Published: 6 May 2024

There are many disadvantages with living alone, one being you are prone to talk to yourself, even on the occasion arguing a simple point and after doing something stupid, calling yourself names you would never accept from others. The more obvious trait is forgetting the day of the week, month or in more advanced cases the very year. Although to most living in an open prison such as New South Wales, one year would be much like the last and the next to come and as the sentence was for the term of natural life, then the day or year is of little consequence. Yet those who were willing to make a go of their new country could reach providence they could only dream about back in England.

The question of time is similar for Axel, either it is cold or hot, raining or there is a dusting of snow on the distant Blue Mountains. Much of his time is measured by the behavour of the natives, as even with the white man spreading across the land like some foreign virus they, as ability would allow, went about their initiations and traditions in the best possible manner. Therefore Axel could time his year to their activity, besides the natives had many seasons, when the foreigner had four and in truth most of the southern land could be considered having only two, the wet and the dry, although between the two is one the natives called Knock-em-down, when the heavy winds came from the south-east across the Tasman sea and cleared the forest of many dead or decaying trees. Sometimes the wind would last for days and it is said in certain places of the world, the silence after the wind had stopped sent people mad. Here in New South Wales, if you didn’t allow your cluttered English brain to adjust to the ancient land, it could be as maddening. Axel had no such problem, he knew not England’s clutter he only knew the small settlements and the black man’s forest.

It had taken the best part of three suns-ups for Axel to convince himself the value of moving to Wilson’s hut; even then he remained nervous towards the decision. His first night in a bed since leaving civilization, that is if Wilson’s bunk could be considered a bed, was spent listening to the voices of the hut, as its bark roofing lifted and fell in the breeze that whispered in strange voice through the gaps in the walls. Axel felt safer when enveloped with trees and air, as the walls of the hut gave little security, while detaching his senses from the real world beyond the simple slip-locking mechanism of the hut door.

Axel is determined to remain the hunter while attempting the ways of the farmer. Now Wilson’s meat drying racks held his curing hides. As for Wilson’s pitiful maize crop, Axel had all but given up, leaving nature to bring it to harvest ready. He is appreciative of the vegetable patch, remembering as houseboy for the Reverend Marsden, it was his chore to do the watering, or fetch produce for the pot whenever the Reverend’s wife Elizabeth so demanded.

One thing Axel did realize that being Wilson’s potato patch had been planted right in the middle of the native Murnong and would need attention. Soon after moving onto the land he placed a rudimentary picket fence as an obvious barrier between the potatoes and the Murnong; with hope the blacks would understand his somewhat subtle structure as protection to their Murnong.

Axel had been at Wilson’s hut for some days when he remembered the painter and his offer to come by on the following Wednesday.

“Huh,” he loudly exclaims while stretching one of his hides onto the timber framing.

‘What day is this?’

He takes the puzzle to task.

‘I stayed two days at the camp before coming to the hut.’

“I think,” he loudly challenges.

‘I’ve been here three days.’

Axel gives a cheeky chortle.

‘That doesn’t help, as I don’t remember what day it was when I was last in Parramatta.’

“Today must be Monday,” he loudly exhales, “as it was fish marketing day when I was last in Parramatta.”

‘But why?’ he thinks as a corner of the hide he is working on comes away from the frame.

He quickly fixes the loose end.

‘Why would I allow a stranger paint my likeness naked?’

‘More so, why am I considering him to paint me at all?’

In everyone there is a measure of vanity and in Axel his measure is overriding his construal of decency. He would visit his painter and in probability become, as supposed, a study in human form but even if offered Axel would not accept such a study to hang on the common walls of Wilson’s hut, nor would he accept payment as that would seem like prostitution.

‘Tomorrow,’ he thinks.

‘Yes tomorrow I will go into Parramatta,’ he releases a cheeky private smile guarded from no one except the trees, ‘and see what my painter friend is up to.’

It is early morning and before the sun when Axel departs for Parramatta. During the night there had been wind and rain with a sudden wind change shifting some of the hut’s roofing, now it leaked. The roof would be an easy fix although in such a place that did not cause urgency.

The travelling to Parramatta would take most of a day, passing Rosie Craddock’s on his way. He still held the coin from selling the last lot of hides, therefore he could buy luxuries. For first a new iron cooking pot, as Wilson’s pot was wearing thin and at any time soon would not hold the cooking. Possibly if he is to sit for the painter, a new set of clothing may be advisable but as he departs into the early morning dullness, he smiles at such a thought, as clothing, new or old, would be considered redundant during such a sitting.

‘Powder,’ he considers.

‘I will need a further supply, as what I got from Mr. Glass is running low.’

‘Also I must pay him for what he gave.’

Axel gives a gently smile, ‘what was it Jock said?’

‘Yes I remember; ‘be owing to no one and sleep becomes much easier.’

As Axel sets out he once again attempts his mental arithmetic. Firstly he believed the day could be Monday but settled on Tuesday, giving him a night in Parramatta before the suggested meeting with the painter. ‘What if I am out of kilter and it is beyond Wednesday and he is gone?’

‘Then he is gone.’

‘It is naught but folly anyway.’

In passing Jackson’s burned store Axel notices the body of Cunningham’s lieutenant had been removed from its gibbet to be buried close by in an unmarked grave, with nothing but a slight rise in the ground to mark the man’s existence, Axel feels for the fellow but not for burning the store, surely a better way could be found for freedom than senseless destruction. Surely there was a better punishment than execution.

A mental picture forms, he is once again in his childhood school room and outside comes the sound of agony as the lash is counted while ripping strips of flesh from a convicts back. He can almost feel the salt being applied to gaping wounds. He shakes it away and thinks of more pleasant things, such as swimming in the river and the laughter of the native children as he passes by the popular swimming pond.

Parramatta is busy, gone the obvious signs of the Irish rebellion. The two Irish stores that had been attacked by angry residents had replaced their broken glass panels and were once again trading, proving necessity is stronger that racial intolerance. Along George Street towards the wharf Axel chances upon a trooper who was questioning a young porter bringing luggage from the early Sydney ferry. It is obvious the two are acquainted as the dialogue appears friendly. Axel allows their conversation to conclude without interruption, then with the porter continuing on his way, Axel approaches the trooper; “excuse me sir,” he politely requests, “what day is this?”

The trooper is laughing, “where have you been lad, having to ask such a question?”

“I’ve been busy away from town.”

“Wednesday I should think,” the trooper instructs before giving his undivided intention towards a young woman attempting to cross the road without muddying her ankle length dress. He places a rough hand in the small of the woman’s back as if to guide her.

‘So much for my calculations,’ Axel chides his ability to explain the passing time.

It is well past noon. Axel had been travelling without resting since early morning, his stomach is rumbling and his lips dry from thirst. He needed to make a decision, should he feed his hunger, or find his painter. He knew the Fisherman’s Inn served a good hotpot stew at a fair price and as the painter had a room at the inn it was probable he could satisfy both needs in a single instance, therefore it was onward towards the inn.

Axel had no sooner sat down with his meal before he spied the painter coming from the bar, instantly the painter spies Axel, so diverting progress towards his accommodation he approaches.

“You came,” the painter says his eyes brighten as Axel stands offering his hand.

“Did you doubt so?”

“Truthfully yes, I believed I was much too bold and may have frightened you away.”

“And I agree you were bold.”

“Yet you still came.”

“Possibly my intrigue is stronger than my apprehension. Have you had lunch?”

“Yes, earlier. I will leave you in peace. When you have finished your meal come up. My room is the second on the left.”

“Yes I do remember.”

“Then let’s say half an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

With his meal at an end, Axel nervously climbs the stairs. On reaching the landing he finds the painter’s door is slightly ajar, “Mr. Clarkson,” he knocks and softly calls through the gap.

“Come in Axel and close the door; please call me Joshua.”

The room is as Axel had remembers, except the easel set under the light from the window is now holding a blank canvas.

“I thought you worked on board,” Axel suggests.

“Not for this one. If you agree to the sitting, it will need to be rolled for transport.”

“Will you keep it?”

“Yes, that is if you allow me to do so, or if you wish you can have it.”

“Let’s see the finished painting first.”

The painter laughs, “I am forgetting you don’t have a wall to hang it on and would need to hand it on a tree.”

“Not any more, I now have a hut.”

“Oh, I thought you didn’t appreciate living indoors?”

“Things change, it isn’t very grand and its owner was killed by the blacks.”

“Still it will be somewhere warm and dry and with the coming winter that will be pleasing to you.”

“It has dirt floors and no glass in the window and the roof leaks.”

“Is it dangerous where you are living?” The painter gives an obvious shudder. He has seen natives in the streets in Sydney also in Parramatta, while believing they were the epitome of the savages whose stories blessed the pages of papers such as the London Times. Other stories elaborated on South Sea cannibals who devoured the flesh of white men and raped fair maidens, while comical cartoons accompanied the narrations, depicting missionaries being cooked in large cauldrons and black men with bones through their noses dancing about in gay abandon.

“I guess it can be dangerous for some. In truth I concern more for the escaped convicts, they can become quite cruel in their attitude towards farmers, as for the natives they know I’m about and so far they have left me alone – besides.”

“Now comes the disclaimer,” says Joshua.

“No disclaimer, it is more an observation as it is the old woman who make me realise they aren’t bad people and watching them with the children is what brings me to that opinion.”

Axel remembers the old women, their black hair gone to white as would any English grandmother, while they teach the young girls the art of basket weaving, or how to find plants for medicine hidden in the forest, or mosses from river stones. It was during those encounters Axel came to realise the blacks were no different than those from across the sea, possibly the natives could even be considered more civilized than the English. At least they didn’t imprison their people, put them in chains while sending them half way around the world to die of starvation and neglect in another’s country.

“Not bad people you say?” Joshua questions while bringing the lad away from his assessment.

“Like most, treat them properly and they will do likewise.”

“Some day I would like to visit this hut of yours.”

“You would be disappointed but yes you would be most welcome.”

Joshua draws a deep breath and takes his seat behind the canvas, “Right Axel, are you ready?”

“As I will ever be.”

“Firstly sit on that stool, I wish to get a feeling for your pose.”

Axel is seated although his pose is wooden and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Firstly he folds his arms then removes his hands to his thigh and then to his lap, cupping one in the other, covering the strategic rent in the crotch of his pants. His back is hunched forward.

“Could you sit up straight?”

Axel does so.

“How do you feel?”

“Strange, as if the eyes of the world are on me.”

“Relax Axel.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Turn your head towards the light.”

Axel does while attempting to focus his concentration on the passing traffic in the street below. There is a child running a bamboo hoop along the recently laid cobbles and a woman selling wild flower posies from a basket. She is smiling towards a gentleman who stops to speak with her but as quickly he walks away without accepting her offer.

Axel’s attempt to relax fails.

“Has anyone told you that you have an infectious smile?” Joshua asks as he runs the charcoal stick lightly over the canvas.

“What does infectious mean?”

“I suppose captivating.”

“I guess not.”

“Now turn your head and face me.

Axel turns.

“Try to smile.”

“I am trying but I think my face is frozen.”

Joshua laughs, “It is time to get rid of the clothing.”

“Oh.”

“If you are embarrassed I could leave the room while you undress.”

“There is no need.”

Slowly Axel undresses and retakes his position on the stool its surface rough to the tenderness of his buttocks. He cups his privates.

“Could you remove your hands, possibly place them gently on your thighs.”

“Oh,”

Axel is physically shivering, with his head lowered towards the floor, his eyes unfocused on the rough floorboards.

“Are you feeling cold?” the painter asks.

“No not cold.”

“If you like you can wrap something about your waist for now so you won’t feel so exposed.”

“I’ll settle; keep talking to me and it will distract.”

The painter quickly sketches the lad’s outline on the canvas. He is grinning, “I don’t think I will be adding that to the painting,” he says as he continues with the preparation.

“I can’t help it. I’m not accustomed to being naked in public; it has risen on its own accord.” Axel attempts to cover his privates with his hands.

The covering works in part.

“Could you possibly place your hands closer to your knees?” Joshua suggests.

Axel reluctantly conforms.

“Your arms are a little wooden, loosen them.”

Minutes pass and still Axel’s stiffening situation continues.

“Would you like a break, I can work without you posing for a time if you think that will help?”

“Keep going I can’t be any more embarrassed that I am.”

“Don’t be embarrassed it is natural.”

Axel releases a soft huffing.

“I do know of a way to elevate your problem.”

“How so?” Axel asks.

The painter places down his charcoal stick, “go lie back on the bed and close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Axel hesitates as he can’t envisage the painter’s intent, slowly he rises from the stool and lays prostrate on the bed; his eyes are closed.

There is movement and soon he can feel the painter’s presence.

Axel feels a hand on his person and flinches.

“Sorry cold hands.”

Joshua rubs his hands together to warm.

“Is that better?”

Axel doesn’t answer; he holds his breath then swallows at the dryness in his throat as Joshua takes control.

Moist and warm;

It is beyond all experience the lad had encountered.

Gentle and private not like the abrasive usage of his person by the Sergeant or his associates.

Even beyond what he had encountered with Edward Buckley on those few occasions.

A moment later.

“Ah! I’m going to….”

“Sorry.”Axel’s eyes open wide as the painter lifts his head.

“There you go lad, I think you should be ready to continue now.”

“Sorry,” Axel repeats.

“Don’t be.”

It is growing dark by the time the painter called halt to the session, “that will do for today.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Not until it is finished. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Get dressed and we’ll go for dinner, I believe the Inn serves fish on a Wednesday night.”

“I don’t have coin for another meal, as what I have I must pay a debt at the general store.”

“No matter, it would be at my pleasure. I should think at this late hour you won’t be heading back tonight.”

“Usually when I need to stay overnight, the dock master allows me to bed down at the dock.”

“I won’t have that; you can stay the night with me.”

Axel appears evasive.

“That is if you don’t mind sharing my bed.”

“I don’t mind only it is all a little strange to me,” Axel frowns as would one who has a question needing an answer.”

“I am sorry lad; possibly I’m being a little presumptuous.”

Axel releases a soft chortle, “another new word,” he says.

“I mean I may be reading a wrong message from you.”

“Are you one of those types Joshua?”

The painter laughs.

“I’ve offended you,” Axel says.

“Not at all, after what occurred this afternoon, I should think it is a fair question but as you allowed me, I could ask you the same of you.”

“I don’t know what I am. I was once bum-boy for a Sergeant and his mates. I didn’t appreciate that. Later I had a short encounter with a young emancipist who has taken up a selection beyond the mountains. I did enjoy his company, as for other, there has been nothing.”

“Bum-boy you say?”

“It wasn’t my word or my wish.”

“I would never abuse you Axel, nor would I force you to do anything against your will.

“Nor would I allow it.”

“Come on, we should hurry before they close down the kitchen.”

It was a further two days before the painter was satisfied with his work. During that time Axel had become accustomed to Joshua’s kindness but by the painter’s words he would soon need to travel once again, as he had a brother in New Zealand who was in need of assistance on his farm somewhere near Upper Hutt on the north island. Therefore no promises were made or asked for and with the finishing of Axel’s painting it was time to view its worth.

“What do you think?” the painter asks as he turns the painting for its first viewing.

Axel frowns.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Is that what I look like?”

“Don’t you think it is a good representation?”

“I’ve never studied my image.”

“Take a look in the mirror on the washstand.”

Axel approaches the mirror.

“What do you think?” Joshua hopefully asks.

“Yep it’s me alright but I think you’ve added a little length to my dick.”

“I call it artistic privilege.

“Maybe so but I don’t think I would like to hang it on the wall in my hut.”

“Then you are happy for me keeping it?”

“Why would you want to keep an image of me?”

“You sell yourself short lad. It will be a pleasing reminder of our few days together.”

“You wouldn’t show it about?”

“Like our encounter it would be our secret.”

“I will need to return to my hut soon, I have left my hides drying and they will need further attention.”

“I still wish to visit your hut before I leave.”

“Then you must do so.”

“How would I find your hut?”

“Pass through Rose Hill then on to the military post that is where Stringers Creek crosses the road and follow the creek south west for about half an hour and there I am. You can’t miss it as it is the only hut south of the Parramatta Road.”

“I have a few sittings planned here in Parramatta over the next week so possibly I will take up your offer,”

“As I said, you will be more than welcome but again I must warn you it is no grand house.” Axel again collects his painted imaged and holds it next to the dressing table image. He is smiling.

“Satisfied?” Joshua again asks.

“I still think your artistic privilege is a little distracting.”

“I could rework it if you wish,” Joshua gives a cheeky chuckle, “maybe paint it out with a fig leaf.”

“No leave it.”

On arriving back at his hut in the late afternoon Axel discovered he had a visitor during his absence. Nothing appeared to be missing, simply moved about. There were also footprints around the hut’s doorway. The footprints were unshod so obviously those of a native. Had they returned to finish what they began with Wilson? If so Axel would need to be on his guard.

Once inside there was further sighs of tampering but again nothing was missing, although even with its collection of black ants, Wilson’s sugar supply had gone. Axel’s thoughts are drawn towards Wilson as he lay dead at the hut’s doorway. He reflects on the lance and who it belonged to. It had been the property of his visitor to the camp asking for grog.

‘Why didn’t he do me in when he had the chance, as he obviously did Wilson,’ he thinks.

‘And why has he returned to the hut without taking anything except the ant ridden sugar?’

Under the circumstances Axel should be concerned but the black man had often seen him while hunting without approaching. What also appeared strange, he had never seen his native with any group, always on his own, although from his weaponry he was obviously a hunter and if provoked a warrior.

It was growing dark so Axel lit a fire in the hearth, then with Wilson’s old cooking pot filled with water he goes to the vegetable patch before losing the daylight. The potatoes are ready, that he knew as he was the harvester while with the Reverend, also carrots and a nice big heart of cabbage. There had been a long row of cabbages before leaving for Parramatta now only four remained and at first glance some of the maize cobs had also gone. Axel cut the remaining cabbages and brought them into the house, believing he should save what he could before the blacks return to scavenge the remainder.

As Axel returned to the hut something caught his attention from the far end of the clearing. He paused, discovering it was a black man and on closer security it was the same man who he believed left his spear in Wilson’s chest, the very one who had requested grog at his camp site.

Axel becomes nervous, ‘settle now don’t show fear,’ he thinks while keeping his tone as friendly as possible.

“What can I do for you?” Axel calls as he halves the distance between them, leaving enough space not to appear threatening.

The black man touches his head and points at Axel, he then laughs.

“Yes, that’s right I have red hair.” Axel says.

“You got grog?”

The black obviously knew the words for alcohol.

“No grog,” Axel says and going into the hut he returns with the hind quarters of a small kangaroo he had shot on the way back to the hut. He sliced enough for himself and offered the rest up to the black man.

The native doesn’t accept the offer.

Axel leaves the kangaroo haunch on a log close by.

“You got grog,” the black man repeats, this time with some force although his stance remains passive.

“I said no grog. What is your name?” Axel points to his own chest, “my name is Axel.”

“Saal,” the native says.

“No, Axel.”

“Saal, the black man repeats and smiles.”

Axel relents and accepts the black man’s interpretation, “what is your name?” he asks.

The native copies Axel and points to his own chest, “Warrin,” he says.

“Why did you Kill Wilson,” Axel points to the mound that holds Wilson’s remains.

“Bad man,” the natives replies.

“Are you Eora, Warrin?”

“Warrin – Bedigal no Eora.”

“You speak my language?” Axel questions.

“Warrin speak white man’s talk.”

“Who taught you English?”

Warrin doesn’t respond but remains standing at the edge of the clearing.

Axel decides not to push the friendship too far and returns inside. After adding the meat and vegetables to his pot he returns to the window. The black man has gone, as has the haunch of kangaroo meat he had offered.

Axel had been back at the hut for some days when late in the afternoon there is a commotion coming from the direction of the cornfield. On inspection he discovered a number of native women loudly chatting as they strip away the crop.

“Go for it!” Axel loudly calls.”

On hearing his voice the women appear nervous but continue stripping away the cobs. Axel simply sits on the ground laughing while watching their activity. Once they had gathered all they could carry they literally melted back into the forest. On inspection he notices they had left him a share, so after fetching a bucket he picked what he wanted. Some the crop remained and he knew they would be back for the rest. At last he was beginning to feel safe living among the natives and if at all possible, when the season was right, he would plant another maize crop and again allow the natives to take what they wanted.

It appeared there was an uncommon truce developing between Axel and the local natives, as long as Axel allowed them to take what maize they wanted and dig for Murnong yams in his vegetable patch. As for the potatoes the natives didn’t appear to have a taste for them and often when they dug for their Murnong they simply threw the potatoes aside. For his next crop Axel decided to be sure none were planted beyond the small picket fence he had placed between the vegetable garden and the natives Murnong patch.

It wasn’t long before Axel was missing his painter friend, he though of visiting Parramatta to see Joshua but didn’t wish to appear needy. He remembered his time with Ed Buckley and how he felt when Buckley left for distant pastures. Possibly like Edward Buckley, his short association with Joshua would be similar, becoming nothing more than fond memories to take the urge from the night’s darkness. Besides Joshua did say he would soon be leaving for New Zealand to help a brother on his property.

‘New Zealand,’ Axel thinks and realises he had heard of it before, as it was where the Reverend Marsden had gone for a short time to whip god into the Maori.

‘I wonder what the New Zealand natives thought of the Reverend’s fiery services.’

‘I think I would like to see New Zealand.’

A shudder – ‘I don’t like ships.’

He recalls the stories told by the convict women, of the storms, the cold and almost starvation, with nothing but ocean and the endless tip and fro of the ship for months, while held below in cramp, dark damp spaces, only allowed a few minutes each day on deck for sunlight. That being if the weather permitted as often in the southern reaches where icebergs roamed, the sun could be missing for days at a time.

‘I don’t think I would like to go to sea.’

He gives an agreeing tiff and a gentle headshake to none other than self, while releasing a long sighing breath.

‘Not even to be with Joshua.’

Two further weeks had passed and during a sunny morning while hauling water from the creek for his garden, Axel spied movement along the creek to the north. On closer inspection he discovered it to be a man on horseback. He places down his pail of water and waits for the rider to approach.

It is his painter friend Joshua.

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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