by Peter Watt
‘Sir, you know who I am,’ Mort said in a frosty tone as he stood inches from the missionary. ‘But I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’
‘The name is John Macalister, Captain Mort. And I’m surprised you do not know of me by now,’ he replied angrily, quivering like a terrier dog. ‘You and I almost met in Sydney. But fate was on your side, it seems.’
‘Macalister! Ah, yes. The man who wanted to see me hang,’ Mort sneered. ‘Well, Mister Macalister, I would advise you to step aside and let me carry on my business which is as lawful as yours of bashing these poor niggers with your Bible. I’m sure Chief Tiwi has more use for what I have than he has for your sanctimonious words.’
It was obvious that Macalister had no intention of stepping aside to let the blackbirder advance another step on shore. Macalister was all hackles and spoiling for a fight. If martyrdom should come, then it was God’s Will.
David sensed that he should allow Mort to go about his business or the missionary might come off second best in a confrontation. He respected the little Scot’s courage but was also pragmatic enough to know a clash with the missionary would be eventually reported to Sydney. He tactfully worked towards avoiding any further scandal surrounding the Macintosh barque and inserted himself between Mort and the island missionary. ‘Sir, I am David Macintosh, one of the proprietors of the Osprey,’ he said offering his hand. ‘Do you think you and I could talk?’
John Macalister was still bristling when he turned his attention to David and saw before him a young man whose expression was frank and honest. ‘I would rather not shake your hand, Mister Macintosh. Although I feel, God knows, that you might be an honourable man despite your connections with this evil face,’ he replied. ‘But if I should talk to you, I would tell you to return with your captain to your cursed ship and sail away from here immediately.’
David dropped his hand.
With some amusement Chief Tiwi watched the confrontation between the white men. But he was more eager to find out what the blackbirding captain had for him and spoke in his own tongue to the missionary. Although David did not understand the language he realised that the exchange of words was heated and, for a chilling moment, he feared for the missionary’s life. But Macalister seemed to agree with the island chief, albeit reluctantly, which defused the situation between them.
Ignoring the old chief glaring angrily at him, Macalister turned to David. ‘It seems, Mister Macintosh, that you and I have the opportunity to talk. Chief Tiwi has told me to leave while he discusses recruits with your captain,’ he said, almost being polite. ‘Tiwi says he will listen and then send him on his way. But the old devil is lying, as always. I know he intends to barter with Captain Mort. I have warned him that not one man or woman will leave this island except over my dead body. He says that can also be arranged.’
‘Mister Macalister, I give you my word as a Macintosh,’ David replied respectfully, ‘that your wishes will be honoured. I have no intention of allowing a situation that would disrupt the fine work you are doing here to bring God to these poor people. For myself, I am only interested in their customs and would be honoured if you would allow me to make certain observations of their way of life. I will instruct Captain Mort that he is to only trade for fresh foods that we might use on the Osprey.’
David called to Mort who was supervising the removal of a wooden case from one of the longboats. ‘Captain Mort. I have given my word that we will trade for fresh supplies of food and nothing else,’ David said to him. ‘I think it is best that we then leave these people and recruit elsewhere.’
‘Mister Macintosh, it has cost a lot of money and time to get here,’ Mort scowled. ‘And with due respect for your position, I feel I should point out that I am also under instructions from Mister White. We are engaged in a lawfully sanctioned activity and do not have to bend to the whims of these blasted missionaries. Especially one who is trying to get me hanged.’
‘With due respect to my position captain,’ David replied firmly, ‘you will carry out my orders, or I will ensure that you are disciplined.’
Both men stood toe to toe.
Mort struggled to contain his anger and for a brief moment David regretted standing up to him. He was a long way from home he realised, with a sick feeling. The authority of his position relied on the legalities of civilisation. On a lonely Pacific island such legalities held little practical meaning. ‘If that is what you feel we should do Mister Macintosh,’ Mort said quietly, ‘then I will talk to the Chief about fresh supplies.’ He turned and strode back to supervising the removal of the other crates from the longboats.
David felt uneasy. Mort had capitulated too quickly.
Macalister frowned. He was becoming aware that all was not well between the young owner of the Osprey and her captain. ‘Mister Macintosh, I think you and I could talk over a cup of tea and some fresh scones,’ he said cheerfully.
David was surprised at the hospitable invitation. Such a custom was so far divorced from anything he expected here. ‘My wife was just making a batch when your boats landed,’ the missionary continued brightly. ‘She is a fine Christian woman. And a God-sent cook.’
As the two men walked together along the beach Macalister pondered on David Macintosh, concluding that the young man spoke with obvious sincerity. It was a queer situation to almost like the owner of a notorious blackbirding ship.
Anne Macalister was just a little flustered meeting the handsome young man her husband had unexpectedly brought to their hut. As for David, the years in the islands clearly had taken a toll on Missus Macalister’s health, and he could see that she had a touch of the fever although she was cheerful and uncomplaining. She was near forty he guessed, and wore a neck-to-ankle dress that must have been uncomfortable in the tropical heat. Even shorter than her husband, David guessed that her quiet courage was equal to that of the little missionary himself.
‘I must apologise for the scones Mister Macintosh,’ Anne Macalister said, brushing away a spot of flour from her cheek. ‘But we are away from our usual home on Aneityum and I am not used to this oven.’
David was quick to heap elaborate praise on the scones which he found not only delicious but a pleasant change from the monotonous fare aboard the Osprey. Many times he had regretted not taking his mother’s advice to take his own hampers. But he had somewhat foolishly insisted that he should experience life aboard one of the Macintosh ships in the same style as the crew.
John Macalister poured the steaming tea into mugs and led David outside the hut. They perched themselves on a driftwood log, smooth and white, like the ghost of a long-dead tree.
‘You know your ships bring death to the islands Mister Macintosh,’ Macalister said, without any polite preamble. ‘I suspect your captain will be trading muskets for recruits right now. I only hope that you will intervene and forbid the trade.’
‘I promised you I would not take any of your islanders away from here,’ David replied sincerely. ‘And that promise stands.’
The missionary had to be wrong, David thought naively. Mort would never dare put himself in a position to give him the excuse to have him relieved of his command of the Osprey.
A cloud of doubt fell across the missionary’s face. He did not doubt David’s sincerity – only his lack of perceptiveness about his captain. ‘Tiwi intends to attack the other islands for heads,’ he said quietly as he stared out to sea. ‘He has this pagan idea that they are needed to appease his gods. They are children of Satan, Tiwi and his people. Missus Macalister and I have the mission to bring them into the light.’
‘You are doing fine work bringing God’s word to these poor people. But do you not feel that you might be disrupting a way of life that seems to have survived all these years without Christianity?’ David asked politely.
‘Survived, yes. But it has been a playground for Satan. Sir, I could tell you things about these people that you could never repeat in genteel company lest it caused embarrassment to good Chri
stian men and women. They . . . ’ The sight of a young islander hurrying along the beach distracted Macalister. ‘Ahh! I see Josiah has something on his mind.’
David could see that Josiah was obviously one of Macalister’s converts, the young islander wore European clothes. ‘Mister Macintosh. This is Josiah,’ Macalister said, turning to David with a note of pride in his voice. ‘He is from Aneityum and is helping us spread the word of God among Chief Tiwi’s people.’
Josiah smiled shyly and held out his hand. His grip was strong and forthright. A fine-looking man with white flashing teeth when he smiled, David guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. ‘Mister Macintosh has promised us his ship will be leaving without any recruits,’ Macalister said to Josiah. ‘Or giving Tiwi any muskets.’
Josiah ceased smiling. He bent forward to whisper something in the Scot’s ear. Macalister paled and sprang to his feet spilling his tea. ‘Mister Macintosh, I fear I was right,’ Macalister growled. ‘Captain Mort has just traded nine muskets. But Josiah is mystified as to what your captain has traded them for as it appears that it is not for recruits as I would have presumed. I think you and I should get back to speak to your captain immediately.’
David followed Macalister along the beach at a fast pace but came to an abrupt halt when he saw the Osprey’s longboats being rowed away from the shore. Mort was visible in the stern of the last one to leave and waved to him with a sardonic smile.
It was at that moment that David realised he would never see Mort again. For that matter, he knew he would never see his family or friends again. The realisation numbed him with paralysing terror for he also knew – with the clarity that comes with the certainty of one’s imminent death – that his evil cousin Granville White had most probably conspired with Mort to have him killed. He knew that, with his death, Granville would be one step closer to controlling the vast Macintosh empire. He remembered bitterly how he had laughed off his mother’s intuition that his life might be in jeopardy. He should have known that Mort was capable of murder. His mother obviously had.
David turned to shout a warning to Macalister who was striding with a grim expression towards Chief Tiwi. He watched in horror as Tiwi casually raised a newly acquired musket and aimed at the missionary. The flash from the igniting powder in the pan of the musket was followed by a bang. The heavy lead ball flew high and struck Macalister in the jaw. The bones in his face shattered on impact and the stricken missionary flung his hands up to his smashed face as Tiwi’s howling warriors fell on the Scot with blood-curdling cries. Stone axes and war clubs rained down on the missionary. As if praying, he fell to his knees as sprays of blood splashed the white coral sands turning them a dark red.
Macalister tried to pray for the souls of his attackers without attempting to ward off the savage blows. But a stone club smashed the life from the courageous Presbyterian missionary and he pitched forward, dead.
The howling warriors turned their attention to Josiah who tried to flee but they were on him as he waded into the lagoon. He screamed for mercy, useless sounds drowned by the savage war cries of the warriors spurred on by the cries of encouragement from their women on the beach.
Paralysed, David glanced out to sea. He could see that the longboats had almost reached the Osprey. ‘You murdering bastard Mort! You and my cousin will burn in hell,’ he roared in rage. But it was unlikely that Mort heard his cry. All that drifted to him on a gentle sea breeze was a faint and pathetic sigh above the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks and the splash of oars in the water.
Mort smiled grimly having witnessed the slaughter at the edge of the beach. He knew it was only a matter of time before Macintosh would share the same fate as the damned missionary. That was if he was fortunate to die quickly, he mused. It was rumoured that Tiwi enjoyed torturing his victims. He would have a fine time with Macalister’s wife! It was with some regret that Mort realised he would not personally witness the pain she would most certainly suffer.
Momentarily David stood alone and still untouched while only a short distance away the frenzied villagers hacked at Josiah’s body in the shallows of the lagoon. David searched desperately for somewhere to run and hide. But he knew with an increasingly fatalistic despair that his options were limited. His only rational thought was that he should flee.
He turned to run and suddenly felt a searing pain deep in his leg. An arrow shaft protruded from his thigh. He cried out in agony as his leg gave way. He fell to his hands and knees and attempted to scramble back onto his feet. But the pain refused to allow his leg to cooperate and David was still on all fours when he felt the same pain explode all over his body.
The pain was like fire as the vicious barbs of arrows punctured his flesh. However, mercifully, one soon pierced his throat, severing the carotid artery. Blood spurted onto the white sand. Just before the darkness came, David Macintosh had a vague thought about an avenging angel, images of a white warrior holding a spear above his head as if poised to strike.
David Macintosh, sole remaining male heir to the Macintosh fortune, died within sight of the crew of the Osprey.
The first mate had anticipated his captain’s order to haul up anchor in preparation for sailing out of the lagoon when he observed the bloody events unfolding ashore. Mort prepared to scramble aboard the Osprey from the longboat when Horton came alongside. ‘What in ’ell ’appened?’ he screamed down at Mort in the longboat.
‘Niggers got it into their heads to attack us,’ Mort yelled back. ‘Let ’em have a taste of the stern gun Mister Horton.’
Horton pushed aside the native gunner and took command of the gun himself. He had little trouble aligning his target with the gun as the barque floated on the calm waters of the lagoon. With a savage smile he touched the fuse with a match and the stern gun belched death. The lead shot sighed through Tiwi’s people on the beach and they crumpled like a crop falling before the scythe of a farmer.
Any surviving islanders fled the beach for the jungle while the wounded screamed in pain and shock as they attempted to crawl away.
Chief Tiwi was amongst those who fled. Enraged and confused he could not understand why the blackbirding captain had fired on him. Had they not struck a deal to kill the white man that the Captain had nominated in exchange for the guns?
He ranted curses upon all white men and quivered with impotent rage as the Osprey’s small cannon raked his canoes lining the beach. Turned to shredded scrap the outriggers were now useless to retaliate against the ship floating arrogantly in the lagoon, mocking them with its devastating power.
The bloody, mutilated bodies of David Macintosh and John Macalister lay on the beach amongst the wounded islanders who cried pitifully for help.
Then the cannon was loaded a third time for a parting shot. Horton swung the brass barrel onto the village itself. He did not expect to cause much damage as he was not using explosive shells. This shot was intended merely as a demonstration of the power of the blackbirding ship. The small cannon let loose a booming blast of lethal lead balls which tore through the woven fibre sides of the huts. Satisfied at the damage Mort gave his orders. The Osprey unfurled her wings and fled the placid waters of the lagoon for the open sea.
Chief Tiwi did not get a chance to vent his rage on the one remaining live white person on the island. Anne Macalister had been struck down in the final hail of lead shot.
From the Osprey Mort surveyed the island disappearing on the horizon whilst Horton standing beside him wondered at the events that had occurred so explosively fast. His captain’s explanation had not coincided with what he had witnessed from the deck of the ship. But there was little chance that he was going to say anything about what he had seen; he now feared Mort more than ever. The man was by far the most ruthless killer he had ever met, even more dangerous than himself, Horton grudgingly admitted.
‘It was a terrible thing Mister Horton,’ Mort said casually as they both stared at the island, now a wounded turtle in that turquoise sea. ‘The way those niggers fell on M
ister Macintosh and that poor brave missionary. I only regret that we were unable to punish them all for the cowardly murder of Mister Macintosh. But at least we were able to teach them a lesson for their treachery,’ he added sardonically.
‘That we did Cap’n,’ Horton answered dutifully. ‘I ’ope that will be a consolation to Mister Macintosh’s family when you make your report to Sydney.’
Mort turned to his first mate. He knew that he would not have to kill him. There was just enough trace of fear in Horton to keep his mouth shut. ‘I am sure you saw everything happen the way I will report it, Mister Horton,’ he said, fixing his first mate with his pale and terrible blue eyes.
‘That I will, Cap’n,’ Horton replied without hesitation. The eyes that stared at him had that madness Horton had come to know so well. ‘That I will.’
Mort smiled as he thrust his hands behind his back and turned to observe his crew going about their assigned duties. The death of one of his employers meant nothing to him other than that he had followed orders from Mister Granville White. But he also brooded that there would be many more he would have to kill to ensure that he kept his beloved Osprey.
ONE
At that time between day and night, the time before the curlews called with mournful and haunting cries from the depths of the brigalow scrub, the warrior came armed with spears and hardwood fighting clubs known as nullahs.
The tall, broad-shouldered young Aboriginal’s black skin bore the scars of his tribal initiation – and the wound of a white man’s bullet. His long beard touched his chest and he was naked except for the belt of human hair encircling his waist. Two lethal nullahs were tucked behind the belt. Balanced in his left hand were three long and deadly spears whose tips bore the distinctive barbs that white settlers on the Queensland frontier had come to recognise over the years as the spears of Wallarie.
Wallarie strode purposefully across the plain towards the setting sun which was hovering low over the brigalow scrub. For countless generations the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people had lived out their lives on these plains. But that was before the white man came with his herds of cattle and flocks of sheep to tear forever the fragile fabric of the world the Nerambura knew.