Blood in the Dust Read online

  Toby had never seen a structure as grand as Government House. He and Paddy gaped in awe as they strode towards a pair of huge doors set back on a wide verandah. A batman swung the doors open and ushered them into a reception hall where Childers stood waiting across an expanse of blue carpet.

  ‘Ah! Toby and Patrick. You’re early. That’s good. The Governor abhors poor punctuality.’

  They were left with no time to admire their ornate surroundings as Childers led them through a set of doors at the back of the hall and into an outer office.

  ‘I’ll just check His Excellency is ready.’

  He went to a set of large doors at the rear of the office, knocked discreetly and pushed one open.

  ‘Tobias and Patrick O’Rourke, Your Excellency.’

  A voice called from the room beyond. ‘Show them through, man.’

  Lieutenant Governor Sir Charles Hotham sat behind a huge desk. Sunlight showed through a pair of high windows and splashed across the carpet, illuminating the governor’s gaunt features. Despite a head full of dark hair, his beard was wispy and sparse. Hotham had a thin frame. Only the gold-braided epaulettes on the shoulders of his naval uniform served to give his body any breadth. A sword in a glittering scabbard hung from a stand beside the desk. When he stood, the Governor was tall, offsetting his slender frame.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am so pleased to meet you.’

  ‘A pleasure, Your Excellency,’ Toby said, remembering how Childers had addressed the governor.

  Hotham smiled. ‘I have read the excellent report prepared by Sergeant McTavish. It seems you had quite an adventure out in the mountains. And a fruitful one, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir—uh, Your Excellency,’ Toby stammered.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ the governor said. ‘I shan’t keep you long. I’m sure you’re anxious to return to your family in Ballarat. I only wanted a brief opportunity to thank you both personally. The good Lord knows my short term as governor of this colony has not been an easy one. You gentlemen have given me a bright note I can include in one of my despatches.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency,’ Toby said, getting a feel for rolling the title off his tongue.

  ‘Yes, well—’ The governor returned to his chair, seemingly thankful to be off his feet. ‘I have approved the payment of the reward as posted. You gentlemen possess quite a bit of wealth now. I hope you intend to spend it wisely?’ He gave Childers a little look, just a brief flash of his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir—I mean, Your Excellency,’ Toby said. ‘I would like to arrange for half the reward money to go to the widow of Constable Gatwick. I wanted to divide it up equally between all members of the pursuit party, but Mr Childers tells me police officers are not entitled to reward money.’

  ‘A noble gesture, young man,’ the governor nodded approvingly. ‘Childers will make the necessary arrangements. Still, six hundred pounds is a considerable sum.’

  ‘We have plans to set our family up on some land,’ Toby explained.

  ‘Yes, quite. Land, eh? Always a good investment for the future.’ He settled back into the chair. ‘Childers will formalise the reward payment with you. You have the heartfelt thanks of a colony held in the grip of terror by a ruthless man.’ He waved a gesture of dismissal and lowered his eyes to the documents on his desk. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency.’ Toby said. He and Paddy turned for the door Childers was swinging wide to facilitate their exit.

  ‘Just one thing, Mr O’Rourke.’ The Governor’s voice stopped Toby at the threshold. ‘I hate to ask, but it needs to be said. I don’t suppose we shall be seeing you spending large quantities of gold dust over the next months?’

  Toby felt his temper flare. Was the lieutenant governor of the Colony of Victoria accusing him of being a thief? A harsh rebuke began to rise in his throat. Then his eyes settled on the frail-looking man behind the desk, his sorrowful gaze fixed on Toby, almost apologetic for having asked the question.

  ‘The gold shipment Anderson had in the saddlebags is at the bottom of a river in the mountains, Your Excellency.’ Toby strained to keep his voice even. ‘I believe Sergeant McTavish is returning to the mountains to retrieve the other gold and valuables we discovered.’

  A thin smile played at the governor’s lips. Toby realised his angry reaction to the question had given the Governor his answer. ‘Quite right, young man. Quite right.’ And Childers pulled the door closed.

  Childers led them through several doors and they found themselves in a sitting room.

  ‘Please, have a seat, boys. I shall have a clerk draft the necessary documents and then you can be on your way.

  They sat for twenty minutes or more, then Childers returned with a sheaf of documents in hand. He handed one to Toby.

  ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said. ‘This document authorises the treasury to release to you a sum of six hundred pounds.’

  Toby reached carefully for the document in Childers’s hand. He half expected to see the sheet of paper vanish or burst into flames before his eyes. Here it was, finally, after scratching about in the dirt of Ballarat to find their fortune, after enduring such tragedy and loss that no one should be expected to endure. Toby’s fingers clasped the paper. He felt the coarse weave. He could smell the ink. It was real. Here, in his hands, was the means of their going home. He offered the document to Paddy, but his brother just sat silent and motionless. Childers interrupted the quiet.

  ‘I have another document here,’ the aide said.

  Reluctantly, Toby lifted his eyes.

  ‘This document,’ Childers said flatly, ‘overturns the ruling of a certain magistrate with regards to the surrender of land in the district of Bunyong Creek to one Henry Pelham.’

  The words drifted past Toby as if they meant nothing. He blinked at the aide several times. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Your land has been returned to you, Toby. You and your brother. The governor has overturned the magistrate’s ruling.’

  ‘So all we have to do is pay what’s owing to Pelham? We don’t have to convince him to sell it—?’ Toby’s voice trailed away as Childers shook his head.

  ‘You don’t understand, Toby. I paid Henry Pelham a visit myself. He was most accommodating when he realised his little ruse had been dragged into the light. You don’t owe him anything. Pelham was most anxious to avoid prosecution over the incident. In exchange for the return of the land – debt free and with all improvements intact – he will avoid a costly prosecution and possibly a lengthy gaol term. Once he knew that rogue Scotchy had given him up, he relented quite quickly. It was most improper of me to offer him immunity, but you boys don’t want to be tied down in lengthy legal proceedings. You want to take your family home.’

  ‘We can go home? We don’t owe Pelham a thing?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘Not a brass razoo. The reward money is yours to do with whatever you like.’

  The brothers locked eyes on each other and Paddy let out a whoop of triumph. Not to be outdone, Toby gave a whoop of his own, louder than Paddy’s. His voice was in practice. They were still whooping and cheering as they crossed the lawn towards the gates by the road.

  Chilbi went down to the wattle grove beside the creek and selected several branches no thicker than his little finger. These he took back up to the cave below the cliffs, where he had a small fire burning. Sitting by the fire, he chewed the end of each stick, separating the fibres to make paintbrushes. When he was satisfied with his creations, he took them deeper into the cave. The walls were covered with many murals and hand stencils, paintings of animals and spirits, stories of the history of the Jannjirra people.

  Squatting beside several wooden bowls of paint, Chilbi continued with his labour of love. The mural on which he worked showed a pale stranger arriving in the midst of his people. The stranger was welcomed and treated as one of the tribe. As the story progressed across the rock, the Djarriba used their magic to infect the people with a great sickness, and everyone died except for three young b
rothers and the pale stranger. The survivors, led by the pale one, descended into the lands of the Djarriba and took revenge for the sickness. The warriors killed many Djarriba, but one by one they were killed off. Now, only one warrior remains, one last survivor of the people, and this is his mark.

  Chilbi picked up a bowl of white paint and tipped it into his mouth. He sloshed it about for a few moments, mixing it with his saliva until he was happy with the consistency. Then he drew a deep breath through his nose and placed his right hand against the rock at the end of the mural. Paint erupted from his mouth in a fine mist, plastering the back of his hand and the rock around it. When he lifted his hand away, its outline remained there on the rock, picked out in white.

  His story had ended.

  Later, Chilbi wandered to the edge of the escarpment and looked out across the valley. Here and there, lights twinkled in the lowlands, the Djarriba settlements that grew closer to his tribal homeland with each passing season. One day they would reach the escarpment, and Chilbi wondered what would happen to the rock paintings and the sacred places when they did. Would they erase all sign of the Jannjirra people? When Chilbi was gone, would there be anything left to tell of their existence?

  He still pondered these questions as he limped back to the campfire. The season was changing, and tomorrow he would move camp to be near the sacred burial grounds where he had other duties to perform. He turned his head in that direction and felt the yearning in his soul, an unmistakable urge drawing him towards the mountains where the remains of his people lay.

  The spirits of his ancestors were calling him home.

  The day had started out cloudy and grey, but by late afternoon the sullen overcast drifted into the east, carried away by the breeze. The sun chased the chill from the air and the women removed their woollen shawls and draped them over the back of the seat.

  Sitting astride Moonlight, Toby turned to the wagonette and smiled. Annie smiled back at him. She sat in the middle of the wide seat with the reins in her hand, her mother and sister on either side. She had folded a burlap bag under her bottom to cushion the jolts which the tired old springs beneath the seat were unable to cope with.

  Beside Annie, Maree held Sean. Her face still showed dark shadows of grief and heartbreak. Toby knew she cried every night. Sometimes her daughters cried with her, huddled together in a wailing embrace beside the campfire, but mostly she cried alone in the darkness when she thought no one could hear.

  Paddy rode beside the wagonette on Patch. Despite having found his voice, he remained a man of few words, but Toby was glad for each and every rationed sentence that came from his brother’s mouth.

  ‘Where’s the homestead, Toby? How far? Will we be able to see it soon?’ Betty was all but standing in the seat as she looked about. Toby didn’t answer her; he simply pointed ahead to where the trees opened up and the ground rose into a long spur of ridge line. There, on a natural shelf of flat ground that overlooked the valley, sat the homestead.

  ‘Oh, Toby!’ Tears of joy ran down Annie’s cheeks. ‘It’s beautiful, just as you described it.’

  The slip rails were wide open. Toby smiled at this last little act of defiance on the part of Henry Pelham. Annie steered the wagonette through the gap and he stopped to dismount and push them closed, but Paddy slipped to the ground and seized the first rail before he could kick his foot out of the stirrup.

  ‘I’ve got it, mate.’

  Toby smiled at the sound of his brother’s voice, each word a marvel to his ears.

  Paddy pushed both rails closed and looked up at his brother. ‘Just the way Pa likes it. Closed good and tight,’ he added to Toby’s delight. Then he remounted and they trotted up beside the wagonette.

  ‘We are now on O’Rourke land,’ Toby told them. ‘Welcome to your new home, ladies.’

  A cheer went up from the three women and they clapped their hands with such delight and gusto that the horse flicked its ears with annoyance. Sean squealed his protest at the noise.

  They climbed the track to the homestead and reined in below the verandah. Betty was so excited she sprang to the ground the instant the wagonette stopped and ran to the open door to peer inquisitively inside. Pelham had closed nothing behind him.

  It was just as Toby remembered: the rough-sawn planks, the verandah and walls of split timber, a roof of bark sheets held in place by a latticework of bush poles.

  He offered his hand to Maree and she took it and stepped down, taking in her surroundings. Annie stepped to the edge of the wagonette and he used both hands to lift her down, pulling her close and kissing her as her feet touched the soil. Their soil. Then he took her hand, led her up the steps, across the verandah and through into the kitchen.

  The cast iron stove sat cold, and no pots or other utensils hung from the hooks along the mantle. Everything was gone, even the table under which Paddy had crawled on that fatal day long ago. Toby didn’t care. He could get a new table, new chairs, new everything. He pushed the door open to his parents’ bedroom. It was bare of everything except the faded curtains his mother had sewn. The big bed was gone.

  He stepped back into the kitchen and went to the lean-to room at the back of the house. Both beds were still there. The homemade mattresses were soiled and sagging from the weight of the stockmen who had occupied them, the supporting ropes desperately in need of tightening.

  They withdrew back into the kitchen to find Maree stooped in front of the stove as she examined the firebox.

  ‘I’ve sent Betty to collect some firewood,’ she said. ‘We may have to boil water in the billy until we find the kettle, but we won’t starve or go cold with this beauty fired up.’ Then she smiled. Toby thought it the first genuine smile Maree had given since Frank’s death and it chased weeks of grieving off her face in an instant.

  ‘Toby? Come and give me a hand to unload, will you?’ Paddy called from beside the wagonette.

  They toiled until late in the afternoon, unloading and placing their belongings in the homestead. When they had finished only one item remained on the floor of the wagonette load bed, a mysterious crate which Toby had arrived back in camp with before they left Ballarat. No amount of questions could get him to divulge the contents of that crate.

  Paddy went to unhitch the horse and lead it into the yard, but Toby stopped him. ‘Leave it in the traces for a little while longer, Pad. We’ve still got one more important job to do before it gets dark.’ And he patted the crate.

  With a little urging, he managed to get everyone back onto the wagonette. He took the driver’s seat beside Annie and whipped the horse into motion, steering the wagonette around the horse yard and up along the ridge. As they climbed higher, he and Paddy pointed out places of interest to the others.

  ‘That’s the pond where we shoot ducks,’ Paddy said.

  Toby looked down at the little body of water that had been the driving force behind Henry Pelham’s greed. The pond was fringed with green grass and, even after a long summer, fairly brimmed with clean water. Soon, he and Paddy would head down to Geelong and buy a mob of cattle to begin breeding another herd.

  They reached the crest of the ridge and Toby swung the vehicle in a wide circle to face back down the slope. He reined the horse to a stop, applied the brake and then set about getting everyone down.

  Taking Sean in his arms, he walked away from the wagonette a little. ‘This is where your Grandma and Grandpa are buried, Sean.’ The piece of ground to which he gestured was indistinguishable from the rest of the ridge. A few pieces of quartz lay strewn among grass tussocks.

  Paddy went to the far end of the stones and picked up two pieces of wood. They were nailed together.

  ‘That’s the cross we made for Ma and Pa’s grave,’ Toby said, and bent to replace the stones which had been kicked out of place by wandering cattle. Then he and Paddy went to the wagonette, lowered the tailgate and used two planks of wood to slide the heavy container onto the ground. Toby handed Paddy a nail iron and his brother set about prying
the lid off, working his way carefully around the outside.

  ‘It’s a beauty’, Paddy whispered when the lid came away. His fingers traced the outline of each letter chiselled into a polished granite headstone.

  Toby retrieved two spades from the wagonette and they spent the next half-hour digging the headstone into the ground, ensuring the earth was packed tight around it. Finally, they were finished, and the brothers stood back to admire their handiwork.

  Toby felt he had kept the promise he’d made on this very spot. He had brought a family back to the place that had been so important to his mother and father. His father had always said that this was a family place and a place like this needed a family to make it thrive and prosper the way it ought to.

  Well, Pa, he thought, there’s a family here again, an O’Rourke family. I know you’d be proud.

  The dark was growing and the stars coming out as Toby and Patrick O’Rourke got everyone loaded back onto the wagonette. Toby urged the horse into motion then slipped his arm behind Annie’s back.

  ‘Look!’ Annie pointed into the night sky above the homestead where a bright firmament of stars shone. ‘That’s the Southern Cross.’ Her hand instantly traced the outline, found the Pointers and dropped to the horizon. ‘South,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Toby answered, noting that Annie’s finger pointed at the homestead. ‘The Southern Cross is showing us the way home.’

  Acknowledgements

  There are many people who have offered their generous assistance on the path to bring Blood in the Dust to publication. If I have forgotten anyone, please forgive me.

  To Lorraine Archibald and Cathy Couzner, who helped with the development of the early drafts of this novel, you are both angels. Thank you very much. To Jo Hamlet, Jackie Cavill and the members of the Donnybrook Writers’ Group, your words of encouragement will never be forgotten. To Wilbur and Niso Smith, their foundation and Georgina Brown, I can’t thank you enough for the wonderful opportunity you have presented me. To Kevin Conroy Scott and my agent, Charlotte Colwill, thank you so much for taking a chance on a writer from the other side of the world. To Kate Parkin and my editor, Claire Johnson-Creek, at Zaffre, thank you for all your hard work. To Rachel Capps and Rob Munro, my online writer friends whom I have never met in person, thank you for picking me up and dusting me off whenever I needed it. To my ex-Air Force and firefighter friends who have read my work, offered advice and spurred me along, thanks guys. To my mother and father, who have always believed in me, I love you both. Finally, I’d like to thank my family; Michael, for becoming my I.T. guy, and Rhonda, my wife, for enduring the ups and downs of living with a writer. I know that at times it’s not easy. Thank you, sweetheart.