Mixed Blood

By Renoir

The lure of gold brought men to Australia from all over the world. The pursuit of gold was harsh, difficult, and ruthless. It was a time of violence and injustice. Life was cheap, the native population was often either the enemy, or simply in the way. But one ragtag group of men from all corners of the globe wanted to be better than that. T

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meredian Pictures & Words
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645405019

Renoir

Renoir is an escapee from the Australian Public Service who now lives with his darling bride and a few imaginary friends in the beautiful Northern Rivers district of New South Wales. He nonetheless spends as much time as possible in his own little world through the mystic portal that is his keyboard. He likes it there, most of the time.

Book preview

1

WHAT MAKES US WHAT WE ARE

Louth wasn’t much of a town. It had been scratched out of the bush solely because of its proximity to a deep sweeping bend on the river that was a natural harbour. As a port it served the surrounding sheep farming properties.

There was a saying that the young New South Wales colony rode on the sheep’s back. Wool handling centres like Louth were pivotal in the transport of the bales that were building what would be the wealth of the nation.

But it was rough. Roughly built, and mostly populated by rough men who lived and worked in hard conditions.

Five labourers were sweating over a stack of crates that had been unloaded from the paddle steamer that wallowed at the dock, a steamer that was now being reloaded with bales of precious wool.

That was the true tide of Louth. Not the rise and fall of the water, but the ebb of supplies into the town, and the flow of wool back out.

Among the items most recently arrived was a large wheeled traction engine. The big machine was destined for a farm several miles away. It needed a team of horses to move it – a team that had already been hitched up and were being led away by two men on horseback.

The older of the two – James Arnold by name - was almost bald, but sported a thick silver beard. Bushy black brows gave a hint as to what his hair must have been like in younger days. He rode on one side of the team, his dark companion on the other.

As they rode past the sweating labourers one of the five looked up and spat contemptuously on the ground behind the riders.

The older horseman had noticed from the corner of his eye. He reined his horse to a halt and turned to face the docker.

You got a problem, mate? he asked casually.

The docker growled, "I reckon you’ve got a problem – lettin’ one of those bastards ride beside ya like he was as good as a white man. You are a white man, aren’t ya?"

Arnold looked at him impassively. When he replied his voice was quiet but certain. Magpie does the same work as I do. Works just as hard, just as long. Longer sometimes. Damn right he rides alongside me.

The man standing on the ground sneered. Magpie. That’d be right. Half black, half white. Worst kind of bastard. Can’t trust ‘em, you know, he warned.

Magpie had halted the team of horses and rode back alongside Arnold. He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned amiably.

Oh, I dunno, he said. There’s worse kinds of bastards. There’s lazy bastards, vicious bastards, mean bastards. And ignorant bastards.

You don’t call me ignorant, you piece of black shit! He pulled a pistol from his waistband and brandished it at the riders. I ought to blow you right off that nag!

The labourer was clearly uncomfortable with the two mounted men looking down on him. A couple of his workmates also looked tense, as much threatened as threatening.

James Arnold pulled a rifle from a holder at the back of his saddle. He laid the gun casually across his lap, but it was clearly pointed in the direction of the belligerent docker.

The horseman’s voice was still quiet. You don’t want to be waving that thing about. Guns have got a funny way of going off.

Another of the labourers, Lewis Heath, had drawn his pistol. His companions started to reach for theirs.

There’s five of us, two of you. You wouldn’t stand a chance, said Heath.

Magpie drew his own pistol and aimed it squarely at Heath’s head. Maybe not, but we’d go down fighting. You volunteering to die for your friend’s big mouth? Any of you?

The dockers looked nervously at each other.

Sorry, Rourke, mumbled one as he put his gun away.

The man called Rourke, who had started the exchange, turned his back on the teamsters and jammed his pistol into the waistband of his pants. His companions also turned back to their work.

Rourke glanced up but didn’t meet the eyes of either horseman. Just piss off, mate, he growled.

Magpie grinned as he shook his head. You’re no mate of mine.

Not mine either, added Arnold as they rode back to gee up their team and get the traction engine rolling forward again.

Rourke pulled his pistol out again and aimed it at Magpie’s back. Arnold turned in his saddle. He’d been expecting treachery and was still holding his rifle. His shot smashed into Rourke’s shoulder before the pistol could be fired.

The docker fell to the ground screaming. Neither horseman looked back as they cantered away.

There’s bastards you know you can’t trust, hey James? said Magpie casually.

Sad but true, my friend.

Far to the southeast of the river port, a well-appointed house stood in the middle of lush pastureland. It was home to wealthy squatter James Robertson and his family.

On a balmy afternoon Robertson sat working at his writing desk. His daughter Davinia reclined on a couch, feigning sleep. Barely more than twenty, the young woman had a cultivated air of haughtiness, from her carefully applied make-up to the rather theatrical pose.

Her brother Phillip, a couple of years older, ignored his sister as he usually did. He stood in front of the window that looked out over the property, but showed no interest in the view. His attention was focused on cleaning a good quality pistol. He was a keen hunter.

The door of the room opened and the Robertson’s manservant Ali came in. He had been with James Robertson for a long time, and rarely felt the need to knock before entering.

He almost seemed to glide across the carpeted floor. A communication has arrived for you, sir, he said and handed to the squatter a tray on which lay an unopened envelope. The Indian stepped back and waited patiently for any instruction.

Robertson opened the envelope briskly and read quickly. None of his movements appeared rapid, but he moved with great economy. Every action was precise and to the point.

Interesting, he said.

What is? asked Davinia, opening one eye. She’d heard Ali enter but had paid no attention to him.

Her father made a small vague gesture with the letter as he reread it. He took up a pen and started making notes on a pad.

Phillip watched him, curious. Who’s it from, Father?

Kaminski.

The young man’s forehead creased as he rifled through his memory. Polish fellow? Worked for us some time ago? A horseman, wasn’t he?

A horse thief, more likely, suggested Davinia with a sarcastic smile.

The squatter nodded absently, not looking up. Very likely so, Davinia. Good with horses though. Especially wild ones.

The girl’s smile now took on a distinctly wicked look as she said, I remember he was a bit wild himself.

None of the men reacted. If that disappointed her she didn’t show it. I thought you didn’t like him, Father. That’s why he left, isn’t it?

Robertson shrugged and replied, He left because he thought he could do better for himself elsewhere.

Davinia gave a small derisive laugh, prompting the squatter to put down his pen and give both his offspring a studious look. Phillip hoped his father didn’t notice his reflex rolling of the eyes at the prospect of another little ‘life and business lesson’.

"My liking or disliking the man is irrelevant. He was good at his job and did what he was told. Any feelings about each other, good or bad, are of no consequence. Nor should they ever be. Look at Ali here. His family has served my family for many years now, here and before we left Ahmednagar. I greatly appreciate his efficiency, not to mention the many little special talents he’s cultivated. But I could hardly say I like the man. And I daresay the feeling is mutual, eh Ali?’

The Indian looked genuinely puzzled. "Like you, sir?" There was no trace of anger in his voice, but the whole idea was clearly alien to him.

Davinia pouted, That’s different, Father. Ali is a native…

Which does not preclude him from having many admirable qualities and abilities, my dear. All the more so when they are employed to my advantage.

What does the Polish fellow want? asked Phillip, hoping to return to the point of the conversation. He assumed that any former employee writing to his father must want something.

Robertson looked thoughtfully at the letter on his desk. He writes from quite some way inland. It seems he’d been working at one of those little port towns along the Darling River. He tells me there’s gold nearby.

His daughter smiled dreamily. I like gold. It’s pretty. I like pretty things.

The young man was of a far more practical mind, asking, So why is he telling you? Why isn’t he making himself rich?

A reasonable question, my boy. It seems that, unlike in some other parts of the country, the gold isn’t simply lying about waiting to be picked up by a lucky passer-by. A certain amount of effort and equipment is required to extract a worthwhile quantity. He looked at the notes he’d been making. Kaminski also apparently has a certain amount of concern about a local tribe of natives. He expresses the hope I may be able to… facilitate something.

Phillip looked at his father, his curiosity aroused. When Robertson Senior appeared to have turned his attention back to jotting notes the young man prompted, Well?

Mm? The older man looked up. Oh, an opportunity worth investigating, certainly. Gold is a powerful commodity.

The house in Italy was small, but furnished and decorated well enough to indicate a reasonable level of prosperity. The parlour was compact, but comfortable.

Two men in their sixties sat facing each other. The house’s owner, Angelo Pasquale, was clearly nervous. He was more discomfited by the man facing him – Don Chiabatoni – than by the two burly men standing behind his visitor. One of the men held a large wicker basket of the kind used locally for carrying fruit at the market.

Don Chiabatoni leaned forward, his fingers steepled. Angelo, I am truly sorry it has come to this. Our children were promised to each other since their early years. I have been patient. My Rosa has been patient. I know Vittorio is your only son – I have seen that he must learn your business. It is good that he has committed himself to this. The Pasquale house has produced fine food for as long as any of us can remember.

Angelo gave an uncertain but genuine smile at the compliment. He was proud of the family reputation, but he was sure that Don Chiabatoni had not come to deliver pleasantries. As if in confirmation of this, his guest’s expression darkened.

How is our patience rewarded, Angelo? While we wait, thinking Vittorio is a good man, thinking he is only doing the best he can by his family while he prepares to become a part of our family – while we do this, your son debases himself by entering into a… relationship with a strumpet who works at the tavern. A creature who is not of our family – not even our blood!

Pasquale’s shock was genuine. If this was true… he shared the Don’s outrage, but his son? Surely not…

"It is true, Angelo. Your Vittorio has been found in disgrace with the Irish baggage who Giorgio set to work cleaning his kitchen when she came begging for employment. How could I now let him besmirch my beautiful Rosa? He has dishonoured her! He has dishonoured me!"

The colour had drained from Angelo’s face. He reached towards the other man, but stopped short of grasping his hand.

Don Chiabatoni, let me talk to Vittorio, I beg you. He is a good man – he will listen to his father! There will be no more of this relationship you speak of…

Chiabatoni held up a hand for silence. I know this, Angelo, he said. I have ensured this.

With the raised hand he gestured to the man behind him holding the wicker basket. The silent man lifted the lid from the basket and tipped its contents onto the floor.

There was a dull thump and a flash of red hair as the Irish girl’s head rolled across the floor.

Angelo could barely breathe as he murmured, Vittorio…

The Don stood. Angelo, there are debts between our houses that go back many, many years. I have convinced some of the more – hot-blooded members of my family that your son should live. However it would we best, I think, if he were to do so a long way away. Let him pursue your business interests for you, but ensure he does so as far from here as possible. It would be unfortunate if my boys gave way to their passions.

The two large men behind him shifted slightly. The movement was small but unquestionably menacing. Angelo gripped the edge of his chair.

Chiabatoni continued, Vittorio will find no friends, no allies in this, my town. You know this.

Pasquale all but fell to his knees, gazing helplessly at a picture of his son on a side table. In a voice barely more than a croak he said, I know this. It… it shall be as you say.

The first rays of the dawn just barely lit a small clearing in woodland in the craggy hills of Crete. An old stone building stood uphill a little way, its ancient walls seeming to absorb the thin light into their deep shadows. Ottoman soldiers, encamped in the woods, were stirring as they made ready for the day’s action.

Not yet out of his teens, Orhan Keilbren looked troubled as he cleaned his rifle while talking to his much older comrade Kamal.

How many more days can these Cretan rebels hold out? the youth asked plaintively. We have them hopelessly outnumbered!

The veteran soldier shrugged. Yes, but the walls of the Arkadi Monastery are strong. There may only be two or three hundred of them, but they are well armed. Our commanders believe there is much ammunition stored in there to sustain their fight.

So we keep throwing our bullets and ourselves at their walls.

As we are commanded to, yes. The old soldier sighed. For myself, I would as soon burn the place to the ground. The monastery and all those in it! Then we’d be over this tiresome siege!

The young man looked at him, shocked. But there are women and children in there! Hundreds of them!

The veteran shrugged. Their choice. If they surrender they’ll be spared. If they wish to stand alongside the rebels then they must be willing to fall alongside them. Come, Orhan, it will be our turn to throw our bullets at their walls shortly.

The attack was not long in beginning. Crouching in cover, Keilbren was still struggling to see clearly in the dim morning light. He could barely make out the shape of one of his Turkish comrades running from the doorway of the monastery, having just lit the fuse of a bomb.

Orhan joined in trying to provide covering fire, but as the bomber neared his line in the woods a Cretan bullet, fired from somewhere high on the stone wall, hit him. The young Turk dashed out into the exposed ground and grabbed his comrade. At a crouching run he carried the fallen man back towards relative safety.

Just as he reached the line of the woods the bomb exploded, throwing the two of them flat. For several seconds the young soldier could neither see nor hear. He shook his head to clear his senses, his first attention going to the wounded man he lay on top of. Unconscious but breathing, he realised with relief.

He rolled to one side and looked back up the hill. Ottoman troops were streaming into the gaping hole that had been torn in the stonework.

Inside the walls, an abbot looked fearfully across the courtyard as the Turks started to pour in, putting rebels to the sword as they came. He ducked back into the church, pulling a heavy door shut behind him.

The elderly man pushed through the women and children crowding the room, muttering prayers as he went, until he reached a smaller door in the opposite wall. He slipped through that, and made his way as rapidly as his shaking legs allowed down a winding staircase. As he went he pulled a burning torch from its sconce on the stairwell wall.

Breathing hard, he half staggered, half ran into the crypt. The vault was full of barrels. The abbot stopped for a moment. He crossed himself and looked upwards. Maybe it was to heaven, or maybe it was to the rebels, or the Turks, or to the innocents he imagined screaming in the room above.

A prayer on his lips, he tore the cover off the nearest barrel. It was full of black powder.

Outside, Orhan had managed to get to his feet. He steadied himself, preparing to run and join his comrades fighting. He’d barely taken a step when the monastery was ripped apart by a massive explosion.

The youth fell back to his knees, holding his rifle limply in front of him.

Vittorio Pasquale shuffled along in a line of people making their way onto a steamship. The ship was battered-looking but supposedly seaworthy, not that Vittorio cared very much. The events of the past few days had left him numb. So numb that his eyes barely registered the couple playing chess on a barrel at the dockside.

The woman, an attractive blonde perhaps in her late forties, looked a little pale and unwell, but was doing her best to hide it from her companion. She put down the chess piece she’d held.

I believe, my gallant Cossack, that you are deliberately letting me win. Her accent identified her as English.

Her companion assumed an air of affronted dignity. An Azov would never allow himself to deliberately lose, madam! You underestimate your own ability.

She smiled affectionately at him. Hmm, I don’t know about that, she said.

Come, dear Christina! he replied. Did you not secretly learn much of the information that enabled your British navy and her allies to take Kerch? Information that the great Intelligence Officer Cattley took the credit for? He could not let a woman steal his precious recognition. Ah, but I know the truth. The Cossack smiled ruefully. For was Gregori Volkoff not the source of some of that information?

Christina squeezed his arm gently. Had I known what the cost to you would be, I wonder would I have acted as I did? Especially as the capture of the city achieved so little. Sevastopol was still supplied with food and ammunition, which I’d thought to restrict.

He shrugged in response. "You were not to know the harvest of 1854 would be the best in a generation. And you do underestimate your efforts. It took nearly a quarter of our army just to protect those alternative supply lines. Deployed elsewhere, those 35,000 men could have turned the war in Crimea."

She laughed – a light cheerful sound that masked her illness. "Ah, that wonderful game ‘What If?’ Oh, kotchinka, so many what ifs. What if you’d not forgiven my betrayal of your secrets, saved me from your commanders and fled west to Austria? What if Captain Gregori Volkoff of the Azov Host hadn’t been such a fine soldier that whatever army he chose to join wanted his services so badly they accepted his wife as part of the package?"

Ex-Captain Volkoff returned the smile. His darling and resourceful wife, whose skills won respect of their own…

What if our luck had failed in any of our narrow escapes in so many battles, so many wars, over twenty years?

He took his wife’s hand in a firm but tender clasp. Then we would have died as we have lived for those twenty years. Together. I made my choice, Christina, as you made yours, and I have never regretted it.

Nor I, my love, neither have I. I’m just tired. Tired of the fighting. Thank you for agreeing to this new start. A new land, a land of golden opportunity they’re saying.

"We will make our own opportunity, kotchinka. We have our last souvenirs of our one last battle to parlay into that opportunity. But as you say, not with the fighting. Not any more. Come, we must gather our belongings and board the vessel. Oh, and Christina? Checkmate."

The sun beat down from high overhead on a sandy beach in a small cove, fringed by low scrub and mangroves. It was in the far north of the colony of Queensland, although nobody within days’ march of this spot would likely have recognised the name.

It was the hour of day when even the birds were quiet, trying to shelter from the worst of the heat.

A man groaned. He was battered and bruised, lying amongst a tangle of fishing line and bamboo. He was a Makassar, and for years he’d plied his trade as a fisherman in the waters north of Australia.

He opened his eyes, groaned again and shielded them from the sun. He rolled over, and gingerly made it to his knees. Muttering under his breath, he started to explore among the tangled mess around him, probing with long fingers until he located two very specific lengths of bamboo.

One was a flute – the man played a few experimental notes and grinned broadly at the realization that the instrument was intact. The other object was a blowpipe. He didn’t test this, but gave it a thorough examination until he was satisfied it was undamaged.

Next, he rummaged and searched until he located a small parcel wrapped in a broad leaf. He unfolded it carefully. It held darts for the blowpipe. His expression changed to a frown. The seawater had ruined many of the darts. He carefully examined all of them, preserving those that looked like they may still have a smear of poison on their tip. These he carefully rewrapped in the driest portion of leaf.

With a heavy sigh he got to his feet. After looking wistfully out to sea for a moment, he turned and started to trudge painfully toward the shelter of the bushes.

Three dark tribesmen stepped from the cover, holding spears. The fisherman stopped – between the sun’s glare and his injuries, he hadn’t noticed the men as he would normally have expected to. By their posture, the natives were clearly tense, if not actually threatening.

The fisherman instinctively went to bring up his blowgun, but thought better of it. Instead, he grinned broadly and opened his palms towards the men. He spoke in Yanuwa - a native dialect he had some experience of.

Greetings! he said. I mean you no harm. I want you to mean me no harm. My name is Asbul.

The three men were clearly surprised at his speech. They were struggling to understand him, although by their faces it was clear that they could make out at least some of what he was saying.

Asbul, he repeated, and then spoke more slowly. I am Asbul. No harm you. No harm me. He reinforced his words with gestures, carefully gauging their reactions. I know a little of your language, or something like it. I fish in the waters that way. He pointed north. For years I have regularly traded with a couple of different families somewhere… ah… that way, I think.

He pointed along the coast to the west. He grumbled to himself in his own language, It might help if I had a better idea of where I am…

One of the tribesmen addressed the fisherman. The dialect was similar, but far from identical. This tribe, we are Kuthant. We also trade with men from that way, he said, repeating Asbul’s gesture of pointing northwards.

If you are a trader, where are your wares? asked another of the spearmen.

His two companions looked at him disdainfully. The one who’d spoken first admonished him, Look at the mess. It’s obvious the fisherman has been wrecked.

Asbul was able to follow some of their exchange.

Not wrecked, he said. Attacked. I was attacked by pirates.

The three Kuthant looked at him blankly.

Pirates… um… bad men on the water. They left me to drown as my boat burned. Maybe I can make it home with some other trader from my own islands. Are you returning to your – umm – trading place?

The first of the Kuthant speakers introduced himself as Karumbari. We won’t return for some time yet. We left a while ago, and are well along the walkabout track that will eventually take us back there.

Like a number of the Aboriginal tribes, the Kuthant were wanderers. Not nomads who walked randomly from place to place as conditions required, but following a trail that had been reprised for generations. They gathered goods as they travelled, following growing and breeding seasons across many miles of country in a circuit that extended from the Gulf of Carpentaria down to an area near the banks of the Darling River.

The fisherman and the three tribesmen squatted together on the beach, drawing pictures in the sand and talking, as best they could.

Asbul scratched his head and said in Makassar, This is no good. I’m used to navigating by sea, and they navigate by land. Our reference points are too different. In Yanuwa he said, About the best I can work out is that it’s a long way, and dangerous to try to go on my own, eh?

Karumbari nodded.

The fisherman thought for a few moments then asked, Can I travel with you? Eventually we’ll come back to a point where I should meet some of my own people. Or maybe we’ll run into some other group or tribe who are heading in the right direction before you do.

Asbul grinned his wide toothy grin. This time it was answered in kind by the three Kuthant tribesmen. As they relaxed and finally lowered their spears more of the tribe slowly started to emerge from the mangroves. The fisherman looked about and smiled at his new adopted family.

The warmth of the mid-afternoon was radiating back up from the soil of a vegetable garden in a southern part of China.

Li Wei Sun knelt amongst the rows of plants. He had been carefully removing burnt and damaged leaves from the cabbages, but had stopped when his father Li Xuedong had come out to lecture him. Although the older Li stood over him, doing his best to loom threateningly, Wei Sun showed no sign of being intimidated or compromised.

He glared up at his father and snapped, I have no interest in going to Australia! I have no interest in scraping for gold!

The older man matched his glare. With contempt in his voice he replied, You have no interest in anything except your plants! For five years – more! You have no interest in anything. You were a good soldier, Wei Sun. You provided well for us!

And you know what happened.

Yes, yes. You have told the tale so many times. You rode into Nanjing and saw nothing but death…

One hundred thousand people, father. Men, women, children. Dead by their own hands rather than face our army!

The old man was implacable. That is to their shame, not yours. You did not kill them.

No, said Wei Sun bitterly. They died from their fear of us. And with good reason. The troops I rode with – the ‘loyal’ Chinese Qing and foreign mercenary alike – when they saw that there was no one left in the city for them to kill they turned their violence on those who lived in the nearby villages. Was this what it means to be a soldier? A warrior? To be a rapist, a murderer, a thief?

Li Xuedong looked at his soldier with a mix of disapproval and disbelief. To be a soldier is to follow orders! Such is the way of war. And to be paid – well paid, to provide for your family. Look at us now, Wei Sun – what sort of life do we have? The proud family Li – relying on your vegetables. The last word dripped with contempt.

The son remained unmoved. Perhaps the money I made as a soldier would sustain us all still if you and Han were to gamble less, or better.

Still your tongue! snapped the father. Your brother and I do our best to parlay your meagre contributions into something more substantial. He leaned down and narrowed his eyes, staring balefully at his son. There is no argument. Our honoured ancestors present this opportunity to us. Your passage to this Cook Town has been arranged. I have made payment, and guaranteed the remainder.

You had no right to…

I have every right! I am your father! You will honour me! You will obey me!

Wei Sun bowed his head. It was the first time since the old man had come into the garden to make his announcement that he did not meet his father’s eyes.

You may command my obedience. You cannot command my honour.

Li Xuedong pursed his lips. Then obey me. Go to Australia. You spend your time here scrabbling in the dirt. Go and scrabble in the dirt of the place where there is gold and wealth in the earth. When the debt to Master Wu is paid…

Who? demanded Wei Sun.

Wu. The fine man who has given you this opportunity.

I thought it came from our honoured ancestors.

The