Terra Nulla

By Jason Roger Phillips

Terra Nulla is a novel based on the extraordinary true story of Australian explorer Edward John Eyre. Written by Jason Roger Phillips, it follows Eyre's famous trek across the Nullarbor Plain of southern Australia in 1840. It's been three years since the drought hit southern Australia, leading the governor of Adelaide to seek Edward Eyre's help in leading an expedition to search for viable farmland beyond the Nullarbor Plain. After three men bail out, Eyre is left with ex-convict John Baxter and three young aboriginal boys, Yarry, Joey, and Wylie, to accompany him on his expedition. But the harsh terrain and dust storms aren't the only dangerous elements Eyre and his crew will face in this mission, as blood and betrayal follows at every step.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Roger Phillips
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023

Jason Roger Phillips

Jason Roger Phillips was raised in Trinidad, after which his family migrated to Canada before finally settling in Australia. He holds a Bachelor of Business Degree and a Graduate Diploma in Media and Arts Production. Previous works include The Ice Factory (2011), and The Silver Is Mine (2016). He has also written and directed several independent film and video productions at Eterna Films. He enjoys drinking bleach and talking to his television.

Book preview

Terra Nulla

© Jason Roger Phillips (Author).

Fiction, 1st Edition, 23rd December 2022

Katie Adkins (Editor)

Melanie Cook (Assistant)

Paperback ISBN: 9798372065024

Paperback Cover Original Artwork by Mike Priddy

Paperback Map published by Gettysburg Press.

All rights reserved. Reproduction in any format is prohibited except by written consent. This novel is a fictional adaptation of persons and events described in "Journal of Expeditions into Central & South Australia" by Edward John Eyre, 1841.

www.jasonrogerphillips.com

Chapter 1

While the dust settled, in the morning sunlight it was plain to see how much weight the overseer had shed over the months. Each rib was so perfectly defined. His beard trapped more dust, as did the hairs on his arms and legs but he never made a fuss. The only life inside of John Baxter’s body was a hundred flies, sounding like hellish violins as they crammed into a bullet hole through his chest.

His was living proof that nothing much survived in no man’s land, except for hardened scavengers on the hunt or on the run. They’re born on borrowed time. Then they steal it.

From the mouths of babes and suckling hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies, so that thou might still the enemy and the avenger.

Master Eyre muttered the psalm. He looked more like a man in his thirties than twenty-five; being tall and skinny, bearded and sunburned. In a futile attempt to dig the grave, he banged his shovel so hard into sheetrock that a spark flew off the tip with an ear-piercing ting.

Then he just broke down and wept.

He memorised many a psalm back in Bedfordshire, raised by a pastor who believed the quality of a deadman’s soul is written on a deadman’s face. Whereas the worthy soul conveyed a sense of peace and contentment, the hell-bound had a bitter visage.

But it was hard to tell with Baxter, whose expression was the same in death as in life — fearless.

Massa? Wylie called in vain, either unheard or ignored.

The teenaged native stood guard, rifle in tow, surveying the barren landscape. Slates of sheetrock stretched for hundreds of miles speckled with pale green sprouts of saltbush and spinifex. Some maps called it Terra Nullius. Some called it the Nullarbor. Hence the nickname Terra Nulla.

Wylie, pack her up. We’ll leave the dray here. Understand? We take Queen Vic but no dray. Eyre instructed, his voice faint and gruff, pointing to an introverted mare still bewildered by last night’s bluster; too exhausted to panic but too confused to calm down.

Oh look! Wylie called again, indicating where the dray’s tarpaulin was slashed open before it was ransacked overnight. The food tins were all left empty. All of the flagons were stolen. Without them, the inevitable was only a matter of time.

Forget about the bloody thing! Eyre roared.

After rummaging through the dray for himself, he retrieved a satchel containing his diary and a neatly folded silk flag.

Unfurling it dispersed the flies like a black vapour escaping from Baxter’s body. In retaliation the flies attacked Eyre’s face, forcing the flag to slip from his hands whilst fending them off. Yet as it fell, something seemed to manoeuvre the flag through mid-air until a perfect impression of Baxter’s face emerged at the centre of the Union Jack.

A stone was laid in each corner. Then in silence Eyre stood, watching the flag shimmer in red, white and blue.

It salvaged some dignity from disgrace.

Everything that Wylie could possibly transfer from the dray was packed onto Queen Vic, rendering the poor beast unfit to ride and barely able to move. He felt sorry for her.

I’ll have that rifle, Eyre calmly demanded. Now lead the way and don’t you dare stop.

So it began. Wylie obeyed and Eyre followed, aiming the rifle like a soldier on the warpath; force-marching a prisoner rather than following a leader.

A thousand may fall at my left and ten thousand at my right, but I will look to neither side for He goes before me to make the crooked places straight. 

As long as Wylie could hear Massa’s footsteps behind him, and Massa’s rambling, it was best to comply without complaint though his stomach grumbled; chewing its fat for lack of fuel.

Once the last of dusk’s iridescent ribbons faded from the sky, the day’s heat was quickly replaced with wicked ice-cold winds, whistling as they chased each other through cliffside caves and blowholes along the Great Bight.

Usually at this time everyone would rest for supper, but not tonight. Adrenaline suppressed Eyre’s appetite and released a surge of energy which emboldened his strides.

He coughed when grains of sand became stuck in his throat. Sometimes his muscles cramped. And when his eyes welled up, each tear was stolen by an unsentimental headwind.

Every now and then, Wylie nearly nodded off while his bare feet automatically shuffled along, mile upon mile and well into the night. His soles were hard but the frost bit harder on stone cold granite. Somehow he endured by calling to mind an adage often said by overseer — only cowards get cold feet.

Alas after fifty miserable miles and without any warning, Eyre simply collapsed.

Wylie quickly wrapped Massa in some blankets, saving just one for himself. Only then did he question the logic of nursing a thankless white invalid who hustled him at gunpoint all day and night.

Not that Wylie could sit and rest. He first needed to scrounge as much tinder as possible, as firewood was almost non-existent on this treeless plateau.

It occurred to him as he kindled the flames, how many tales he’d heard about a place called hell. A raging inferno apparently full of sinners and pagans, but whoever had spun that yarn was much mistaken. Hell was here. Hell was cold. Hell was dark.

Ironically the only comfort inside hell was fire, albeit a tiny flicker finally restoring some warmth to his feet.

Then he stared at Queen Vic, so tempted to shoot that horse. So thirsty that he would gladly drink its blood. So hungry, he’d devour it to the bone and suck the marrow. No apologies.

The attention made Queen Vic jittery and the more jittery she became, the more she betrayed herself with her own scent; one that whets the appetite of every predator. The scent of fear.

So Queen Vic wisely kept her distance.

Eventually Wylie’s attention returned to the fire, half-asleep while his mind begged a question:

How did it come to this?

Chapter 2

More than a thousand miles away, the trouble began after summer overstayed her welcome and made certain hers was one to remember. On that day in April 1840, a devil’s draught united every settler and native of South Australia as one and the same in sufferance.

The mercury had already scored a century by midday at the Hawsons. The dining room candles buckled like wilting flowers, before turning into stalactites of wax that melted onto the crochet tablecloth.

Stripped to his breeches, young Seth ran past the spectacle after fetching his father’s ceremonial sword.

Well done. Stay with Gertie and don’t move until I’m back. Tom whispered, sternly eyeing his younger brother and sister until they affirmed with a nod.

He wrested the sword from Seth and unsheathed the blade. From then on, nothing in the world could distract the twelve-year-old. His senses became so acute that he could hear the spiderweb being spun above the front door; opening it just a fraction to assess what lay beyond…

Thereupon the ochre crust like upstanding shadows, ever so slowly they advanced towards the Hawson farmstead. How tall they seemed, these primitive earthly creatures, as if they were derived from the soil itself over many a millennium. Slender and coal-black with wild unruly hair, naked save for some crude trinkets adorning their bodies, presently all of their brown eyes fixed upon his pair of blue.

Taking his first tentative steps on the verandah, Tom quickly calculated he was outnumbered eleven to one. So he pointed the sword downward and behind himself as to avoid any sign of aggression yet poised to defend if necessary. Though in reality, his young arms lacked the strength to wield a heavy sword that was longer than his legs.

An elder stepped forward, distinguished by a piece of red flannel tied around a long greying beard. He placed his spear upon the ground and outstretched his palms with a humble demeanour, trying to prove he was empty handed and meant no harm.

Umarrah. The elder pointed to himself.

Thomas Hawson. Tom pointed to himself, flicking sweat from his brow. My parents are back soon. So you better leave or there’ll be trouble.

Tom suspected their timing was no coincidence. They must have already known his parents were away, to be so boldfaced. Ever since the drought, complaints were commonplace about animals stolen at night …but trespassing in broad daylight?

Hii hii onom takuramb, Umarrah gestured with a hand-to-mouth action. Hii hii onom takuramb, he repeated, glancing at an emaciated baby held in its mother’s arms, before again motioning from hand-to-mouth.

Oblivious to the standoff, a pair of galahs feasted on crumbs fondly scattered each morning by Mrs Hawson. It seemed a bit absurd, charity thrown to the birds but withheld from beggars. So Tom summoned his brother.

Seth, there’s bread in the pantry. Hither and be quick.

Umarrah took another step forward. Tom stepped back. Each second unfolded an eternity at a time. Tom regretted his hastiness, forgetting to consider his father’s hunting rifle which was always well-oiled at the ready.

Peering from behind a window, Gertie in her seven years had never come this close to bare breasted aboriginal women and near naked men. She knew that nudity was obscene and sinful, yet they seemed neither embarrassed nor contrite.

Finally the door creaked open to reveal a loaf of soda bread. Tom’s first instinct was to toss it at Umarrah but there was something undignified in that notion. It wasn’t right to throw food. Instead he cautiously walked down the steps, placed his sword on the ground and held out the bread with both hands.

I’m afraid that’s all we have, Tom explained.

With both hands, Umarrah accepted the meagre offering and handed it to his family.

An ungue said he, clasping his hands in front his stomach and throwing them open again. A gesture of gratitude.

Piece by tiny piece, the loaf was shared but it wasn’t enough. Some of the dissatisfied were plainly reluctant to leave, others keen to move on and try their luck elsewhere. The dissenters grew agitated, raising their voices, tossing fistfuls of dirt into the air. In frustration one raised his spear, quickly restrained by Umarrah who seemed to be losing authority.

Tom retreated inside and locked the door.

The petrified children huddled together, hearing an alien tongue which they could not interpret; of men rapidly babbling, getting louder, the baby squealing.

How different it sounded to English. Their gestures were so unusual, their postures and so forth. And so skinny too…

Are they going away? Gertie asked.

No, they’re coming closer. Tom replied, compelled to make his choice now or never.

It all happened so suddenly. Tom burst onto the verandah brandishing his father’s rifle, scattering the trespassers like a cat among mice.

A spear instantly whistled through the air, striking his chest. He didn’t fall but staggered down the stairs, leaving a bloody footprint with each step.

He fired a shot. Someone fell.

Another seven-foot spear hurtled in swift reply, piercing his right shoulder blade and paralysing his arm.

As the rifle crashes to the