Sydney – Port Jackson – Picture from Australia’s Heritage Magazine 1969

Published: 3 Jun 2019

Parramatta had gathered to a man to greet the weary travellers and the reception was no less as Edward and Hamish plodded that last hundred yards from the farm gate to the hut. There was something different. Hamish admitted so as they came close.

While they were away Sam had erected a large pen of sorts some distance behind the hut and Hamish’s eye for detail discovered the structure at first glance.

“Sam what have you been up to?”

“How was the trip?” were Sam’s first words, ignoring Hamish’s interest in his handy work.

“What’s that?” Hamish questioned without giving an answer as he pointed towards the new structure.

“Wasn’t it you idea to have more laying fowls?”

“It was,”

“I’ve only fifty at present, but some have gone broody and are sitting on eggs.”

“Well I’ll be buggered,” Hamish quickly approached the enclosure, more interested in the chooks than relating the details of their trip.

“How was the trip?” Sam repeated, redirecting his question to Edward.

“Long and tiresome but with some merit,” Edward answered as he joined Hamish to investigate the new fowl run.

“You had a visitor while you were away,” Sam recollected.

“Who?”

“Your friend Bahloo, he stood in the field next to the potato patch for quite some time.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I did, he rambled on for a while but I couldn’t understand any of it, I’ve tried but just can’t get my tongue or brain around their jibber. I did understand the word Edwa.”

“Why didn’t you ask him to speak in English?”

“I tried that as well but when I said you were away he started the jibber once more, then he left.”

“I guess he’ll come again.”

“By way you have received a letter from England, come inside and I’ll find it for you.”

“James!”

“Not directly, the sender is a woman, Jane someone or other if I recollect, the name is on the reverse.”

“I don’t know a Jane.”

Sam retrieved the letter and passed it to Edward who quickly tore it open. His happy expression soon dissolved into disappointment. “What does it say?” Sam asked.

“It is from Jane Wilson, she is a cousin to James but not the cousin you wrote to.”

“Again what has she got to say about James?”

“Not a lot, there is the news about his father’s demise but doesn’t mention it was at the hands of Eugene but as for James, no one has seen him or heard from him but if so she will pass my whereabouts on to James.”

“Don’t give up lad.”

“No Sam I won’t.”

Hamish approached and placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Likewise, I’m sure you will have word one of these days.”

“I’m sure that is so,” but Edward’s words were shallow lacking his usual confidence.

Over to the north east the sky had been grubby for some time, giving most wonderful sunsets. Edward had first noticed the phenomenon on his last day across the mountains and since then it appeared somewhat closer. At first it was thought to be a dust storm but appeared much too high in the atmosphere to be so, possibly a large bushfire was suggested. Also there came a change in the weather turning the early autumn from warm days and cool nights to warm days and nights then as the phenomenon approached closer it appeared to counteract much of the sun’s influence, creating cooler weather during the day.

That week while in Parramatta Sam and Hamish had learned from a visitor fresh off a boat from India, it was the result of a volcanic explosion somewhere in the Dutch East Indies, on some island he could not name but did recollect the mountain to be called Temora. The traveller had heard the boom of its explosion from a good hundred miles away as his ship approached the Malacca strait.

Hamish had seriously asked the visitor if one of those volcanoes would explode around Parramatta. The stranger laughed and shook his head in disregard for Hamish’s lack of schooling, “If you studied your geography young man, you would realise there aren’t any volcanoes around this part of the world.” Yet Hamish wasn’t convinced and as they travelled back to the farm he kept a close eye on the approaching dust, while searching for elusive volcanoes, although he had no idea what they may look like.

Within a matter of days the South East Trade Winds commenced to arrive from somewhere out near New Zealand and helped halt the progress of the volcanic fallout, sending it north to join the bulk of the explosion to give the Northern Hemisphere a cool summer.

“It’s gone.” Sam laughed as he noticed Hamish casting a troubled gaze into the western sky.

“Possibly so Sam but the weather still isn’t right.”

“Handy things are books,” Sam revealed somewhat obliquely.

“What has that to do with this Temora thing?”

“You can learn all sorts of things from books.”

“Where is this heading Sam?”

“Something I once read in one of a previous governor’s collection.”

“You are itching to say.”

“A big volcano blew up in Italy a long way’s back and covered an entire city called Pompeii and it was found a hundred years back under all the ash and dust, almost as it was when covered, something like that place called Temora.

“I don’t think I would like living in this Dutch place Hamish gave a light shudder.

“Firstly you don’t speak Dutch, you hardly speak English.” Sam commented.

“I speak well enough.”

“Yea with some strange northern accent, no wonder most think you are a Scottie,” Edward added to the conversation.

“I’m no -” Hamish saw the smile on Edward’s face, also on that of Sam, “gone with ya’ go tease the fowls.”

“I think you are correct about one thing Hamish, the weather doesn’t appear right.”

Over the passing days the last of the grubby horizon cleared but the sunsets remained spectacular, still the weather didn’t appear to normalise. It was then Duncan Milroy from the branch bend came by to exchange tomatoes for some eggs. Milroy had capacity for gossip greater than any woman and always stayed too long. He would recollect this fella’ who had this problem, or another bloke with some other; all unbelievable in the most with only enough credibility to carry his story.

On noticing the man’s arrival both Edward and Hamish departed, making some excuse about the wellbeing of one of their milking goats but Edward misjudged his timing and returned to find the man enjoying cake and tea, with Sam close by appearing quite bored but too polite to tell the man to bugger off.

“Edward how did you enjoy you adventure across the mountains?”

Milroy enquired and helped himself to a second slice of cake.

“Fine,” Edward was about to share the acquisition of his selection then realised he had not yet told Sam.

“Nice cake so who made it?” Milroy asked.

“Hamish did,” Sam admitted.

“No good women yet Sam.”

“I guess no one would have me Duncan.”

“What about you young fellow; isn’t it about time you settled down?” Milroy nodded towards Edward.

“I have nothing to offer and you know women they like a little security, a nice soft bed to lay the night and pots and pans in the kitchen.”

“So Hamish is the cook Sam?”

“Yes he does most of it but why so much interest in housework?”

“It is a lucky fellow who finds a servant he can not only trust but can cook a fine cake such as this, we have a maid and my wife still has to do most of her work and she’s not slow in stealing a tipple of rum.” The man looked about the hut.

“No rum here Duncan, we are beer men and all out.”

“It was a fine thought but I guess my thirst can wait until in town.”

“Would you like another pot of tea; were out of sugar as well.” Sam offered, knowing it to be untrue as Milroy had a sweat tooth and their paltry supply had been quickly hidden.

Milroy cast his gaze through the hut door, finding the afternoon was quickly disappearing; “must be on my way.” As he rose to leave he remembered, “Oh another thing, did you hear about the fire over at Richmond?” They had not. Milroy continued; “it is said the fire was caused by the blacksmith’s carelessness, three houses gone and a good crop of Indian corn behind.” Milroy helped himself to another slice of cake, “for the road Mr. Wilcox.”

“Did you happen to get the blacksmith’s name?” Edward casually inquired.

“Can’t rightly remember but it was said he’s a big brute of a man, has a short temper and not too smart.”

“And how is the Blacksmith?” Edward nervously continued, wishing for a negative response.

“Fine I believe. I heard he was at the tavern at the time.” The man collected his hat, bade farewell and was at last gone.

“Don’t concern Edward, who is to say it’s your blacksmith.”

“It has to be him as I believe he was the only blacksmith at Richmond.”

“Seeing you are on terms with Mr. Macquarie, possibly you can have him do something about the blacksmith.”

“No Sam it is my problem and I don’t wish to worry anyone or broadcast my so called crime, besides I have no proof of his obsession and one can’t be charged for something he may do.”

“Edward you look as white as snow,” Hamish commented as he returned, having seen the last of Milroy as he passed through the gate. As the man turned for home he cast an envious eye on Sam’s late crop of pumpkins as they interwove their tangled way across the fence line but Hamish ignored the suggestion of having free arms to carry.

“Nothing Hamish I assure you, Sam I’m going for a dip in the creek.”

“I’ll join you,” Hamish suggested.

“Not this time, I need to do some thinking.”

Neck deep in water and watching the antics of a flock of sulphur crested cockatoos Edward put his thoughts to turn but found setting aside a time to think is sometimes less useful than not doing so at all and thoughts often turn in circles, one upon the other, all arriving at the same destination being no resolve. What if? What If? One could what if until the cows came home but when all is churned in the brain all that is left is what if – full circle.

Standing naked and neck deep in water is advantageous, even more so when guests arrive, or more to say a travelling salesman peddling his wares along the branch creeks on his monthly rounds, his small boat loaded like a tinker’s caravan and making much fuss as pots clashed against pots, others tinkling like wind chimes.

“Hoy there,” the voice came from downstream sending the cockatoos to scatter in screeching crescendo and bringing Edward away from his what if.

“Benjamin Dansard is the name, selling all your needs is the game,” he proudly called from his boat as it slowly made way upstream with the help of a light breeze, “from fine dresses for the good women, to pots and pans for the country kitchen and I’m sure a young fella’ such as yourself could come by a hat or working trousers, or-”

“In my present disposition Mr. Dansard trousers would be somewhat cumbersome,” Edward answered.

“Then underwear to cover that disposition?”

“No thank you Mr. Dansard, possibly on your next calling.”

As the breeze dropped and the man took to rowing, Edward returned to his thinking but soon realised it wasn’t of use, those circles within circles returned, creating even more pointless circles.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Hamish had disregarded his friends need for solitude and without invitation discarded his clothing and was about to immerse himself into the creek.

“I don’t own the creek Hamish.” Edward gruffly answered.

“True but you do own your mood.”

“It has gone, sure come in.”

“What’s on your mind?” Hamish asked.

“Hasn’t Sam explained?”

“Sam would never tell another’s thoughts unless given permission.”

“He is a good true friend.” Edward sighted, smiled and splashed his friend with water.

“So?”

“I suppose you are friend enough to share.”

“Suppose? That is almost insulting, no Edward it is insulting.”

The weather had been mostly overcast but without giving rain, the clouds came in from the south east only to linger on the high mountains but the dry continued. Sam’s pumpkin vines withered and died but not before giving up their fine crop which was stored on the hut roof to be taken to the next market day.

The level in the branch creek had fallen to such a degree even the smallest skiff could not make its way past the junction without being carried or dragged for quite some distance. So it was with all the feeder creeks in the area and hand watering became a full task with the bucket brigade becoming constant throughout the unusually warm late autumn days.

It was on one such day, while carting water to the vegetable garden when there came by a visitor representing the Governor’s office. A small man he was and sat upon a large hairy hoofed shire horse, like a pimple on a pumpkin and by design would need a ladder to dismount.

Sam met the visitor at the gate who officiously introduced himself as Mr. Reginald Smith, representing his Excellency Mr. Lachlan Macquarie and come about his business. Sam led his visitor to the hut as both Edward and Hamish curiously put aside their buckets and travelled the short distance to join with them.

“Who could he be?” Hamish asked, watching their visitor’s difficult dismount from such a height, using a split-fence rail for his stepping.

“Couldn’t say,”

“He looks important maybe your friend the Gov wants you for another expedition.” The two arrived where the man stood with Sam.

“Would you like refreshment?” Sam offered.

“Tea would be fine Mr. Wilcox.” All four entered into the hut, Sam offering privilege of seating to their visitor.

“Have you come up from Sydney?” Sam asked as he swung the kettle onto the heat.

“Today but from Parramatta but yes I left Sydney yesterday morning.”

All were most eager to hear his purpose but being on the governor’s business they patiently waited. Eventually the messenger offered his purpose.

“Which of you fine fellows would be Mr. Hamish McGregor?” the man asked in monotone, his small mouth hardly forming his vowels while his even smaller dark eyes, set in a moon appeared expressionless.

“I’m Hamish McGregor,” Hamish warily admitted as the man extracted a well cared document from the inner pocket of his long coat, while ignoring Hamish’s admittance of self. The document hovered before being offered to Sam.

“Mr. Wilcox it is at the Governor’s pleasure a ticket of leave be offered to your servant Mr. McGregor for his service in the recent trek to the Bathurst Plains. At last he passed the document to Sam, while Hamish sat motionless and silent, his inner parts appeared to leap outwards towards his skin but went no further. Once delivered the messenger turned to Hamish and for the first time acknowledged his existence.

“Young man you do realise this comes with restrictions?”

Hamish nodded his understanding, “Yes I do sir,”

“Even so I am obliged to announce, you may travel as you wish but only within New South Wales and not to Van Diemen’s Land, or parts outside the control of his Excellencies’ or any future governor’s mandate, nor can you return to England,” he paused, “is that understood?” Hamish agreed as the official continued; “if the conditions set down in this document are broken it will immediately be revoked – is that clear?”

All within the issue were clear to Hamish and he excitedly admitted so and as the messenger stood to leave, Hamish became overwhelmed and released a loud whooping. For the first time since arriving the messenger forced a smile. He had also been in such a position and remembered well the elation such a small insignificant piece of parchment could bring.

“One last point Mr. McGregor, keep that document safe, it can be asked for by any official at any time and not being able to produce it may cause difficulty.

Hamish was well tickled by the visit, believing Macquarie’s promise may have been as hollow as many given by those in command but the man was true to his word and now he was a free man with a dilemma.

“What are your plans,” Sam asked realising he had asked Edward that very question and was most relieved with his answer.

“I don’t rightly know Sam, I think best carry on as usual, let it all sink in and see what happens.”

“You do realise if you attempt to return to England and they catch you it’s straight to the rope?”

“I do Sam but that isn’t my intention, although I have heard others had changed their names and managed. No this is the country of the future and there isn’t anything in England that beckons me.”

Hamish saying he hadn’t plans was true but he did have dreams he could never realise while remaining with Sam. It was Edward’s star he wished to hitch upon. Edward had vision while Sam remained satisfied to stay on his poor acreage beside his creek, scratching a living between floods, fires and droughts but to hitch onto Edward’s star he first must be invited, so he would patiently wait for such an invitation.

The Richmond fire had left the blacksmith destitute. He had not only lost everything through his own carelessness but any measure of reputation he may have earned and was within a whisker of being charged for negligence for the damage caused by the fire.

Richmond had been a challenge for Tom Ingles, he wasn’t able to fit in with the community, while his only enjoyment was at the tavern bending his elbow, complaining to any who were as drunk as he or would listen to his obsessions. Furthermore the man was tormented by the lack of accolade for his involvement in the crossing of the mountains and when he heard of the explorer’s bravery and tenacity he boiled and demanded respect but received none. Instead told he was but a servant, no more than a pack horse, a mule forced to do the bidding of others, without making plan or decisions how to instigate the crossing.

The blacksmith was of retarded character, being the son of a blacksmith who had as much anger and disrespect as his hammer held for the anvil. He had also been abused both physically and sexually, becoming his old man’s whipping boy and sexual pleasure when his mother withdrew her favour.

The lad’s downfall was one final occasion when Tom Ingles was fourteen while working with his father at the village forge. During that morning there had been argument between his parents over what appeared to be of little consequence but the old man stewed while lapsing into his notorious silent mood, one the lad knew to be ominous.

It was midwinter and the weather chilled. Snow lay about and remained so throughout the short daylight hours. Tom had cuddled close to the bed of charcoal to keep warm. It was a large bed, not the usual brazier as his father was creating a new set of gates for the manor house and was behind in the work, realising he would be much out of pocket with the project, if paid at all, as the privileged estate was notoriously slow when it came to paying for services.

The lad’s lethargy angered the father, “Christ kid what do you think you’re doing,” the old man bellowed, his voice resonating through the foundry like thunder from some approaching storm, bringing the lad to cringe further into himself.

“Trying to keep warm Da,” Tom shivered as he cuddled even closer to the heat.

“Warm, if you did some work you’d soon warm.”

The lad obeyed and came to where his father was working on a long metal strut.

“Hold it!” the old man growled. The metal was still quite hot and commenced to burn Tom’s tender hands.

“Tighter,”

The lad did the best he could but found his strength lacking.

“For Chris sake kid can’t you do anything right.” The lad took fright and dropped the strut hitting his father’s foot. The old man’s blood rose and he grabbed the boy by the scruff, while forcing Tom’s trousers down. A moment later the father was deep with the son and grunting loudly as his frustrations and anger flowed away.

Finished his father pushed Tom aside and walked towards a heated bar in the bed of glowing charcoal. It was then revenge struck and with as much force as young Tom could muster, he pushed his father head long into the heat. The man screamed and struggled for exit but no avail, within seconds he was gone while Tom stood by in terror, one that would remain with him for the length of his days. Firstly came memory of the abuse then the distraught expression as his father past from life.

An inquest had been instigated, concluding death by misadventure. The man had been drinking heavily the previous night and observed was a half jug of whisky close by in the forge. Young Tom was therefore beyond suspicion but never forgot his father’s anger or maltreatment and from that day never spoke of his father’s demise but it did leave him with a cruel and twisted legacy and one he felt necessary to inflict on others.

If blame could be given or a time calculated, it was the rape of the son by the father that turned Tom Ingles to hatred and if he was sexually committed to sodomy was unclear. Tom didn’t much like women brought on by a mother, who was without love and if truthfully acknowledged knew of the father’s treatment towards their son. If Tom was attracted to boys was as unclear, it became more domination rather that sexual gratification and always delivered with disdain, being a safety valve to release his building mental pressure.

Since his attack high in the mountains, Ingles had not thought a great deal of Edward and his only other encounter was with a lad in his late teenage years in Richmond. The lad was Currency born to parents both transported for theft and none repentant. Young Larry Ferguson had attempted to steal some equipment from the blacksmith’s forge and was caught in the act. The rape was on and was a vicious encounter followed by giving the lad a thrashing.

The lad threatened to take his complaint to the constable. It wasn’t the thrashing that most upset, young Larry had plenty of such from his father but the penetration of his body and the degradation it left behind. The following day Larry Ferguson was found floating face down in the Hawkesbury River.

Once again death by misadventure but surely the boy could swim, it was reported an almost daily occurrence to see him swimming across the river and back without a falter or fear, even from the bull sharks that frequented the upper reaches of the river.

Certain bruising upon his body was considered suspicious, yet thought possibly caused by submerged logs in the river. Again Tom Ingles was free from suspicion and now from the fire was penniless and homeless.

Leaving his dismay behind the blacksmith chanced his luck in Parramatta but there was already a well appointed smithy in residence and the only work Ingles could find was blacksmith’s assistance and casual, a position that did not sit lightly with Tom’s ego, as subserviency was an immediate passage to memory of his father’s abuse.

Ingles had been in Parramatta for near on a month when on a visit to the market, he chanced upon a face in the crowd which set his memory to turn to the vindictive side. It was only a glimpse but enough to stir his wickedness and put him on the path to revenge. Throughout the remainder of that day Ingles was a mental wreck, bringing back all the negatives of his past flashing like bright lights before his eyes. On off, on off, as if someone was teasing him into action.

The following market day he returned and waited by the gate and there again was that flash of recognition but this time in flesh, bone and blood. It was his little sodomite for the Duchess of Devonshire but not alone. Ingles was more than strong enough to handle the slightness of the lad but with him was one of strength and by all accounts one who appeared to be from beyond the northern English border, they being considered to be well skilled in tavern brawls.

Keeping his distance Ingles followed the two, watched them sell their produce, listened to their laughter, their banter, viewed their carefree attitude as they made light with all they met. He hated them both for their simple happy existence, for their success and worse of all the so called Scot for he was having his way with the little sodomite.

Now that revenge had set its course it must be followed, Ingles went about discovering more of Edward and his friend, which because of their popularity most knew they came from the Wilcox farm and its position on the Branch creek, being but a morning’s walk, a short distance beyond the elbow.

“You mean the young Mr. Buckley?” why sir he is the hero of the mountains and was with Blaxland when he discovered the way to the interior. He was also with the Governor when he journeyed to the Bathurst Plains and personally chosen by the Gov for the work.

Those words dug deeply into the man’s personality. He was also with the explorers as they struggled to find a path across the mountains, he did the lifting the grunting and manual work while the little sod did naught but smile and collect firewood. Why didn’t he receive the accolades now benefited by Edward Buckley?

If the blacksmith hadn’t thought much of Edward since the crossing, he now did and it was slowly eating away at him. He must do something towards atonement. Daily his hatred grew, gnawing away at his guts like some hungry rodent, his entire body ached with hatred and Edward became his only emotion, his only thought and what he would do to him once they again met.

It wasn’t difficult to find where the Wilcox farm was situated and on his day off from work, Ingles followed the branch creek to the elbow and from the opposing bank of the creek discovered his nemeses at work with the Scot in the fields. There was a third who Ingles rightly believed would be the farmer Wilcox and they were a happy lot. It was as if they were stealing the happiness that rightly belonged to him, their laughter stung like the foreman’s birch across his back, stroke by stroke their banter drew more loathing, until his entire being was devoured with revenge and he ached from his knotted gut.

Now the blacksmith also despised the farmer and in his twisted mind had all three enjoying some sexual triangle. He watched from his hide as the farmer returned to his hut, watched as Edward and Hamish came to the creek laughing as they travelled. He watched as they stripped to naked and entered the water. He watched until he could watch no more and made decision to return and wait until he could find Edward alone. He finished his watching and returned to Parramatta but he would return he knew that as fact. He would have his revenge. He must have revenge.

As the blacksmith was leaving his hide on the bank he was almost discovered as a hunting dog passed him at pace without collecting his scent. Moments later a second dog and the sound of musket fire as a large bird fell from a tree into the water nearby. One of the dogs quickly retrieved the kill from the water.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Edward called to the hunter, who happened to have a small plot not far on the upper branch before the now deserted native camp.

“Young Edward, who’s that with you.”

“Tis Hamish McGregor sir,” Hamish answered.

“Ah a grand day for a cooling dip, I’ve a mind to join you.”

“By all means Mr Reynolds the water’s fine.” Edward invited.

“Another day lad, I must get this bird home and plucked for tea.” The hunter took the dead bird from the returning dog.

“Would you not prefer chicken Mr. Reynolds?”

“Would lad but can not afford such luxuries.”

“I’m sure we could spare you one.” Edward suggested and nodded towards Hamish, who quickly and naked left the water and went to the chicken run. A short time later he returned holding a dead chicken, missing its head.” Hamish again entered the water and swam the short distance to the opposite bank.

“There you go Mr. Reynolds, have a treat on us.” Hamish offered up the chicken.

“What of Sam,”

“I have asked him and it was well agreed.”

“Thank you lads, I shall remember your kindness.”

The two watched as the hunter followed the branch towards his hut his dogs running at his side while licking at droplets of blood that dripped onto the leaf litter from the severed neck.

“Nice dogs, we could do with a couple.” Hamish suggested as his attention was captured by movement in the undergrowth. He slowly waded towards the opposite bank.

“They eat a lot,” Edward dampened the suggestion.

“It was but a thought.” Waist deep in water Hamish paused close to the bank.

“And a jolly good thought, we had a dog back in Devon but a working dog, it didn’t like much being petted.”

“And I but,” Hamish broke away from the conversation, his eyes remaining on the undergrowth.

“What’s the problem?” Edward called.

“Nothing,” Hamish answered and turned away, “I guess a wallaby or something,” he suggested somewhat rhetorically.

“What are you on about?” Edward answered.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s getting cold, I’m going to go and feed the pigs and Sam asked if we could mend the fence down by the gate, Wilson’s cow broke through yesterday.”

“Hand on I’ll give you a hand.”

From an English prison colony to one of the Great Nations of today. This how it started. Let Gary know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net.

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