Sydney – Port Jackson – Picture from Australia’s Heritage Magazine 1969
Published: 18 Mar 2019
It was a warm day for early spring, already the first of the season’s chicks were hatching and the singing of magpies and currawongs filled the air as beautiful as any Welsh choir and even after a year of incarceration in such a strange and distant land the ear of Edward, although he found their song beautiful, more beautiful than most, had not accustomed to its nature or its habits.
“It is as mournful as a convict’s heart,” the farmer commented while entering into the sunshine and coming upon the lad as he took the morning’s air. Edward jumped with the distraction.
“What would that be Mr. Wilcox?”
“The sound of currawongs, they are most unlike the gleeful song of the magpies and yet one perceives that are kin, as they are to the common raven.”
“Yet still beautiful I should think, I like the mournful sound it gives me thought on reality.”
“Yes lad beautiful but while you were listening, did you notice a lone rider towards the ridge?” Both turned their gaze towards the approaching rider, “who do think that could be and by his design is coming this way with purpose.”
The two waited by the hut until the rider arrived.
“Mr. Blaxland,” the farmer greeted as Blaxland dismounted and passed the reins to Edward. For a moment the man stood in silence, his gaze across the freshly planted crop, his thoughts returning to Macquarie’s office and his previous visit. You will grow crops or by Jove you shall suffer. They were the Governor’s words and strongly put and with equal strength ignored.
The Blaxland brothers were advanced their land, good cropping land, providing they grew much needed produce. Instead the brother’s had taken the easier way and ran cattle. Now the Governor held back the additional acreage promised unless the brothers conformed to requirements.
“Have you breakfasted?” The farmer asked.
“I may refresh with tea if it pleases you Mr. Wilcox,” Blaxland moved towards the hut, “your corn crop appears to be a somewhat retarded this year Sam.”
“It is the land Mr. Blaxland but I get by.”
“You should transfer to the land along the Nepean,” the explorer suggested.
“Too much bother, I should think you must be ready for the crossing by now,” the farmer asked.
“Yes and with Mr. Wentworth and Lawson have gathered at South Creek to make ready our little adventure.”
The farmer nodded to Edward to make the tea, realising there was precious little left but enough to satisfy their guest, “about your expedition Mr. Blaxland, what do you expect to find?” Sam asked as Edward swung the kettle onto the fire.
Blaxland glanced across to Edward and laughed; “not China that is a certainty.” Edward held his quiet.
“Some say there are settlements across the mountains, and green pastures with great rivers stretching all the way to the Indian Ocean,” the farmer suggested with obvious doubt.
“Pastures true and rivers but knowing this land I don’t expect those as grand as you find in Europe or elsewhere, as for settlements – what do you think lad?” The explorer spoke firmly, his eyes fixed on Edward while reading his worth. His first surprise was with how much independence the lad was given by the farmer and how he carried that privilege with a measure of honour and obligation.
“I haven’t much thought of it Mr. Blaxland, best to leave the thinking to those who are schooled in thinking,” Edward answered while attempting not to appear petulant.
“Are you satisfied with your lot?” Blaxland asked Edward as he served tea.
“We are out of sugar Mr. Blaxland,” the farmer apologised.
“No matter as it is will be fine.”
“Yes sir most satisfied,” Edward answered.
“Then you shouldn’t be, as this is a grand new country and ready to bloom, take it by the throat and shake it until you have made something of it and yourself.” Blaxland appear anxious to depart, finishing his tea he stood, “so you wish to join my merry little group?”
“If it pleases you Mr. Blaxland;”
“Pleases has nothing to do with it lad. I need willing and able men who aren’t afraid of adventure or the blacks and won’t clear out into the scrub at the first opportunity, or hide behind my back at the first sighting of some strange creature.”
At the door the explorer paused, again he cast his gaze across the freshly planted ground, once more he felt negative towards cropping and stronger towards running cattle but he needed more land and Macquarie would not release what had been promised, so he must find his requirements elsewhere.
“The lad will be fine Mr. Blaxland, I can vouch for that,” the farmer insisted.
“Agreed, bring him to Jock McDougal’s property in Parramatta on Friday morning, I will supply for his needs,” the explorer paused, “I presume you can ride,” he cautiously directed to Edward.
“That I can sir,”
“If necessary can you use a musket?”
“Again I can do so.”
“Have you ever shot at a man?” Blaxland asked with a measure of reservation in his tone.
“No sir, only the ravens and starlings back home when into the grain.”
“Did you hit anything?”
“Not a lot,”
“At least you are honest, so if a savage came at you or your companions with his nulla-nulla or spear?”
“I guess I would shoot him.”
“You will do but I must warn you it will not be some Sunday school outing.” With those final words the explorer mounted and departed towards Parramatta.
Early Friday and the cart was readied and mobile before the sun. On the way into Parramatta Edward held his quiet bringing the farmer to share his thoughts. “Are you concerned about going into the wilderness?”
“Not at all, I’ve survived storms at sea, thrashings and rape, I am sure I can survive the bush.”
“So what is concerning you?”
“It is yourself Mr. Wilcox, I concern for you being here with no one to help you.”
“The new crop is in the ground, now it is up to god and his rain to do the rest, besides I managed the previous years without help.”
“I realise that but I will miss being around you Mr. Wilcox.”
“I think it is about time you called me Samuel.”
“Even in public?”
“Yes Edward, even in public, I think of you more as -” The farmer paused as a smile broadcasted from his face, his eyes twinkled in the first of the morning light as he hurried the horse along the narrow dusty track.
“As what Mr. Wilcox?”
“I can see I’m not going to win the naming rights.”
“I find it difficult to be familiar.”
“Never mind but Mr. Wilcox makes me feel old,” the farmer ignored the question and continued; “there is one thing to remember while away as I have spoken before, that being you were transported for theft, if asked admit to bread or some other item of food valued less than ten shillings.”
“What if it is already known?
“More than likely it won’t be, you have been away from Sydney Town for almost a year now and most who arrived on the Duchess of Devonshire have been sent up to Newcastle, some to Norfolk Island but if by chance it is mentioned just shrug shoulders and walk away, don’t get into any arguments. Gregory Blaxland is a good man and will do you well.”
On reaching the McDougal property there was already a number of town’s folk milling around the homestead to wish good speed. Among the small crowd Gregory Blaxland stood shoulders above the others and by his stand well in command. The farmer brought the cart to stop close by and Edward jumped down and collected his small bag of necessities from the back of the cart. “Remember what I said Edward.”
“That I will Mr. Wilcox, are you sure you will be alright without me?”
“I said so now get going, Mr. Blaxland is looking this way and appears eager to be travelling.” Edward bid farewell and joined the group, noticing most, if not all, from the expedition appeared to be absent and once the crowd dispersed there was only Blaxland and Edward himself.
“Morning Mr. Blaxland, where are the others?”
“Waiting at South Creek a good ten miles west and we should be on our way. I have a quiet mount for you but once we start into the hills, I’m afraid it will be mostly walking. How are your legs?”
“Fine Mr. Blaxland;”
“You may not think so once we are in the mountains.”
“How many are there in the expedition?” Edward asked as he mounted and followed the explorer away from McDougal’s property.
“Myself, Mr. William Wentworth and Will Lawson, four servants including yourself, a number of hunting dogs and a black interpreter from the Eora lot, but he will join us later and more than enough supplies to last the month or so it should take. Do you know much about the terrain we will encounter?”
“Not a lot sir, I’ve been here now close on a year but mostly on the farm or around Parramatta.”
“You will soon get the hang of it but never take anything for granted, as well as unfriendly blacks there are snakes, deadly spiders and uncharted country, also ravines so deep you could recite the entire Lord’s Prayer before hitting bottom.” Blaxland paused to perceive his charge’s expression. “You appear somewhat hesitant?”
“Not hesitant sir,” Edward quickly answered not wishing to be thought unwilling.
“What then lad?”
“I guess a little apprehensive,”
“Never mind you will be in good hands with the likes of Wentworth and Lawson and we have other servants, also as I suggested a well respected blacktracker.”
On reaching their camp at South Creek the sun had commenced to dip into those very mountains they wished to cross and the land began to ungulate, showing promise of what lay ahead. South Creek was a new settlement providing a tavern, a bush store and small logging camp, with the notion once the land had been cleared of tall eucalypts, the settlement would progress, as it had good water and a generous acreage of arable land.
The exploration camp had been set on the outskirt of the village, while for the sake of continuity away from tavern. As Blaxland approached the camp a well dressed young gentleman came to greet him, “Mr. Wentworth is all well and ready,” Blaxland enquired, dismounting he took the man’s hand, holding firmly as he gazed about the camp.
“Now you are here yes and the supplies have also arrived but there has been a problem with one of the horses, it has gone lame.”
“Oh, that could prove to be a setback.” Blaxland considered his options but Wentworth being a champion organiser had the problem controlled.
“Already at hand, I have arranged a replacement from Allan Cunningham and it will be here in the morning,” Wentworth guaranteed.
“I believe Mr. Cunningham had wishes to join with us?” Blaxland asked.
“That was so Gregory but he is already committed to explore south of the Liverpool Plains with John Oxley.”
“His skills will be surely absent,” Blaxland admitted.
“Then who is this young fellow?” Wentworth’s eyes fell on Edward.
“Edward Buckley, I’ve borrowed him from Samuel Wilcox of Parramatta.”
“Edward or do they call you Ed?” Wentworth asked.
“Either sir,”
“Then for this trip it will be Ed, no sense wasting words and letters eh lad.”
“Ed will do finely sir.”
“A Devonian accent, are you a farm boy?” Wentworth asked.
“I was sir,”
“And like most here you fell short of the law?” Wentworth secretly smiled while remembering stories of his own father’s conflict with the law and how luck had been with D’Arcy Wentworth, being acquitted of highway robbery. With his training as surgeon D’Arcy thought it wise to take up an offered position in New South Wales and meeting a convict girl on board during the crossing, he married her. Soon after at Vaucluse Cottage William was born and being currency allowed free range of colonial society, while with his father’s notoriety became Sydney gentry.
Ed there’s a meal ready, so go over and introduce yourself to the others, I need to speak with Gregory.” Wentworth turned and beckoned to the third explorer of the expedition, “Mr. Lawson come join with us, there is need to work out a number of points.” Lawson broke from the group of servants and joined with Wentworth and Blaxland.
“What’s your name kid?” the older of the three servants asked of Edward as he approached, while offering up a plate of food.
“Ed sir,” Edward answered as he came into the firelight, shielding his eyes from the glare so he could obtain a better view of his contemporise.
“Sir?” the servants mused in unison.
“You look a little young for this work,” the same man asked poking his face close to that of Edward to glean better recognising, “he hasn’t even got whiskers.”
“Green-ant,” the larger of the servants growled, meaning one so young with nothing but sting in life’s repertoire.
Edward accepted his meal and seated some distance from the three while searching their faces for amenability. It was the larger of the servants who caught his eye. He was a tall man and broad, at least an axe handle across the shoulders, with hands the size of dinner plates. He had a scar on his right cheek that appeared familiar, then realization came and a cold wave of fear flowed over the lad, ‘please don’t recognise,’ he thought and sank deeply into his isolation.
“Hey kid come sit with us,” The first servant demanded with a gesture of hand. Edward cautiously approached, taking his seat as far from the scared man as he possibly could.
“They call me Scruff, Scruff Langford and the short weed is Fred Winslow and the big ugly one is Tom Ingles, reckon you can remember all that?” Edward nodded his belief.
“So kid whatya’ crime?” the man with the scar questioned.
“Crime?”
“Yea whatya’ ‘ere for?”
“Thieving I guess,” Edward quietly proclaimed, remembering the farmer’s warning.
“What ship did you arrive on?” Tom Ingles asked while exploring the lad’s face, believing he had noted it from somewhere in his past. As he spoke the scar appeared to move in unison with his mouth.
“The Hebrides,” Edward lied, remember a partial name of one of the ships he had recently seen while in Sydney Town.
“That would be the Spirit of the Hebrides,” Scruff corrected.
“It musta’ been with its first arrival a couple years hence,” Ingles puzzled as the lad appeared much too fit to have recently been transported.
“I guess so,” Edward agreed. For now the big man put away his attempt to recognise Edward as Blaxland came into the firelight.
“Right, you’ve all met Ed, he will be the fourth in this expedition, has everyone had their meal?”
“I wouldn’t mind a swig of rum Mr. Blaxland,” Ingles suggested keeping his tone down to subservient.
“Sorry Mr. Ingles, this will be a dry affair. There will be plenty of grog once we have found our way across these flaming mountains.”
“Dry!” Ingles complained.
“Yes dry, if you are not happy with that, say so now and we can send you back to the road gangs.”
“No Mr. Blaxland dry will be fine.” Ingles backed away from his complaint.
“I need to piss,” It was the gravelled voice of Tom Ingles that first greeted the morning and standing some distance from the others he allowed a steady stream to savage a bullant’s nest while he again contemplated the arrival of the young servant, ‘Edward Buckley – Buckley – Ed Buckley,’ the name in any form didn’t register but then again many people used a pseudonym, especially during transportation.
Almost finished he noticed movement in the half light at the far end of the encampment. “What the hell – blacks!” he shouted in fear, expecting at any moment he would receive the full force of a war spear through his massive chest, his fear allowed the last of his urination to soil his trousers.
“Steady Mr. Ingles, it is only Jimmy, he will be our translator if we meet any natives in the mountains.” Wentworth called from his position readying their departure.
“Ya’ can’t trust the blacks,” Ingles mumbled as he buttoned his trousers, all the while keeping a wary eye on Jimmy.”
“Can you speak their language Mr. Ingles?” Lawson called across the campsite. The big man refrained from comment.
“Then be thankful we have Jimmy,” Lawson concluded.
It was mid morning before the expedition moved out, the explorers were well ready by breakfast, as was Edward but the other servants were slow and full of complaint. It was only when Blaxland again threatened they could be sent back to some road gang they realised where they were better off and hurried the departure.
Within a short time of breaking camp came their first encounter with natives. It was a small group of six men and a number of women and children, one a baby carried at the hip. Jimmy was posted to enquire of their movements, ascertaining they were of a costal lot heading into the scrub to meet with others of their nation and well accustomed to having invaders trample through their territory, destroying sacred sites with their ignorance and cattle and the planting of crop on ancient meeting grounds.
After a short verbal altercation between Jimmy and the leader of the group he returned to speak with Wentworth.
“What did they say Jimmy?” Wentworth enquired.
“They alright boss, they from my mob but said there are others in the area from over the mountains and not happy.”
“Not happy with what Jimmy?”
“You boss they say go back across big water in tall canoes.”
“How did they cross over the mountains?” Wentworth asked rhetorically ignoring the suggestion while addressing Lawson, “What do you think William, here we are busting our guts attempting to find a way across and that mob seem to do it with ease and whenever they wish,” Returning to Jimmy he asked, “What about your lot Jimmy, do they know the way across?”
Jimmy laughed loudly, “not anymore boss, you lot made us lazy for your grog, the old ones have gone and with them the old ways.”
“Too true Jimmy but unfortunately we can’t turn back the clock, there are a good twenty thousand of us now, many more with each ship and I guess here to stay,” Wentworth proclaimed with a measure of remorse but soon lost it with the task ahead.
By dusk that night the party had reached the Nepean River at Emu Crossing and the true commencement to their journey. Beyond this point there were no settlements, only a scattering of brave people forced further from the coast and the settled areas in search of pasture, into that occupied by often disgruntle natives with retribution foremost in their thinking.
Making camp on the western bank of the Nepean preparations were made to be gone by sunup, so it was decided they should all have a good rest and be refreshed with the morning.
While preparing their sleeping arrangements Edward arranged his as far away from Tom Ingles as he possibly could but in doing so he drew attention to himself and it became obvious the man had not yet finished with Edward’s false admittance on when he arrived.
In England Ingles had been skilled as a blacksmith taking over the family business at an early age from his father, who met with a suspicious accident. Instead of honest work he had directed his craft towards forging silver coinage out of cheap metal and passing it as legal tender. So well executed was his craft none showed suspicion and he therefore became greedy passing more and more as time progressed.
Some of Ingles unfortunate passing went way of a Crown taxation agent who knew well the coin of the realm and could tell its physical weight at a simple touch. The blacksmith was quickly brought to task, almost as far as having his offending hand amputated, that being one such punishment for milling coin or forgery. Providence being gifted by a lenient society as in medieval times it would have been castration but even hand amputation was wavered because of the value of his trade. Ingles was instead given seven years transportation to New South Wales, as such skills were much in demand in the colony, being of course blacksmithing and not the art of forgery.
Once landed the blacksmith’s skills had been ignored because of his disregard for authority, instead becoming labourer on the Blaxland Estate and applied to work he was ill-suited, as he social skills were much lacking. The blacksmith’s quarrelsome manner rendered him difficult to place in an organised group, only being chosen for the expedition in hope it may jolt him into better behaviour. As for recognising Edward it appeared he had not done so, giving the lad confidence he had escaped the man’s scrutiny.
During their evening meal Edward was seated at the far end of the group with Scruff and Fred beside. Even with the blacksmith’s poor memory, he still remained with an inkling of the lad and sat watching Edward as the night drew on.
Out of a quiet in the conversation Ingles spoke, “So Ed it was on the Spirit of the Hebrides you arrived?”
“True Mr. Ingles,” the lad immediately felt a nervous prickle to his cheeks and if it were not dark was sure he was flushing quite scarlet from the lie.
“Who else came on that ship?” The blacksmith calmly asked his tone laced with curious intrigue.
“Mr. Ingles, I don’t wish to discuss it,” Edward politely disregarded.
“Do you remember Neville Plant, he came out on that ship’s previous arrival; he’s dead now from a nasty case of spearing but would have been a most impressive fella’ to behold.”
“Leave the lad alone,” Scruff cut across the questioning.”
“Only curious Scruff, it’s good to know these things, besides the kid doesn’t mind, do you kid?”
“The kid said he didn’t wish to talk about it!” Scruff again rebuffed. He had never appreciated the blacksmith’s humour thinking him rather insinuating at the best of time, yet held a healthy caution towards the man’s explosive personality.
“You watch ya’ mouth you weasel,” Ingles snapped and by his body language was preparing to take Scruff’s interference to task.
“Settle down you lot, we don’t want the fists flying even before we hit the ridges.” Wentworth demanded from his place beside his associates, while Jimmy gave his usual supercilious grin from the opposing side of the camp fire.
“Wadda’ you looking at ya’ black cunt?” Ingles growled.
“Mr. Ingles I won’t warn you again.” Wentworth repeated his warning.
“Yes Mr. Wentworth.” Once spoken the blacksmith stood and took a walk away from the group.
“Mr. Ingles I wouldn’t go too far if I were you, who knows what’s out there in the dark.” Lawson warned. The blacksmith, grumbling continually turned into his bed.
Once beyond civilization of the European kind the scrub thickened and the tall eucalypts grew closer being intermingled with many new species, some were tall, others scrubby but mostly unnamed by botanists. It was Blaxland’s pleasure to sample these to be sent to England and his friend Sir Joseph Banks for species and naming.
Fortunately among his four servants was Scruff Langford who had a keen eye for native flora and as they travelled continuously came across something new to present to Blaxland, “File it Scruffy,” became the explorer’s favourite discretion during the long arduous days of hacking through the undergrowth.
As the land grew steeper and more upward Wentworth suggested it possibly easier to follow the valleys and rivers but Blaxland quickly convinced him to stay on the ridges, his reason being he had tried following the valleys the previous year and failed and during that attempt he had noticed that all native pathways kept to the higher ridges.
It soon became apparent that Blaxland’s suggestion was sound but doing so gave them one further problem, there was little fodder on the ridges and it was necessary to continually descend down into the valleys for fodder and water for their pack animals.
On the ninth day of the expedition they came across a most difficult barrier and camped for the night, their position being only fifteen miles from Emu Crossing but further than Blaxland had managed the previous year. As the sun commenced to dip beyond the mountains, Edward was tasked in collecting wood for the night’s fire. He had only travelled a matter of yards from the camp site when Lawson suggested Ingles, being a strong man, could help the lad and sent him to follow. Edward immediately became nervous while keeping his gaze ahead, assuring not to make eye contact.
Between them they had soon gathered enough wood and commenced back to camp, Edward remained in the lead. “Hey kid,” the blacksmith called after him.
Without pausing the lad softly answered and quickened his pace; “yes Mr. Ingles,” eager to make it back to the camp before Ingles could ask too many questions.
“I feel I know you from somewhere,” the man’s tone was curious and searching.
“I wouldn’t think so, possibly you saw me around Sydney Town when I travelled in for supplies with Mr. Wilcox.”
“Possibly, what ship did you say you came out on?” the man was still sifting through his alcoholic affected memory but still could not place the lad.
“The Hebrides,” Edward answered with as much conviction as he could possibly muster.
“That’s right you said it was The Spirit of the Hebrides.”
“That is correct,” with that they reached their camp.
“And you don’t remember Neville Plant?”
“Can’t rightly say I can remember the name.”
“Big fella’ with a stuttered voice,”
“Nope,”
“I still reckon I know ya’ from somewhere kid.”
“I don’t think so Mr. Ingles unless you have been to Devon.” That was a mistake and Edward wished he had not spoken.
“Devon you say?” another spark of recollection came to the man but still not enough to ignite his memory.
“True Mr. Ingles.”
They reached the camp and the questions dried, while Edward settled as distant as he could from the blacksmith. Even so the man kept a searching eye on him.
The thirteenth day into their adventure they reached an escarpment and a number of natives apparently hunting game on the high ridges. Although they appeared uninterested in the intruders, the explorers though best to keep some distance and make camp for the night. On doing so they had Jimmy advance and converse with the natives. Jimmy soon returned with one from the group introducing him to the explorers.
“He from the Nepean mob,” Jimmy explained and touched the native on his initiated scarred breast as if to distinguish his markings as such.
“What’s his name?” Wentworth asked while pointing a finger at the native who stood back from the pointing, supposing he had been threatened by some unknown weapon, or was being given a death wish.
“He called Gandagara,” Jimmy offered and Wentworth attempted to repeat the name. Both black men laughed at his failed attempt.
“Does he know how to cross the mountains?” Wentworth asked. Jimmy put the question to Gandagara, receiving an angered response.
“Well Jimmy does he know?”
“He said white man not allowed over the mountains, that’s sacred black man’s lines.” Once again the native spoke in language before returning to his group. Without further interest in the expedition they melted into the trees and were gone.
“Are they likely to give trouble Jimmy?” Wentworth asked.
“Not Gandagara boss; they only small many out hunting, they go back towards that way.” Jimmy pointed to the west.
“Small many?” Lawson puzzled as Jimmy held up all his fingers, bending two downwards to explain their number.
“That is more than enough to cause trouble,” Lawson envisaged.
With their camp arranged the group gathered at the edge of the escarpment in wonder. Below was a broad valley, the south edge of the west leading ridge they were travelling and to their left a waterfall that fell in three drops a good eight hundred to a thousand feet or more towards the valley floor below. To their right were three monoliths of sandstone eroded from the ridge and most impressive in their stand, silent sentinels guarding the western Plains.
Blaxland pointed to the falls and laughed, “Wentworth Falls,” he proclaimed. Wentworth appeared in agreement and chuffed while pointing towards a distant tall mountain peak, “Mount Blaxland,” he suggested. Lawson standing close by made complaint, “what about Lawson?”
“Don’t concern William there will be plenty of new discoveries to warrant your name,” Wentworth assured.
That night while seated around their camp fire with Jimmy isolated some distance away and blending into the dark, his remoteness giving Wentworth reason to call on the black man to join them and tell some stories about his dreaming. “For a start Jimmy, what is this place called?”
“Katoomba,” Jimmy admitted.
“And what of Wentworth falls?”
Jimmy shrugged as the name was lost to his memory.
“What of those three monoliths to our south west?” Lawson asked.
Jimmy shamefully declared he could not name the site but he proudly knew the names of each of the three, thousand feet high or more monoliths. He commenced, “the first is Meehui, the second Wimlah and the third is Gunnedoo.”
“What do the names mean?” Lawson asked as the others sat patiently listening to the black man’s unfolding story.
Firstly Jimmy admitted that the Katoomba district was not of his dreaming but all from the coast to the mountains knew the story of the monoliths. He commenced. “A long time ago back in the dreaming they were three sisters,” Jimmy answered his tone suggesting that even white men should have heard the story of the sisters.
“What did these three sisters do?” Lawson asked.
“They were the most beautiful girls of the Katoomba mob and were in love with three brothers of the Nepean mob but their totem wouldn’t allow marriage.”
“Then they should have run away and done so, that is what I would have done,” Blaxland boasted while casting a measure of insinuation towards Wentworth’s father who married a young convict girl.
“Careful Mr. Blaxland as that is my mother you are criticizing.”
“Never so William, Catherine is a fine woman, ‘tis the character of your father D’Arcy that is somewhat suspect.”
“True Gregory but all the same a fine citizen,” Wentworth saw the humour in his friends mocking and allowed it to settle as Jimmy continued, “Black man not like that Mr. Blaxland,” Jimmy protested, “if you do magic man put curse on you, point bone and you die.”
“That’s a little unbelievable,” Lawson discredited.
“It is true I assure you William, I actually saw it happen to a native back on the Liverpool Plains. The poor bugger was so vexed he went into the bush and the following day we found him quite dead.” Wentworth assured.
“So go on, what happened next?” Lawson encouraged Jimmy to continue.
“Ah that is where the problem happened; the Katoomba and Nepean mob didn’t like each other and had a big fight.”
“That all sounds familiar,” Blaxland laughed.
Jimmy continued; “the Katoomba magic man decided to turn the three sisters into stone to keep them safe during the fight but he was killed and to this day they wait for the magic to turn them back to girls.” Jimmy paused and appeared saddened by his telling, more so for sharing his dreaming with foreigners.
“Do you believe all that stuff Jimmy?” Lawson asked. Again Jimmy shrugged and turned away from the camp fire, he was through with story telling for that night, besides to relate their dreaming to the white man was as if losing its magic.
“I guess we should get some sleep, an early start tomorrow,” Blaxland yawned and headed for his swag.
From the Katoomba camp the terrain became almost impassable and they had to camp and cut their way in slow progression through the scrub then return and bring the camp forward, sometimes only progressing a half mile in a day. Eventually the explorers reached the end of the west leading ridge and stood in wonder in what they found. Before them was grassland and in plenty, stretching to what was the Great Dividing Range further to the west and a line of mountains that could be managed with ease. They had crossed the Blue Mountains.
After another bout of site naming of the many peaks they encountered on the west leading ridge and that of a large river noticed to the south west, the explorers prided themselves in their expedition and readied to return with the joyous news. It had taken twenty-one days to accomplish their feat but it would be much quicker on the return.
With the morning the expedition would commence the return journey, while much debate was had regarding Macquarie’s promise of land grants, with Blaxland concluding that even with a crossing found, there would likely be viceregal restrictions, predominately because of the 73rd regiment’s capability to police beyond the mountains and the need to restrict convict activity to the coastal region.
During that evening it was once again Edward’s chore to collect firewood and again with the help from the blacksmith. Since the earlier challenge by the man on Edward’s identity there had been silence on the matter but it was obvious Ingles was stewing on it and would not rest until his memory became lucid.
While walking out to collect wood and some distance from the camp the blacksmith spoke, “Edward you say it was the Spirit of the Hebrides that brought you here.”
“I did say so Mr. Ingles.”
“Have you heard of the Duchess of Devonshire?”
“The Duchess, she is from my home county Mr. Ingles,” Edward softly spoke of the titled lady, feigning ignorance of any ship of that name but he was quickly turning towards panic.
“Not the flaming toft you cheeky little prick,” the blacksmith snarled and dropped his bundle of firewood and quickly took control of the lad, “you scream and I’ll break your flaming neck and throw your carcass over the escarpment, they’ll think the blacks got ya.” Edward although terrified remained silent. “You were on the Duchess of Devonshire and one for sodomy.” Ingles’ grip tightened on the lad as he stripped his trousers to his ankles and pushed him forward, “you were the ship’s bum boy.”
“No sir,” Edward whimpered but the blacksmith’s grip was firm and his intention apparent. Once again the lad felt the fire and anger of the man deep inside his bowel, he smelt the foul breath of the blacksmith at his neck, the roughness of his hands as he gript tightly onto the lad’s crotch, almost ripping it from his person, using the lad’s dick as a handle to gain a deeper access. It was only seconds but felt like minutes, the grunting in Edward’s ear intensified and then with one long held breath it stopped and the pulsating deep inside him commenced, followed by one last loud grunt as the blacksmith, now spent, pushed Edward to the ground.
Rearranging his clothing and collecting his share of wood the blacksmith concluded, “you say one word you little sod, I warn ya’ I’ll kill ya’,” once spoken the blacksmith continued his return to camp as if nothing was amiss.
“You took your time Mr. Ingles, where is the kid?” Wentworth enquired as the man returned.
“He’s coming.” As Ingles answered Edward arrived with his load of firewood.
“What happened to you?” Wentworth asked noticing the lad’s bedraggled state.
“I fell over, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes sir,”
“One should be more careful in the bush eh Mr. Buckley.”
“I guess so sir.” Edward gave a malicious glance towards the blacksmith, who returned a smug conceited grin that seemed to say, one word kid, just one and it will be your last.
That evening when all was quiet the blacksmith sidled up to Edward with a quiet warning, “If you mention any of this I will say it was your choice and they will all know you for the shirtlifter you are.” Edward didn’t answer.
It was seven long days before the group reappeared with grand news at Emu Crossing, a short period of time in annals of exploration but a nightmare for Edward. Twice more over those few days he had to endure rough torment from the blacksmith and did so with willingness; or more to truth the willingness from fear of being exposed to those he respected.
Eventually the expedition returned to Parramatta, where Blaxland departed company with his explorer accomplishers and took with him the three servants, including Ingles. As he departed he promised to meet once again with Wentworth and Lawson at Macquarie’s pleasure, to relate their findings and be rewarded with the promised acreage. Now with the work done, Blaxland believed Macquarie could not refuse his rightful grant.
On the departure Ingles sided up to Edward and whispered, “you loved it, didn’t ya’ bum boy?” he threw Edward a secret kiss and continued “there will more of that at a future time eh bum boy.”
“Are you ready to move out Mr. Ingles?” Blaxland called as he mounted and commenced to leave.
“I’m on my way Mr. Blaxland; I was but giving a kindly farewell to young Edward here.”
Once the man had gone Edward settled but the fear remained and he truly hoped their paths would never again cross.
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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