Published: 6 Nov 2025
Ben was adamant when it came to visiting Koah assuring he would keep from sight and if Tate would be obliging he could bring him a beer after completing his shopping. The distance from the farm to town being a little less than half day’s walk is relatively obscured from traffic or those working on the new road but once close in Ben would need to cross open country to reach town, so with that distance remaining it was decided he would wait well away.
“Why don’t you head back?” Tate suggested as they approached Koah.
“I’ve had all I can take of hiding out; at least here I can see there is a world beyond the farm.”
“You do realise I could be gone for quite a while. I only have a few coins and will rely on Frank Womersley’s generosity and a time on his woodpile.”
“So you said but a shame all the same.”
“What is a shame?”
“I could swing a fairer axe than you, tis’ pity I couldn’t do your chopping.”
“One day Ben I’ll take you up on that and have you chopping until the crows go to roost.”
“I really think you believe that kid.”
Koah’s is quiet as Tate made his way into town although work was obvious at the far end where the new road had already past by with final construction of the works on a steep gully, where during his last visit the steam shovel had fallen from the soft embankment.
Outside Womersley’s store Tate paused in reverence, his eyes towards the embankment failing to see the shopkeeper on the store verandah.
Noticing Tate’s carry bag Frank Womersley calls, “didn’t you have enough of wood cutting during your last visit lad?”
Tate gives a slight start, “oh Mr. Womersley, I didn’t see you there. Yes I was hoping to once again rely on your hospitality. I have little coin and quite a large shopping list and a strong arm in need of exercise.”
“Exercise you say?”
“If it pleases you.”
The air within the shop appears alive with the aroma of brewing coffee.
“Come in and we will discuss it; Ruth only this moment made coffee.” Moments later Tate is seated with a steaming mug of brew and a large slice of seed cake, he takes a bite and the first swallow is laced with guilt, thinking of Ben hiding and hungry.
Ruth observes Tate’s hesitation.
“Don’t you like the cake?” she asks.
“It is lovely; I was trying to recall the flavour?”
“It is caraway seed.”
“My mother would make it on special occasions.”
“You say used to lad, is she no longer with us?” Ruth asks.
“Likewise dad but we are a large family and get by.”
“Yes I had heard about Joseph’s passing but not your mother.”
“Her passing was a week later and a surprise to us all.”
Womersley is busy in the shop and can be heard talking with a woman, Tate recalls the voice of Joyce Hedgelong. The conversation dies away and Frank returns into the kitchen, “right then lad give me you list and while you are releasing your energy, I will endeavour to do my best honouring your request.”
“No list Mr. Womersley, it is in my head.”
Frank retrieves a pencil from a sideboard, with part of a page of newsprint he prepares to write. Tate notices the page headline reporting there remained no further knowledge of the whereabouts of the murderer Ben Morgan, while someone reported he was seen boarding a coastal trading ship in Cooktown heading for the South Seas.
The suggestion is pleasing to Tate as he verbally offers his shopping list.
Womersley writes.
“That’s about the most of it,” Tate says.
“How much money do you have?”
Tate dives a hand into his pocket withdrawing his few coins.
“You keep it lad. A good pile of wood cutting will suffice, as I’m getting beyond swinging an axe.”
During the cutting Tate occasionally scans that part of scrub beyond the town’s limits where he departed company with Ben. At no point did he spy his friend, concluding either Ben was well hidden or took his advice and returned to the farm.
An hour passed, or that was what Tate assumed by the sun’s movement while its intensity began to show on his face as it turned red, also his hands were raw and blistered; even so he remained chopping to honour his commitment.
“That will be enough Tate, come inside and Ruth will give you lunch,” Womersley called from the rear window.
Tate pauses;
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he thinks as he wipes the trickles of sweet from his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
Entering into the house away from the sun’s glare Tate’s eyes take time adjusting to the dullness.
“Jesus of the Israelites,” Ruth Womersley shrieks, “your face lad, it is the colour of beetroot. There is a bucket for washing in the side room, go wash and cool yourself down.”
The water sooths.
Tate returns;
“That feels a little better.”
“You still look red, I could fry an egg on your face,” Ruth says, “sit yourself and I’ll serve lunch. I hope you like sausages. They are a specialty of Weiland the butcher in Mareeba who sends them sent up on the mail cart.”
“Sausages will be fine and more than I expected.”
Two sausages, potato mash with peas swimming in pan gravy and in no time Tate’s hunger is satisfied but he is eyeing the three spare sausages on the serving plate.
“More sausages?” Ruth offers.
“I have had ample thank you Mrs Womersley,” Tate answers although his thoughts are with Ben who would by now my believe starvation could take him before the rope.
“I’ll package what is left and you can have them for your supper,” Ruth offers.
Frank Womersley comes in from inspecting the woodpile, “you are a fast worker young lad. I would take a month full of Sundays to equal what you have cut.”
“That is true with you swinging the axe Frank,” Ruth wraps the sausages in newsprint.
“I hear you remain camping at Sid Parker’s old property,” Womersley says.
“Yes, for the moment, I was on my way to find work in Mareeba when I decided to make use of it. How did you know that?”
“We had a visit from Dutch Bert a day or so back, he said there was a young fellow camping there and by his description I guessed it would be you.”
“Dutch Bert Mr. Womersley?”
“Bert Bunning the police sergeant from Mareeba, he’s been out looking for Ben Morgan the fellow who killed the paymaster and stole the payroll.”
“Yes they did stay overnight but he didn’t lend strongly towards introductions, I did hear his constables address him as Bunning,” Tate pauses, “were they successful in tracking this fellow Morgan?”
He is testing the shopkeeper’s knowledge on Ben.
“Nothing they were willing to share, by their attitude I would think they were pleased to be going home, especially Lenny Hampton with all that weight he needs to carry about his person. It is a wonder he doesn’t break his poor horse’s back.”
Tate gives a secret smile, ‘so that is Fat Belly’s name.’
“You should be careful staying on your own if there is a murderer on the loose.”
“Going by what the police said Morgan is still hiding up in the mountains near the Kuranda ganger’s camp,” Tate issues being some of what the police offered during their visit.
“I have heard there has been more investigation into the matter.”
“In what way Frank?”
“Nothing solid mind you and you know how rumours spread.”
Tate becomes interested while waiting for clarification.
“Besides the rumour was from Mavis Smith who with her Noel does the Mareeba to Koah mail run and she is famous for being a notorious exaggerator.”
Ruth puts the wrapped sausages aside, “now don’t you forget to take them with you. As for Mavis Smith she called in with the mail only yesterday saying she had heard Joyce Hedgelong had died and what do you know,” Ruth pauses, “not but a minute later Joyce comes in behind Mavis demanding to know where she had heard such nonsense.”
After calling at the hotel for Ben’s supply of beer Tate commences to depart but firstly he returns to strengthen his appreciation with Frank and Ruth. He finds the shopkeeper on the store verandah complaining about a barrel of pickles that had turned sour.
Grimacing towards his loss Frank slowly shakes his head, “there goes the profit.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do about them?”
“Not a lot, even cattle wouldn’t touch them like this. Are you on your way?”
“Yes, if I don’t leave now I wont reach the farm before dark but I thought I’d come by first and thankyou for your kindness.”
“Then you mind how you go.”
“I always do Mr. Womersley.”
Tate gives a gentle nod, as he does Frank has memory, “I almost forgot there was a young fellow past here a day or so ago who asked after you.”
“Did he give his name?”
“He didn’t appear too interest in doing so but I did tell him you could be staying at the Parker farm. Come to think of it he did look similar to you; possibly a brother.”
“Well never mind whoever it was, I’m sure he’ll find me eventually. I again thank you Mr. Womersley and please extend my gratitude to Ruth.”
With his supplies shouldered Tate headed to the spot where he departed from Ben’s company. On reaching the spot he discovered Ben is missing, he softly calls but no answer.
Should he wait a while or move on.
‘Possibly he went to see if he recognised anyone with the road gang.’
‘Na, he wouldn’t risk being recognised.’
‘I must admit Ben was becoming edgy having to hide away every time someone came by.’
“Ben, are you about?” Tate calls in a low concerning tone.
“Ben,” he calls a little louder.
Tate’s eyes are everywhere as his anxiety increases.
“I’m right behind you.”
Tate turns to find Ben coming from the direction of town.
“I was beginning to worry, where have you been?”
“I went to the see if I recognised any of the road gangers.”
“That was silly, you could have been recognised.”
“I kept well hidden, I did see you through the shopkeeper’s kitchen window feeding your face and it didn’t half make my gut rumble.”
“I’m sorry that couldn’t be avoided and I thought of you with every mouthful, I did manage to get you some sausages.”
Tate offers the package Ruth wrapped for him.
Ben accepts the sausages with gusto;
“You’re a lifesaver Tate I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“We should start moving or we won’t return before dark.”
As they commenced their return Ben shoulders Tate’s supply bag, “heavy” he says.
“Frank has been more than generous.”
“Was there anything said about me?”
“Frank did mention you in passing as the search party from Mareeba called into the store on their return but noting specific, mostly they believed you remained near the Kuranda camp and it would be up to the Cairns police to further their search. There has also been an account of you boarding a coastal trader in Cooktown heading to Port Moresby in New Guinea, or the South Sea Islands.”
Ben’s mood turns to sober, “anyway,” he says after a moment of contemplation.
“Anyway what?” Tate questions.
“Anyway it is about time I moved on in one direction or another.”
“Where would you go?”
“I dunno’, I hear they are looking for troopers to help England in South Africa with the war against the Dutch Boers.”
Tate discredits the idea, “you would be recognized before you even reached the recruitment office.”
“Not if I went south, Brisbane or possibly Sydney, those places are so far away people hardly realise there is a north or if anyone is living up here.”
They were well away from Koah before either recommenced conversation and it was Tate who broke the extending silence;
“I wouldn’t like that,” he says.
“What wouldn’t you like?”
“I wouldn’t be happy if you moved on.”
“I can’t stay hiding forever, besides day by day, year by year it is becoming crowded up this way and if they clear the forest and scrubland any quicker, I’ll have no where to hide out.”
“Even so I have become fond of your company.”
“Also I with you but I can’t continue placing your freedom in danger.”
Tate appears brooding, he takes a deep breath as they continue along the dusty track, “and more,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means since meeting you I have come to realise my friend Tolga knew me well.”
“You often quote your black friend.”
“I do. I find his slant on life refreshing from our black and white approach to everything from sex to sin.”
“Surely the natives have sin?”
“Maybe to have sin you need religion and most of their religion is with the ancestors and in the dreaming, mind you from what Tolga says their ancestors can be right mean buggers at time.”
“What about sex?” Ben asks.
Tate laughs, “Tolga was alternate.”
“Do you mean sodomy?”
“He tried it on with me enough times but I think most of Tolga’s encounters were in his head and not in bed, I believe he has never slept or done anything in a white man’s bed.”
“Did you do it with Tolga?”
“No, until I met you, I denied urges.”
“And now?” Ben asks.
“To anyone else but you Ben I would still deny them, besides with you it appears natural.”
“I suppose,” Ben says above the sound of his growling gut as the sausages only filled one little corner.
Tate waits for continuation.
They walk on without furthering their discussion possibly Ben’s rumbling stomach takes president and Tate feels the tugging of guilt as he had filled his belly at the Womersley table.
“There is a Burdekin plum tree in fruit ahead,” he eventually says. “You could satisfy the grumbles with some fruit until we reach the farm.”
Ben grimaces. “I don’t think so they would go through me like a Doomben racehorse. I’d have the shits for a week after eating them on an empty stomach besides they would ruin the taste of those wonderful sausages you gave me.”
“You could have some raw bacon from our supplies,” Tate offers.
Ben laughs. “No I can wait. I am remembering what my mother would say when I was a boy.”
“What did she say?”
“She said eating raw bacon gives you pig measles.”
“I haven’t heard that one. Does eating raw bacon give you measles?”
“I doubt it as I’ve eaten enough raw and to date I haven’t broken out in spots of any kind.”
“My mother would say sitting on the damp ground gives you piles.”
“What are piles?”
“I don’t rightly know, she never actually explained but I guess it is something to do with your bum-hole.”
Ben laughs loudly, “the things our parents tell us.”
“You have spoken about your father but not others, do you have any brothers?”
“I have two brothers and a sister.”
“Where are they?”
“I would think they are still back in the old country, after me and my old man were caught pilfering timber, we were sent out here and I’ve heard nothing since.”
“Why were you also sent out for your father’s crime?”
“Be sure I was as guilty as my old man and we got a little light fingered, my old man called it two finger discount. After we were caught in the act it was decided, even with transportation to Australia finished some time earlier, the colonies needed carpenters, therefore we were given a choice or spend years in prison.”
“Would you go home if you had the opportunity?”
Before Ben can answer he takes hold of Tate’s arm pausing him along the dusty track, “someone is coming.”
In the hazed distance and shimmering like a mirage in the afternoon’s heat is the figure of a lone traveller.
Every fibre in Ben’s body became as tense as a coiled spring.
“I better duck for cover,” Ben nervously whispers.
“It would be too late he would have seen you, besides doing so would appear suspicious.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Simply continue on and give pleasantry while passing, we are like him simply travellers besides it is possible he knows nothing about you.”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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