Free Beneath the Southern Cross by Judy Nunn

guilty of the murder of Private Waite are found, they will be punished accordingly.’
    It seemed the interview was over but, as Thomas waited to be dismissed, Phillip added.
    â€˜Perhaps in your communications with the natives, Kendall, you could instil respect for His Majesty’s Men. Fear if need be. Make it clear that the death of a soldier by a native hand will bring death upon that native’s people.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜You may go.’
    Thomas left. Thankful. But confused by Governor Phillip’s request. It sounded very much as if the Governor knew that the Aborigines had spared Thomas’s life out of friendship. If so, why had Governor Phillip not demanded a fuller explanation? Why had he not demanded Thomas identify the attackers? Was he letting the matter rest because he did not wish to bring the natives to awhite man’s justice when they had simply been protecting their women?
    A week later Farrell’s body was discovered ten miles from the site of the attack, a spear staked through his heart in what appeared to be a ritual murder. Thomas was relieved that no witness remained to the events of that night, and for forty years he told no-one of his secret. Until the day he told his grandsons.

It was dusk when Thomas returned home with William and James, to find Mary in a barely controllable rage. She had been pacing the floor of his front parlour for two hours, refusing to be placated by Emily and the girls. When she finally laid eyes on her son, hatless, dishevelled, scratched and bleeding, she was at first speechless.
    â€˜We had a splendid time, Mother.’ James had forgotten the hour and his appearance. ‘Grandfather Thomas told us such stories of the old days …’ James knew he mustn’t mention Wolawara, but he couldn’t contain the excitement of his afternoon, ‘… when the town was nothing but tents, and when they first brought the convicts ashore and …’
    That was when Mary’s anger reached the point of hysteria.
    She had known this would happen, she screamed. She had known that by leaving James in Thomas’s care, she was risking the very life of her only son. ‘You disgusting old man, you care nothing for your kin,’ she shouted. ‘You will not be satisfied until you have dragged this whole family down into the gutter with you and your disreputable kind! You will be the ruin of us all.’
    At first Thomas was amused to see Mary so uncharacteristically out of control. James and Phoebe, however, cowered at their mother’s wrath, while William and Hannah stared at their aunt jaws agape, never having witnessed such rage.
    â€˜If the ruination of my family were my true aim, Mary,’ Thomas replied mildly, ‘surely it should be of little concern to you. You are no longer a Kendall.’
    â€˜And I never will be!’ By now Mary’s face was apoplectic with fury. ‘Neither me, nor my husband, nor our children.’
    Thomas’s amusement evaporated, for this sounded suspiciously like a threat.
    â€˜If you continue to boast of your loathsome past,’ Mary presented her ace with menacing triumph, ‘you will never see your grandchildren again.’
    Thomas interrupted, still calm but with a steely edge to his voice. ‘Tell my son to come and see me tomorrow. I have business to discuss with him.’
    The wind was taken out of Mary’s sails for an instant. She’d expected apologies, even some grovelling. Perhaps the old man took her threat to be the idle ranting of a distraught woman. ‘Look at James!’ She dragged the boy, speechless, terrified, to her bosom. ‘Just look at him! He’s wounded, bleeding. Do you think for one minute that Richard, when he sees his son like this, will—’
    â€˜Tell Richard he is to see me tomorrow.’ The old man’s tone brooked no argument.
    â€˜My husband is not at your beck and call, Thomas,’