Blood in the Dust Read online

  Was Henry Pelham looking after the home he had taken from them?

  Toby felt his anger building and quickly tried to think of something else. He looked to the Hocking tent and realised that he and Paddy had been lucky to join up with such a loving family. Maree reminded him so much of his own mother, and he wondered at the friendship that might have developed had the two women had the chance to meet. The Englishwoman was certainly a caring soul. She mothered Paddy to the point where he could see his brother finding the attention annoying.

  Frank had developed a soft spot for Paddy as well. Last Sunday the pair had spent three hours with Frank’s tools, shaping a piece of red gum into a new handle for the spade rather than waste money buying a new one. Toby could remember his own father taking the time to teach him new skills, and he was glad that Paddy could still experience something like that. He didn’t suppose that anyone could ever take the place of their father. Sean O’Rourke had been a big man, larger than life in Toby’s eyes, where Frank was tall, but slender with it and more mild-mannered. He wasn’t trying to be a father to him and Paddy, he was just being the father he had always been and including them as well. Frank was a good man, but something had changed in him since the cave in.

  It had taken a week to repair the damage to the shoring in the mineshaft. Frank was reluctant to go back down the hole that had nearly claimed his life, so Toby and Paddy had completed the work themselves. It had been a wasted effort. Four days after digging resumed, they had bottomed out on shale. The claim had become what the diggers referred to as a shicer, a worthless pit. They had salvaged what timber they could and started working the shepherd claim. He knew Frank kept a hip flask with him now. Whenever they rotated duties in the shaft, Toby often caught the biting smell of liquor. He had never known the man to take a drink before and Frank certainly kept his drinking out of sight of the rest of his family.

  A rustling noise sounded behind him and he turned to see Annie slipping between the flies of the tent. She saw that Toby had noticed her and held a finger to her lips to quiet any greeting. She had pulled on that old woollen jumper she often wore on chilly mornings. Crossing to the fire, she took Toby’s hand and led him across the camp to where the second wagonette sat a little distance away. They climbed onto the seat and Toby was very aware of her body pressed against his side.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she whispered, her lips close to his ear. ‘I thought we could talk up here.’

  Toby inclined his head to respond. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Why are you sitting up so late? You usually go to bed with the chooks.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ Toby whispered.

  ‘About what?’ Her breath was warm against his cheek and Toby struggled to keep his mind on topic.

  ‘About Frank.’

  ‘Papa?’ There was a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘But why? I had hoped you might have been thinking about—well, someone else.’

  ‘He seems a little out of sorts since the mine collapse, Annie.’

  ‘He nearly died, Toby. I should think that would be enough to shake anyone.’

  ‘Do you know he can’t go down the mineshaft without taking a drink?’

  ‘He’s been drinking?’ She blurted it out so loudly that Toby held a finger to his own lips.

  ‘I think he’s afraid, afraid of the mineshaft and the dark, but he won’t admit it.’

  Annie didn’t answer, and when Toby looked at her there were tears in her eyes. She saw him looking and shook her head sadly.

  ‘Papa used to have trouble with the drink. It looks as if those troubles have come back.’

  ‘I never would’ve thought. He seems such a dependable bloke.’

  ‘Papa is a wonderful man,’ she shot back. ‘He provides for us quite well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Toby agreed.

  ‘It was when Grandpapa died,’ Annie said, and Toby sensed her need to explain.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Papa was Grandpapa’s apprentice. He was taken on when he was just fourteen and he and Grandpapa were hardly ever apart. About five years ago they were in the yard outside the carriage works in Hastings when a stack of timber fell and startled some horses harnessed to a loaded wagon. Grandpapa went to settle the horses, but they bolted and the wheels ran right over him. They say he didn’t suffer, that he died instantly. Papa saw the whole thing.’

  ‘It must have been terrible,’ Toby said.

  ‘Papa wasn’t much for liquor before that, but he seemed to find some sort of peace in the bottle. It got worse and worse. One day, he and Mama had a terrible argument over it, yelling and screaming at each other. That was the same night Tom brought up his idea of us all coming out to the colonies.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Yes. He was my rock back when Papa was at his worst. Coming here had been a dream of his for some time, but that was the first he told Mama and Papa about it. Mama thought it a terrible idea, but Papa was keen from the outset. I think he saw it as an opportunity to escape the bad memories. He had to go to the carriage works every day and walk right over the spot where his father was killed. He gave up his drinking and started saving all the money he could. He and Tom. When Mama saw the change that had come over him, she relented as well.’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Toby said. He was about to add something else, but a cough sounded from behind them. Maree stood by the opening of her tent, holding the flap wide. She locked eyes with Annie and inclined her head towards the tent.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Toby. Please don’t tell Mama about the drinking.’

  Maree coughed again, louder this time, and Annie scampered down off the wagonette and hurried towards the tent.

  Only a few lights showed from the Djarriba settlement. At the far end of the street three saddled horses were tied to a rail outside the largest building. From his place of concealment on the edge of town, Chilbi could hear men laughing and talking loudly, although the street appeared deserted.

  ‘We’ll leave the horses here,’ Warrigal said. He had on a dark jacket, taken from one of the travellers they had stopped, and had combed out his hair and beard.

  The Jannjirra warriors pulled their war clubs, but Warrigal held up a hand. ‘No killing tonight. I’m going down to that pub at the end of the street for a few quiet drinks. I can’t be seen with you. People will know who I am if I’m seen with a group of blacks. You boys stay out of sight. Have a bit of a forage around the backs of the houses and buildings. Maybe you can lay your hands on a chicken or two.’ He slipped his revolver into his belt and adjusted the jacket to cover it. ‘If you hear any trouble, we’ll meet back here, grab our horses and head back to camp.’

  Chilbi watched Warrigal step out of the bushes and head down the middle of the street, then he turned to his brothers. ‘Scout behind the buildings on this side of the settlement. I will go to the far side.’

  He waited until they slipped into the shadows and then checked the street. Except for Warrigal walking to the far end, it was empty, so he crossed over as quick as a wraith and rounded the end building, the first of a string of cottages.

  Most of the buildings had yards behind them, fenced with pieces of bush timber, built to keep animals and fowls in rather than people out. At the first yard, he paused and sniffed the air, detecting a musty odour. He waited in the shadows, searching with his eyes until he spotted the dog lying on the back step, a dark lump silhouetted against the door. Carefully, he backed away from the fence and moved on.

  A crude wooden structure stood in the far corner of the next yard. Chilbi placed his eye to a gap in the wall, but it was too dark to see what the pen contained, so he stood in the shadows for a long time, watching the back of the building and searching for another dog that might raise the alarm. Satisfied that nothing and no one could see him, he crossed to the door of the pen. It was held shut by a loop of rope thrown over a piece of wood and he carefully lifted it and swung the door open. Enough
light flooded in to let him see the nesting boxes at the far end where a pair of fat ducks were huddled together. In three quick strides he was at the boxes and grabbed the first duck. Before the bird knew what was happening, he twisted its head, snapping the neck. The other duck awoke and let out a single squawk before Chilbi grabbed it and snapped its neck too.

  The noise the duck made was enough to rouse the dog on the back step of the neighbouring cottage. It let out a single bark and came to the corner of its yard, where it growled in the darkness. Chilbi stood motionless with the carcass of a duck in each hand and listened to the dog as it patrolled up and down the fence line. After a while, the dog gave up, and he heard it padding across the yard back to the step.

  Moving as slowly as possible, he left the pen and climbed over the fence. The next yard had some clothes hanging on a line near the back door. There was a box-like container suspended from a pole near the door. Chilbi recognised it as a meat safe the Djarriba used to store their kills. For a moment he considered checking it for food, but the safe was so close to the back door of the cottage, he decided not to risk it.

  The next building wasn’t a dwelling. There were wheels from Djarriba vehicles leaning against a post. Near the wall was a bench, littered with tools. Chilbi moved on and made to round a large gum tree when someone stepped from behind it. He dropped the ducks and prepared to defend himself with bare hands.

  The man looked up as he noticed Chilbi and took an involuntary step back. ‘Who are you?’

  The startled words weren’t those of the Djarriba. They weren’t quite Jannjirra either, but they were close enough that Chilbi understood.

  ‘Just a hunter,’ Chilbi replied in his own tongue.

  The man stepped closer, swaying a little on his feet. He had dark skin, a broad nose and wore only a pair of Djarriba trousers. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and across his chest were three raised welts, the initiation scars of a warrior. He had a bottle clutched in his hand that he used to point at the ducks at Chilbi’s feet. ‘Your hunt has been fruitful. I see you have two fat Djarriba ducks.’ The man’s breath carried the unmistakable stench of whisky, a drink that Warrigal sometimes enjoyed, and Chilbi found repugnant.

  ‘Very successful, but I feel there is more the Djarriba can provide for my needs.’

  ‘You speak the language of my father’s people. I haven’t heard it spoken for years. Where are you from?’

  Chilbi looked to the stars to orient himself and pointed into the north-east. ‘My country is in the mountains. Long way that way. My people are the Jannjirra.’

  ‘The Jannjirra? I know of your people. My tribe, the Waddirawong, once traded for Jannjirra ochre for the ceremonies. I am Madagurrie. What is your name?’

  ‘I am Chilbi.’

  ‘Come, Chilbi. My family is camped near the river.’ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. ‘If the Djarriba find us here, they will punish us. Especially since you have two of their ducks. I only came out to beg a bottle from the pub man. Some white fellas found me before I got out of there and sent me away with a beating.’ He used a thumb to wipe at the blood in the corner of his mouth. ‘They never got my bottle though.’

  ‘You are a warrior of your people. You wear the scars of the initiated. Why did you not kill the Djarriba?’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Madagurrie glanced furtively at the alley between the buildings. ‘Pick up your ducks and follow me.’

  Chilbi retrieved his ducks and followed Madagurrie into the darkness, heading away from the little town. They crossed a grassy field and climbed through a fence. After a few minutes he could make out the glowing embers of a campfire in a grove of willows. There were about twenty people camped in the grove. They had built no gunyahs, dwellings of sticks and leaves, but instead sheltered themselves with blankets and scraps of canvas, the cast-offs of Djarriba society.

  Madagurrie crossed to the fire and threw a couple of branches onto the coals. ‘Come, Chilbi. Sit with me.’

  Chilbi moved closer to the fire, but stumbled on a discarded bottle in the grass and had to be nimble to remain on his feet. His foot struck a sleeping form and an old woman sat up to stare at him.

  ‘Forgive me, old mother.’

  He went to step over the lubra’s legs as the branches flared on the fire and lit her face. Chilbi drew in a sharp breath of fear as he saw the pustules on her skin. He jumped back, looking to Madagurrie to see if he recognised what it was, but the warrior simply poked a stick at the coals and took a swig from his bottle, seemingly oblivious to this evil in his camp.

  ‘The Djarriba sickness! The woman has it. They have sent the evil magic to destroy your people.’

  Madagurrie looked up from the fire. ‘The sickness comes and goes. Some recover and some die, but once it has touched you, it cannot come for you again. That woman is my aunt. She is the last of the elders, but I fear that she will succumb to the evil.’

  ‘The Djarriba have sent it to destroy your people. They will take your country.’

  Madagurrie chuckled. ‘The Djarriba took my country a long time ago. When I was a young fella they only occupied a little piece of it. As I grew, they took more and more, spreading across the land.’

  ‘What of the sacred grounds and ancestral places?’ Chilbi looked at Madagurrie, his face aghast that such a tragedy could befall a noble people such as the Waddirrawong. To have lost their ancient lands, the spiritual home of their ancestors was a fate worse than death itself.

  ‘They are denied us.’ Madagurrie shook his head. ‘Some we try to visit to perform the rituals, but the Djarriba run their animals there now. They chase us away with guns.’ He raised the bottle in his hand and took a long pull. ‘Now all we have is their poison.’

  ‘But what of the sickness?’ Chilbi gestured at the old lubra. ‘Did they not send their magic first? Did they not use it to wipe out your people as they did the Jannjirra?’

  The warrior had his eyes closed and seemed to have trouble sitting up straight, swaying back and using one arm to support himself. Chilbi thought him lost to the mists of the liquor, but his eyes opened and he spoke. ‘The Djarriba have no magic beyond what they can touch. The sickness travels with them, they cannot send it ahead. If you have survived it, it cannot come for you again.’ He lost his battle and fell backwards into the grass.

  ‘Madagurrie? Madagurrie?’ Chilbi prodded the warrior with his toe, but there was no response. He had seen the same thing happen to Warrigal after drinking from the Djarriba bottles and knew that there would be no more talk from Madagurrie that evening.

  Chilbi climbed to his feet and looked about the campsite, at the remains of a once proud people. The warriors and hunters, the mothers and children had been reduced to these few poor wretches, huddled in blankets or sleeping drunk among the trees. He felt the anger building and turned his back on the campfire. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and he thought about his brothers, the last of his people, sneaking about and taking their food from the Djarriba, forced to forage for it in the land of strangers instead of hunting in the country of their ancestors. He picked up the two ducks and made to head back to the settlement, but the old woman coughed and cried out, so that he paused at the edge of the firelight. Turning, Chilbi went to the prostrate form, shivering under her blanket. The lubra had returned to her tormented dreams and did not notice when Chilbi lifted the blanket and placed both ducks beside her.

  ‘These will fill your belly and those of your family, old mother. Rest well until you go to your ancestors.’

  He stood and walked off into the night.

  That Sunday morning, while the night mists hung in the gullies, Toby and Paddy carried their saddles and tack up to the small horse yard on the hilltop. Slung on their backs were the muskets, freshly cleaned and oiled after an evening’s preparation, and each of them carried a small leather satchel of shot and cartridges.

  Moonlight whinnied softly when he saw Toby approaching out of the pre-dawn gloom. The animal
enjoyed getting out of the yard and he was waiting at the slip rail as Toby and Paddy deposited their gear on one of the rails.

  Patch pressed up to the rail and lowered his head to sniff at Paddy’s pockets, correctly identifying which one contained the lump of sugar the boy had pressed together using a little water and the dregs from the bottom of the sugar bag. Paddy lifted the lump from his pocket and offered it to the pony. Then they set about the task of saddling the horses.

  Toby led them north and they splashed across the ford at the Yarrowee River and on into Hit or Miss Gully, a narrow defile that eventually climbed into the heights of the Black Hills ranges. They continued into the north, passing the occasional prospector’s camp and mining claim until, after several miles, all traces of civilisation were behind them and the bush closed in, dark green and grey, untouched by the hand of man.

  It was almost dark when they returned to camp with twenty possums strung over the pommels of their saddles. Frank and his family had been busy while they were gone. A small spoked wheel from some discarded barrow hung from a pole above the camp. Under the wheel, a sign, painted in blue on a rough wooden slab read:

  Hocking & O’Rourke

  Wainwrights & Furriers

  All Types of Wheel Repairs

  Possum-skin Rugs

  ‘As soon as the sign went up, some chap came wandering up and asked if Papa could fix a spoke on his gig,’ Annie said. ‘He took Betty along with him to keep her out of our hair for a while.’

  ‘It looks as if we’re in business,’ Maree added. ‘I’ve already had several men up here asking about the rugs. I told them to come back in a few days and we’d be able to fix them up.’