handing it to the overseer.

Jardi, clearly unsure what he should do, looked to Adam for help. ‘Bronzewing?'

‘Bidjia? How is he?'

‘My father says the spirits call him, my white brother.' Jardi's skin glistened with sweat in the remnants of the sun's light. ‘It is his time, for the moon is dying and the darkness is coming.'

‘Get on with you,' James gestured to Jardi to move away, ‘lest you want to be locked up as well.'

‘Leave, Jardi,' Adam told him, ‘you cannot help me. This is white man's business.'

Jardi began to back away. ‘I must sing the songs. I must tell the spirits that Bidjia comes.'

A shiver ran down Kate's spine.

‘Tell him. Tell Bidjia …' Adam searched for the right word. In the end, no matter what he said, it would never be enough. ‘Tell him thank you.'

‘You are his son, you are of the clan.' Jardi backed away reluctantly before returning to his dying father.

‘He helped us,' Kate argued, ‘you must go and fetch Bidjia, James. We must tend to his wounds at least.'

‘No,' Adam replied, ‘leave them be.'

The pound of hooves grew louder. They waited for the approaching horsemen, who rode towards them across the wavering grass, kangaroo-hide coats flapping in the air. The men tugged on long reins and drew up in a spatter of dirt and gravel. The horses snuffled and whinnied as they came to a stop. The grit carried forward, coating those standing in wait with dust and bringing with it the scent of horse flesh and saddle-grease, sweat and tobacco.

‘George Southerland? What in the name of Mary Queen of Scots are you doing here?' Mr Stewart ran an observant eye over the ragged group and dismounted. His men were wary. They were bearded, stocky types who surveyed the surrounding land with suspicion.

‘The Hardys have been murdered, Mr Stewart. I've brought Kate Carter here for safety and this is Major James Shaw. And that there' – the overseer pointed to where Mundara lay dead – ‘is the bringer of the troubles.'

Mr Stewart tipped his hat back on his head with the flick of a finger. ‘Mundara.' He examined the body as his mare whinnied and backed away to nibble at herbage. ‘That's his native name, we know him as Kent Harris. His mother was part white. He worked here for a time but took off a year or so ago.' His boot pushed at the prone body. ‘He was running with some blacks further south, rushing cattle and eating the fattest. Built himself a set of cattle-yards he did. Aye, Kent was a sly one, but he came back before the end of last year, right melancholy and talking about some dark-haired woman who'd murdered his half-brother. I put him back to work and then after a month or so he'd gone again.'

Adam and George Southerland looked at Kate, Mundara's reason for vengeance becoming clear.

‘I thought he'd come back, but …' He didn't bother finishing the sentence. ‘I'm sorry for the Hardys, real sorry. And the little girl?'

The overseer shook his head. ‘There were no survivors that we know of. The place was burnt to the ground and what men weren't killed probably ran off. I could use some help to get their sheep mustered, shorn and the fleeces to market.'

‘It doesn't look like you'll be sitting on a horse anytime soon, George.' Mr Stewart clucked his tongue thoughtfully, eyeing the wound to the man's leg. ‘But no doubt we can come to some arrangement that's beneficial to all. Well, we best get you lot back
to the house. The dark's setting in and although we've had no raids or attacks for a week, it's best not to tempt fortune.' The Scotsman turned towards Adam. He placed his hands on his hips, the action pushed aside the brown skin coat he wore, revealing a brace of pistols. ‘And who is this?'