The Far Horizon (11 page)

She put a hand to her mouth and laughed. ‘George! Where did you get it?’

‘It’s a cockatoo. I bought him from a sailor when I was delivering letters to the captain of one of the ships. The sailor begged me to buy it because he needed money quickly.

‘Ello darlin!’

‘
What are you going to do with it?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘We can’t have it in the house, not a bird who says things like that … the visiting ladies of Sydney would certainly not approve … You could, of course, keep him in a cage in your room.’

‘No, not in a cage,’ George said firmly. ‘This bird is a free settler, not a convict.’

‘Then you will have to find him a place somewhere in the garden. Go down to Mr Byrne, the Head Gardener, and see if he can help you to find somewhere suitable.’

George sighed. ‘If you insist.’

Minutes later Elizabeth saw George down in the garden, surrounded by the Irish servants and gardeners, all laughing as the cockatoo kept chirping from one to the other, ‘
ello darlin, ello darlin, ello darlin …

Personally, Elizabeth thought, she preferred birds that were allowed to sing their own natural songs, not birds that had been taught to talk like cockney sailors.

*

Lachlan was not a bit surprised when, a few days later, Elizabeth refused to join him on a visit to see the village that he had arranged to be built near Sydney Harbour for the Aboriginals.

‘I have seen more than enough of the Aboriginals,’ she said stiffly. ‘The women always clothe themselves decently, so why can’t the men?’

‘The men will all be wearing breeches,’ Lachlan assured her. ‘King Bungaree gave me his word on that.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Elizabeth decided, ‘I have enough to do today and I’m not prepared to take the risk. Perhaps, at some other time, you could arrange for me to visit … just the women?’

‘The horses are ready, sir,’ John Campbell said from the doorway.

Minutes later Elizabeth watched Lachlan ride off with George Jarvis and Captain Antill each side of him, and John Campbell and the bodyguard close behind.

‘Thank God for that,’ she muttered to herself, turning away with relief. ‘The Aboriginals are
his
pets, not mine.’

*

The Aboriginal people of Sydney lived mainly by fishing, then selling their fish to individuals in the town. At their partly constructed new village, King Bungaree was there to meet the Governor and his staff, and watch the houses being built. He and his people had no intention of living in the new houses, preferring to sleep on the beach under the stars, but he appreciated the gesture and smiled happily when the Governor asked him, ‘How do you like the houses?’

‘
Murry boodgeree
(very good) Massa.’

Although the others were attempting to keep a straight face, George Jarvis's dark eyes were glistening with tears of laughter – due to King Bungaree's dress.

The Aboriginal women always wrapped themselves in cloaks of possum skins and kept their bodies covered, but the Aboriginal men walked around quite naked, without the least embarrassment, and even seemed very proud of their
natural
costume.

But Governor Macquarie had sought to remedy the matter by supplying King Bungaree and his group of males with breeches from the Government Stores. King Bungaree had been very pleased with the breeches, and now he wore them to meet his dear friend, the ‘
Boodgeree Massa Mawarrie!
’

Lachlan stared at the breeches dangling around King Bungaree's neck like a shawl, and attempted to ignore George Jarvis who was shaking with silent laughter.

He said sternly, ‘No, King Bungaree, that is not how the breeches should be worn.’

Bungaree dandily lifted a leg of the white breeches that covered his shoulders and looked disappointed. ‘
Bel boodgeree
(not good) Massa?’

‘Not good at all,’ Lachlan said, then again insisted that he wished all Aboriginal males to wear the breeches where intended – on the lower parts of their bodies.

Two such males standing behind the king were wearing their breeches wrapped around their heads like turbans, while their bodies remained as bare as the bark on a gum tree.

King Bungaree merely shrugged up his shoulders and smilingly agreed. He was too fond of the Governor to tell him that he and his people cared as little for the breeches as they did for the houses. In the same way that he was too fond of the Governor to tell him that he was not a king – Aboriginal people had no kings or queens, only the white invaders had kings and queens – but an earlier Governor had given Bungaree the title of ‘King’ simply because he was an Elder and the leader of the Aboriginal people in
Koori
. The Aboriginal people cared mostly for Governor Macquarie's protection, an unusual thing, which they now flaunted in the face of any white man who dared to abuse them, retaliating with a lordly wave of the hand and shouting arrogantly, ‘Go along, you damn white fellow!’ Then threatening the white man with ‘
the jail
’ and ‘
Massa Mawarrie.
’

All the Aboriginals understood English very well, but only spoke it when necessary. But when they did, their English was rife with cockney slang, especially when they were driven to hard swearing, which they had learned years ago to perfection from the worst of London.

But they never swore in front of the Governor. Although their culture and language were ridiculously strange to the whites, the Aboriginals were adept at quickly summing up a person's character and anticipating his reactions in various circumstances.

King Bungaree happily invited Governor Macquarie and his massas to come to the beach and take refreshment, which in courtesy they did.

Later, when the meal was over and the evening was setting in, torch-fires were lit all around the beach and a display of entertainment was quickly ordered by King Bungeree.

Lachlan smiled his approval – he simply loved the inherent poetry in the Aboriginal ritual chants and the artistic symbolism of their dancing.

As the night wore on, the singing and chanting rose louder and louder, until it could be heard in most parts of Sydney.

This was one aspect of Macquarie that the Exclusives despised, his affectionate familiarity with the Aboriginals. His years in India had clearly debauched him. And a sad day it was for New South Wales when London sent a
Sahib
to rule them.

By now, more than two years after his arrival in the colony, there was not much Lachlan did not know about the Aboriginals and their ways.

He had learned that they possessed an amazing quickness of ear and eye, so much so that they could track a man's footsteps with perfect ease through every description of country, and although they did not appear to be even looking at the Governor, he knew they were covertly watching him and noticing his enjoyment of their performance – which led to another aspect of their nature, which was a relentless desire to show off.

War-like, they swung their waddies around their heads as they danced and sang – two of the young men becoming so competitive in their showing off they accidentally smashed their clubs together and a private fight broke out between the two.

King Bungaree, who at first fumed with anger at the two men who began to fight before their guests, quickly decided to turn failure into festivity by ordering the two men to perform their fight as an act of entertainment, for the Governor and his massas.

Lachlan immediately moved to protest, but King Bungaree patted his hand happily and urged to him enjoy it.

Astonished, the Governor and his staff sat in the warm night air and watched as the two men danced around each other with club in hand, and began to fight, bashing each other on the head until one tumbled down in an unconscious slump.

Lachlan moved to take his leave as soon as the other flourished his club in a little victory dance, before slumping down unconscious also.

‘Oh, yes,
murry boodgeree
,’ Lachlan agreed when King Bungaree asked his opinion of the brave fight, but George Jarvis was in quiet hysterics.

George's laughing face had attracted two Aboriginal boys aged about thirteen who ran after the delegation as they took their leave. One boy tugged on George's coat to gain his attention. `Halloo! Halloo! Top! Top! I want to peak to you!'

George stopped and turned to look at the grinning boy with long frizzy hair. ‘Well?’

‘I be
your
servant,’ the boy grinned.

George laughed dismissively and waved the boy aside as he walked on. It was common practice in India for servants to hire other servants at a lesser wage to do the tedious work for them, but his own position was quite different. The two boys followed him, laughing excitedly.

‘Halloo! Halloo! I now your servant, Massa!’ the boy cried. ‘I am, you know!’

‘I know you are becoming a nuisance,’ George said. ‘Now go away.’

‘I boil kettle every morning for your tea, Massa. I clean your shoes. I killit all your enemies.’

George had a feeling they would follow him all the way to Government House if he allowed them to.

I don't want or need a servant,’ he said decisively. ‘Now go away –
shoo!
’

‘
Shoo!
' the boys mimicked, and shrieked with laughter.

‘I brush your coat every day, Massa.’ The boy reached to touch the sleeve of George's blue coat. ‘I catch fish for you. Halloo! Halloo, Massa!’

But George was clearly not interested. The boys looked at each other in disappointment, shrugged, and came up with another ploy.

‘I
not
be your servant and go away if you pay me one shilling, Massa,’ said the first boy slyly.

‘I not be your servant also, Massa,’ said the other boy, ‘if you pay me
two
shilling.’

George smiled to himself, then swung round and grabbed the two boys and banged their heads together. ‘There!’ he said, rendering them dumbstruck. ‘That's how we treat servants in India!’

Dazed, and each with a hand to the side of their heads, the boys looked up at George with dismay.

‘Do you still want to be my servants now?’ George asked.

‘No, Massa.’

‘No, Massa.’

George took some money from his pocket and shared it between them. ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘
Shoo!
’

‘
Shoo!
’ the boys mimicked, and ran back down the slope laughing.

Chapter Thirteen

With the help of Francis Greenway, the ex-convict who was proving to be something of a genius, St Phillip's Church had now been completed, and became the first consecrated building in New South Wales.

Over two-hundred-and-fifty emancipist couples living together on their government-grants of land, answered the Governor's plea and got married in the new church.

Reverend William Cowper, the junior chaplain, joyously performed the wedding ceremonies.

But Reverend Marsden, the senior chaplain, refused to participate, considering all emancipists and felons to be damned and beyond any religious redemption, as were the Aboriginals.

Instead, he applied to Governor Macquarie for the provision of enough soldiers and finances to pay for an armed expedition to New Zealand, as he cherished a fervent wish to convert the Maoris to Christianity.

Lachlan flatly refused Reverend Marsden's request, advising him to care more for his flock here in New South Wales, and to leave New Zealand’s Maoris alone.

Fuming, it was a refusal that Reverend Marsden was determined to make Macquarie regret.

*

Every day Lachlan rode at least thirty to forty miles exploring his territory and making his plans, always accompanied by his military aide, Captain Anthill, and followed by his regular bodyguard of ten light horsemen under the command of Sergeant Charles Whelan.

On a cool day in September, having ridden out with Captain Antill to explore the lands around Windsor, they approached the town to see a crowd gathered at the corner of Thompson Square.

The people seemed totally engrossed in whatever was taking place.

Curious, they moved their horses forward at a walking pace until they reached the back of the crowd and a man's raucous voice reached them.

‘I do hate to part with her, I do, cos she's a soft an' gentle little cow to be honest. Never makes a fuss if I have ter use the stick on her. Just takes it as her due. Now, twenty quid is what I'm asking for her. Twenty pounds. So oo's goin' to make the first bid?’

‘Ten quid!’ a voice shouted.

‘Ten quid? Now look, this ain't a bleedin' joke! I wouldn't be sellin' me little cow at all if I weren't off to be a squatter with me few sheep. An' I
need
the money to buy a good breeding ram. One ram, five ewes, an' before yer know it, I'll have me own station an’ a flock of sheep as big as John McArthur's.’

‘Eleven quid!’

‘Bugger off!’

‘Fifteen quid!’

No one seemed to notice Governor Macquarie sitting on his horse at the back of the crowd, with Captain Antill slightly behind him.

Captain Antill's young face was stiff with disgust, but Macquarie's eyes were dark with fury.

The man was selling a woman. A pale, timid-looking young woman with a bruised face was being led around in a circle with a rope around her neck like an animal on a leash.

‘Sixteen quid and a roll of cloth!’ a voice offered.

‘Sixteen quid an' a roll of bleedin' cloth! Gawd's breeches! Can't anyone come up with summit better'n that?’

The girl was again led round in a circle on her leash. ‘Like I says, she's a soft an' gentle little cow. An' she gives good service in the straw! Let yer have it anytime yer want, especially if you keep her tame with a few whacks of the stick. Drops on her back as meek as a lamb if you use the stick.’

‘Sixteen quid and a roll of good cloth, Tom Rattey. Take it or leave it. I got no more.’

‘Well ... I'm being a fool to meself, I am, I am, but all right –done!'

Lachlan waited until he saw the money actually changing hands, then quickly moved forward through the startled crowd who hurtled out of the way of his horse then stood to stare at the red-coated officer.

‘Blimey - it's His Ex!’

Lachlan glared at the two men. ‘What in damnation do you think you are doing?’

Neither man spoke, just gaped up at him.

‘
Answer me!
’ He flicked his crop across the shoulder of the astonished seller. ‘Who gave you the right to think you could sell this woman in an open market like an animal!’

Tom Rattey could not grasp what all the fuss was about. He lifted a big hand and rubbed at his shoulder where the crop had stung him.

‘Well, I
do
have the right to do with her what I like, Yer Excellency,’ he retorted indignantly. ‘She's me wife, see? Or at least she was, until I sold her to Flash here. I've done nothin' wrong, Yer Excellency. It's an unwritten law here in Botany, selling a wife. Cheaper than divorce, y'see?’

‘And who instituted this unwritten law?’

Tom Rattey shrugged. ‘Dunno. One bloke done it, then another bloke done the same as him. Now anyone that wants does it.’

‘And do they all lead the woman around on a leash and advise their buyers to beat her with a stick?’

‘Ah, no, Yer Excellency.’ Tom Rattey attempted a placating laugh. ‘They all know that's just part of the sales gab. Just a bit of spice to add to things, y'know.’

Lachlan looked with focused loathing into the ugly, ignorant face below him. ‘So one man commits a depraved act by selling his wife like a beast, and others follow his example? Well, as it happens, I am a great believer in the use of example myself.’

By now the entire square was filled with soldiers and civilians who had rushed out to see if reports of His Excellency the Governor being in town were true.

Macquarie looked at the soldiers and beckoned them forward. ‘Take that rope from the woman's neck,’ he commanded.

The rope was removed.

‘Now take her husband to the centre of the square, strip off his shirt, and in full view of all these people, give him ten lashes!’

A gasp went up from the crowd. Very slowly the Governor looked round the square at the people of Windsor, and when he spoke to them, a raw fury edged his words.

‘A new
written
law is now going to be instituted in New South Wales. Any man who attempts to sell his wife on a leash like an animal – any man who attempts to
sell
his wife at all, will be charged under a capital offence and will suffer the severest punishment of the law!’

Other women were now comforting Tom Rattey’s wife, while Rattey was tied to the flagpole in the centre of the square.

A sergeant of the 73rd stood ready, whip in hand.

Minutes later the people of Windsor saw the man who had made a public spectacle of his wife, himself being made a public spectacle of, and with every crack of the lash the women in the square cheered.

Ten lashes – it was little enough in a colony that in the past decade had seen Irish rebels and English mutineers from the Nore take more than two hundred steel-tipped lashes without uttering a sound, without letting out even a whimper, even though the skin was ripped from their blood-soaked backs – yet Tom Rattey had howled at the first strike.

‘Where's yer nasty ole stick now then, Tom Rattey?’ a woman shouted. ‘Ow's it feel when it's you that's gettin' the beating, eh?’

Tom Rattey looked over his shoulder like an enraged bull. ‘Bleedin' Governor!’ he gasped through his flinching pain. ‘He ain't the poor man's friend at all! He's a bleedin' brutal bastard, just like the rest of 'em!’

‘Just consider yourself lucky,'’ Macquarie said to Tom Rattey when the lashing was over, ‘that the rope didn't end up around
your
neck!’

*

The news of the lashing at Windsor spread like wildfire. The lenient Lachlan Macquarie, it seemed, was not quite so lenient after all.

Many remembered the promise he had made to the people upon his arrival in the colony, that he would always endeavour ‘
to
reward merit, to encourage virtue, and to punish vice.’

Lachlan Macquarie's lack of leniency towards any man who had seriously broken the law and harmed others was again demonstrated when a man who had been found guilty of murder, and sentenced to death, made an appeal to the Governor for clemency.

Macquarie's refusal was brief and emphatic. ‘He took life – so he shall lose it.’

The people's approval of him was now joined by an even greater respect.