of other causes, if you knows what I mean!'
'I knows what you mean, Ikey Solomon,' Mary said grimly. 'But no wild man's going to treat my boy like an animal!'
In Mary's eyes was the look Ikey had come to know well, and he realised nothing would dissuade her. He inwardly cursed himself for telling her about the sighting. After all, there was no way of knowing if it was Hawk, or even if the natives had told the truth.
'Perhaps we could muster some troopers at South-port? You could talk to Mr Emmett?'
'I got more chance on my own, Ikey. A woman on her own be the best bait to hook a wild man!'
'Shit no! No, Mary, I cannot have you do this!' Ikey cried. He'd presumed, if not troopers, that Mary would take some sort of armed escort on such a perilous journey.
'They've taken my boy and turned him into an animal and tied a rope around his neck! I tell you, I'd sooner die than not go after the bastard what done that to Hawk!'
'You will die, Mary!' Ikey said softly.
'Then I die trying, that's all!' Mary said angrily. 'It be better than living ashamed!'
'I'll come with you!' Ikey said, suddenly making up his mind.
Mary, astonished, looked at Ikey and smiled, then her eyes filled with tears. 'If you were to come we would most surely guarantee to perish,' she said tenderly. 'But I thanks you, Ikey Solomon, from the bottom o' me heart!'
Ikey had to admit to himself that he was secretly delighted with this reply, for he already regretted his decision.
'You will need to make sure your affairs are all in order, my dear,' he said sadly.
The next day Mary's enquiries revealed that, in three days, a small trading ketch, the Isle of Erin, would be leaving on the morning tide for Port Huon, and then on to the tiny new hamlet of Franklin. Mary booked passage, even though it was a cargo boat, and there were no cabins except the one which belonged to the captain. She was advised to bring her own oilskins as she would have to remain on deck throughout the two-day journey, the ship having to lay up at night against the sudden squalls which so often blew up along the D'Entrecasteaux Channel.
Ikey urged her to wait until he had spoken to Billygonequeer again, but there was no other boat for four days and Mary would not delay a moment longer. She knew that if news of her impending journey leaked out she would be forbidden by the authorities to travel into such wild country, so she settled her affairs and Ikey was sworn to secrecy. Mary told Jessamy Hawkins and the men at the Potato Factory at both the Old Mill and at Strickland Falls that she was going to do some trading with the small settlements along the Huon River. She instructed that they send a dray loaded with six dozen cases of Tomahawk and Temperance beer, and four fifty-gallon barrels of her strongest dark ale, to the Old Wharf where the Isle of Erin was docked.
On the third morning, just before sunrise, Mary left Hobart Town not sure that she would ever return. She looked up at the great mountain which had swallowed her two sons and said a quiet farewell, for she was now convinced that her mountain had not murdered Hawk and Tommo. She sat on the deck of the Isle of Erin on a case of Tomahawk beer, her umbrella spread open and her hand clasping the Waterloo medal. 'Bring me luck, and send the green parakeets to find my sons for me,' she begged the mountain. The summit of Mount Wellington was covered in cloud and a light drizzle fell. Though it was late spring, and the almond blossoms already out, there was mist on the river as the barque lofted sail and slipped into the ebb of the outgoing tide.
The voyage proved slow though uneventful. By the time they reached the channel the day had turned to bright sunshine and the small, clumsy and overloaded ketch seemed to make unnecessarily heavy work of a light breeze. At nightfall, they hove onto the leeward side of Huon Island under a near full moon.
Mary slept fitfully, for the night was cold. She had brought two blankets, one for herself and one for Hawk, or one for each of her children, as she hoped she'd find them both. Mary also wore her warm coat, this being the most she thought she could carry on her back when she set out on her journey into the mountains. The blankets and a supply of hard tack biscuit and dried meat, matches, sugar and tea made up the remainder of her burden, except for the small axe she'd carried up the mountain on the night Hawk and Tommo disappeared. It was heavy, but she knew she would need to take it along. The blankets she would roll up and place across the top of a canvas bag she had constructed, which was not unlike a child's school satchel, though somewhat bigger. Mary also carried fifty pounds in notes which were hidden in the brass cylinder of her prisoner's purse and deposited up her cunny. In her handbag she carried sufficient money for any expenses she might incur and as well a pearl-handled, pepperbox pistol.
The pistol had been presented to her by Ikey, who had bought it from Ann Gower. Ikey was most particular that it be light enough for a woman to handle yet carried four chambers, could be ready loaded, and deadly if fired at close range. Not being in the least accustomed to the workings of firearms he had diligently written down the instructions on how it should be loaded and Mary practised until she was certain how it was done. Though she had never before fired a pistol, she was confident that she was capable of using it should the occasion arise.
The Isle of Erin arrived in the tiny settlement of Port Huon by mid-afternoon of the second day. Mary's beer was loaded onto a bullock cart to be transported to the Kermandie River settlement, the driver happy to take a case of beer instead of payment, thinking himself much the better off with such a bargain. Mary sat beside the driver as they made slow progress into the small settlement.
The town seemed to be entirely constructed of bark and mud. The streets, if streets they could be called, were ruts where the unwary traveller might sink his boot half way to the knee in the wet.
The buildings were a testament to colonial ingenuity. A framework of wood was raised, and bark was peeled from green eucalypt in strips six feet long and two feet wide. The strips were flattened on level ground by poles laid across them and allowed to dry. When dry and stiff they made excellent walls, as well as serving, if lightly strutted, as doors and windows. Brown, warm-coated stringy bark provided the roof cladding. All that was then required was a slabbed chimney built above a base of stone, and lined a further four feet with stone topped with turf to protect the walls from fire. The flue, also of bark, was then carried up on a framework of poles to a suitable height above the ridgepole. From the chimney-breast up, the flue was boxed on all sides and experience taught just where to place the chimney to avoid down draughts. Thus everything was made locally and, if care was taken in the construction, a comfortable home could be built in a very short time.
The surrounding countryside rose steeply from the river and clearings for the small holdings around the settlement were a testament to sheer hard work. The natural growth which had to be removed before the soil could be tilled was a staggering five hundred tonnes per hectare. Ring-barked trees two hundred feet high stood like dead sentinels, while from their trunks huge strips of bark whispered and flapped in the wind. On the ground below cows grazed in paddocks sown with English grasses, coxfoot and white york, which provided fodder and hay for the winter. The rich virgin soil was deep-loamed and full of nutrients; at milking time, milch cows came in from the runs with full udders.
But despite this appearance of a tranquil farming community, the rising ground and huge trees made each acre taken from the forest a triumph over the forces of nature. The small community clung to the banks of the Kermandie River, and the wild country stretching towards the Hartz Mountains was not yet penetrated by settlers.
These forbidding parts of the interior were mostly occupied by isolated communities of itinerant timber getters, many of Irish origin, who lived further upriver and were said to be half wild and dangerous and unlikely to welcome strangers in their midst.
All male convicts who arrived in the colony would spend some time at hard labour producing timber and from that time on, any misdemeanour would result in a further stint on a timber gang. So, almost by definition, the worst offenders learned the most about the skill of the sawing pit, splitting logs and getting timber. In addition, the Irish, many of whom lacked the basic skills to work in towns, and being usually among the most intractable of convicts and also Roman Catholics in an overwhelmingly Protestant community, found timber getting was the only lawful skill they possessed upon emancipation. For many, isolation became their only way of avoiding trouble.
They seldom ventured with their families into the nearby towns and their children were wild things. They would score the timber, each with his individual mark and the number of his agent, and float it downriver. Every few weeks one of their kind might venture quietly into the small settlement and collect what was owing to them all. He might stop at the tavern for a few drinks, though he would usually buy what he needed of brandy and rum to take back into the forest, and leave with no more than a grunt to the publican.
