by Peter Watt
‘I'm sorry to do this to you, Mister Cameron,’ he said as he pointed the small multi-barrelled derringer at Duncan. ‘But I've done my bit for Mister James and now it's my turn to look after myself.’
‘You ought to take the meat with you. And maybe some tea and sugar,’ Duncan said, with just the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Willie blinked in his confusion. But then the realisation dawned on him and he returned the smile gratefully.
‘Get a sack for the young man to put some things in, Matilda,’ Cameron said casually to the young woman who gaped at the sight of the gun. ‘He might decide to take some flour as well.’
‘I don't know why you are doing this, Mister Cameron,’ Willie said as Matilda rummaged through the kitchen pantry for the items requested.
‘Let's say that what you did by coming here to save Inspector James's life makes up for a lot of things. I suspect that you are not as bad as the others the police caught up with at Barcaldine.’
‘I was there, Mister Cameron. And I'm guilty of being in the company of bad men. But I didn't do those things to Mister and Missus Halpin at Cloncurry. I swear on my mother's grave that if I'd known what they were going to do I would have shot the bastards myself.’
Duncan nodded. Willie's passionately delivered defence of his character and the risks he'd taken coming to Glen View had proved the boy had character. He might have strayed on the wrong side of the law but he was a boy any man might be proud to call son.
As soon as Matilda had piled into an empty flour sack the items that would give Willie a start on his trip to wherever he was bound, he took it from her with a grateful thanks. He turned and walked towards the kitchen door. The room seemed to suddenly explode, as if lightning had struck.
Willie pitched forward and the sack of provisions spilled along the floor as he lay crumpled on the kitchen floor, groaning in his pain. The acrid smell of a heavy charge of gunpowder filled the room. Matilda's scream swamped Duncan's explosive curse.
Granville stood with his arm extended towards the badly wounded young man on the floor. Smoke curled from the twin barrels of the carriage pistol. Its heavy load of lead shot had peppered Willie's back with bloody blotches which were staining the young man's coat.
‘I got the young bastard!’ Granville snarled triumphantly. ‘That will teach him a lesson to come here and try to rob the place.’
He glanced at Duncan Cameron, puzzled by the expression of fury etched in the station manager's face. Not that it mattered anyway. What a story he would have to boast around his club when he returned to Sydney. He now understood the ultimate power of taking a man's life and experienced the rush he often felt when mounting the young girls at his brothel.
With a smirk he shifted his attention to the young man who lay at his feet in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. Whoever whelped the boy, he thought with grim satisfaction, would forever rue the name of Granville White.
SIXTY-SIX
The stockmen returned with Gordon James just before dawn. His condition was critical and Doctor Blayney did not have to carry out a lengthy examination to ascertain that he would have to amputate the inspector's right leg below the knee. The massive discharge of electricity in the lightning strike had destroyed the nerves and what remained of his foot was little more than a charred stump. Mary Cameron stood by the doctor's elbow to assist.
They lay Gordon gently on his back on the cleared kitchen table. He was semi-conscious and lost in a world of red waves that swept over him as a terrible wash of agonising pain. Doctor Blayney wondered at the man's courageous self-control. He had seen men with lesser injuries screaming in pain when he had been a surgeon with the British army, but the young man sweated tears rather than cry out.
In a guest bedroom of the homestead Willie Harris lay bleeding his life away. Doctor Blayney had examined him first while he waited for the Glen View employees to bring in the inspector from the hill. There was nothing that could be done for him except to sit by his bed and hold his hand. The lead shot had penetrated the young man's lungs and he was slowly drowning in his own blood.
Matilda had volunteered to provide comfort to Willie in his last hours and she sat stroking the young man's forehead with a gentle hand and with soothing words for his spirit. Willie struggled to speak as tears ran down his cheeks. They were not tears of self-pity, but a frustration for an unfinished mission in his short life. Willie had a dying need to tell another soul about a terrible wrong that must not be forgotten by the living. And as he revealed his story to Matilda her eyes widened with shock. His words confirmed for her the terrible and awesome powers of the Dreaming. Surely there could be no other explanation!
In the kitchen the doctor called for the two Aboriginal troopers who had ridden with him and explained that they would have to hold down their boss when he started cutting the leg. He had no anaesthetic and his surgical saw would be cutting through live nerves.
They nodded and took a firm hold of the inspector whilst Mary ensured that there was plenty of hot water at hand. She was used to seeing animals slaughtered and prepared for butchering but the sight of the doctor poised with his knives and saw made her feel faint. This was a human who was to be cut and the pain would be excruciating.
‘We will need something for the Inspector to bite on, Missus Cameron,’ Doctor Blayney said quietly ‘A small but solid stick, or similar, would suffice.’
‘The handle on a wooden spoon, Doctor?’
‘I hope so,’ he replied as Mary retrieved one of the large wooden spoons from a cupboard in the kitchen. She handed the spoon to the doctor who bent over Gordon and said, ‘Clamp this between your teeth, old chap. I think you know why.’
Gordon nodded his understanding. His eyes were wide with fear but dulled by pain. He wanted the amputation to be over with.
‘Sarah?’ Gordon asked before he took the handle of the spoon.
‘She is well enough,’ the doctor replied. ‘There has been no change in her condition since I last saw her a few hours ago.’
Blayney placed the handle between Gordon's teeth and straightened his back. He satisfied himself that the two troopers had a firm grip on the patient and cast Mary Cameron a questioning look. She nodded. ‘I will stay, Doctor,’ she said softly. ‘You may need me.’
‘It will not be a very pretty sight, Missus Cameron,’ he cautioned. ‘You do not have to remain during the operation.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, for your concern. But I do expect the worst.’
‘Very well,’ he said, as he selected a sharp knife from the array of surgical tools that lay on a clean sheet of cotton on a sideboard.
When the first cut was made Gordon bit through the wooden handle of the spoon as if it had been no more than a thin twig and his drawn out scream of agony was heard at the stockmen's quarters.
Mary wavered for just a brief moment but regained her composure as the blood spurted in a red stream from the severed artery. With a deft expertise acquired on the battlefields of imperial England's colonial wars, Doctor Blayney clamped the severed artery. The former surgeon major of Queen Victoria's army had performed countless amputations and Gordon was fortunate to have a man with his experience undertaking die surgery. It was a small blessing, but still one that the inspector seemed slow to appreciate as the doctor went to work sawing through bone, cartilage and nerve endings.
Granville White also heard the scream as he sat on the verandah of the homestead puffing on a cigar. The rain had gone and the early morning was perfect. Butcher birds sang the sweetest song of the bush as they revelled in the beauty of a land that would soon come alive with flowers and green grasses. A magpie also warbled its song to die golden glow of the mornings light.
The scream brought a frightened but temporary hush to the songs of the bush birds and caused Granville to twitch with a start. He would be more than happy to see the last of the damned place! The stock and station agent who had accompanied him to Glen View was due to pick him up with
in the hour and he hoped that the man might be early.
The damned manager had reacted in a most unexpected manner to his shooting of the young man. He had since learned that the would-be robber was wanted for questioning on a murder anyway! One would have expected gratitude! Instead, he had received a torrent of enraged abuse! Cameron should have been grateful that he had happened to overhear the hold-up being carried out on him and grateful for the fact that he was able to get the better of the bushranger. He had certainly destroyed any aspirations he might have had for future prospects of employment as a station manager in the colony. Granville was determined that the man's surly manner would not be rewarded with any recommendation or references. No, the man could go to hell if he thought he could stand and abuse his employer in the manner that he had so insolently done. And he could take his damned wife with him!
The amputated leg fell from the table and hit the kitchen floor with a dull thud. Gordon was panting like a woman in labour. All through the operation he had remained conscious because he feared that in an unconscious state he might once again face Peter Duffy as he had in the cave.
‘It's finished,’ Mary whispered in his ear as she swabbed down his brow with a damp cloth. ‘The doctor has done a grand job.’
‘Please,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘have my leg buried next to Peter Duffy's grave out there.’
She nodded. It was not an unreasonable request. ‘I will get one of the men to do that for you,’ she said gently as she continued to mop his brow while the doctor stitched his leg.
The sharp pricks of the needle seemed so insignificant in their pain compared to what he had just experienced with the amputation. The two Aboriginal troopers stood away from the blood soaked table and glanced nervously at each other. Such a request to have the leg buried near Peter Duffy …
‘You should take in some fresh air, Missus Cameron,’ the doctor prescribed. ‘I have just about finished here.’
‘I will go and see Matilda, and the young lad,’ she replied. ‘I will organise one of the house girls to make us tea and Mister James can be moved to the room Mister White has vacated.’
‘That would be good,’ the doctor commented as he washed his saw in an enamel basin. ‘The next couple of days are critical for the Inspector. If the wound is clean he will live. I will see to the other young man before I return to Balaclava. If I stay in this country any longer I shall be able to come out of retirement. The number of patients seems to grow by the minute around here.’
Mary found Matilda sitting in a chair at Willie's bedside. The curtains had been drawn and the room lay in a twilight of gloom. Mary could plainly see that Matilda's job as a nurse was at an end; the doctor would not be needed to look in on his patient.
‘His spirit is not at rest,’ Matilda said quietly glancing up at Mary standing beside her. ‘His spirit roams searching for a man. A bad man.’
Then she told Mary all that Willie had told her before he gasped his last breath. Mary was stunned as the story unfolded.
Granville watched the stock and station agent's buggy drawing close to the house. The man waved to him cheerily and Granville was extremely pleased to see him. Now he could leave this infernal place!
He rose to his feet from the chair on the wide verandah and knew that within minutes he would be on the track to Rockhampton and thence by sea to Sydney. He doubted that he would ever have a need to visit Queensland again in his lifetime. The place was far too damnably hot for his liking anyway! The door to the homestead opened and Missus Cameron appeared on the verandah with a strange expression on her face.
‘There is no need to see me off, Missus Cameron,’ Granville said stiffly. He was fully aware of her animosity towards him. ‘I fear such a display of concern by you would only prove a burden to us both.’
‘I did not come out here to farewell you, Mister White,’ she replied enigmatically. ‘I came out here to see whether before you leave Glen View you would like to pay your respects to the young man you killed.’
‘I think that won't be necessary,’ Granville sneered. ‘The man is dead and I hardly think his past criminal activities warrant any respect.’
‘Matilda thinks his spirit will roam until he meets a certain man,’ Mary said softly as she fixed the man she despised with a calculating look. ‘And as such I would like to ask you just one question before you depart Glen View, Mister White.’
‘You may ask,’ Granville answered. ‘Then I shall leave.’
Mary continued to stare directly into Granville's eyes. ‘Did you ever know a young girl in your past called Jenny Harris?’ She noticed nothing for a second and then she saw the flicker of fearful realisation cloud the man's eyes.
‘I may have,’ he replied in a tone that told Mary that indeed he did know Jenny Harris. ‘How did you come by that name?’
‘The boy. Before he died he told Matilda that the woman was his mother and that his only regret before he died was that he had not found his father in Sydney. He said his father's name was Granville White and I felt that, although the coincidence was extraordinary, that man just might be you. I suppose if it were, you may have just killed your own son. I dare say that under those circumstances you might wish to pay your respects to the boy.’
The woman's words filled the space between them with an army of ghosts. Ghosts of his past that reached out as one to touch his heart with their deathly grasps. He felt the pain grip his chest.
‘Mister White!’
He heard Mary Cameron's alarmed call reach out to him as he crumpled to his knees. The vice-like pain squeezing his chest spread rapidly to his arms, throat and back.
‘Doctor Blayney,’ she called back into the house. ‘Please come quickly.’
Granville tried to rise to his knees but pitched forward onto the wooden planking of the verandah where he lay in a cold clammy sweat.
First came the unconsciousness that led him back in time to meet once again with those whom he had destroyed. He saw David Macintosh, bloody and battered, where the islanders' arrows had pierced his body and their stone axes cut his skin; and a tall, broad-shouldered young man stood over him with a smile of grim satisfaction. Was it Michael Duffy? Or was it his son? Finally in his journey he met Willie Harris holding the hand of a little girl who Granville recognised as Jenny, the boy's mother. But they all quickly faded into a deep and eternal darkness.
‘I am afraid Mister White is dead,’ Doctor Blayney said as he bent over the body. ‘From what I can see he appears to have had a massive heart attack.’
‘Lightning striking,’ Mary said softly in an awed voice.
‘I am sorry, Missus Cameron, but I did not hear what you said.’
‘Oh, I was just remembering a discussion I had with Mister White last evening. It was just something he said.’
‘We should get Mister White's body off the verandah,’ Blayney said as he rose from beside the body. ‘You, sir,’ he directed to the stock and station agent who stood with his mouth agape and his feet rooted to the earth of the front yard. One minute Mister White had been waving to him and then he was dead! ‘Help me get Mister White inside the house.’
The man came out of his frozen state to assist the doctor and grabbed the arms while the doctor grasped the legs. They carried the body to the room where Willie lay dead and Granville was placed on the floor beside his son.
The stock and station agent gaped at the body of the young man on the bed. ‘God almighty,’ he uttered. ‘What's been going on around here?’
‘I don't really know,’ the doctor replied, equally bewildered. ‘But if I was not a scientific man I would have said some kind of native curse.’
The stock and station agent cast the doctor a questioning look. He had heard rumours of a curse on the property but had dismissed the stories as bush yarns to frighten city people. Now he was not so sure.
But Mary Cameron was sure.
Gordon James had visited the sacred hills of the long dispersed Nerambura people and Granville White h
ad also gone to the Nerambura hills. From those hills a strange and unexplainable power had reached out to wreak devastation on the lives of all who had defied the ancient spirits with their uninvited visits. And even the poor young man Willie Harris, who had inhabited the sacred cave, now lay dead in the house.
Mary shuddered and Matilda caught her eye with a knowing look.
On Balaclava Station Adele Rankin sat in the living room of the homestead, darning her husband's socks. She was alone but glanced up to see who had entered the room. But there was no-one. Just an eerie feeling of a presence.
She stood and walked to the window to gaze out across the brigalow scrub plains at the beautiful sunny day. The stockmen struggled with cattle branding in the stockyards. The bellows of the beasts being scorched with the red hot branding irons was a sound she had grown used to, like so many others: the rifle-like cracking of the stock-whips as the men herded the cattle; the warble of the black and white magpies in the morning; the shrill chatter of apostle birds that flocked fearlessly to the homestead for discarded scraps from the kitchen.
And there were more: the sounds made by the white man that filled the vast spaces of the bush and had driven out the gentler sounds of the first people to roam the land; the laughter of children around the campfires; the melodic voices of the young men and women engaged in flirting; the old people gossiping in the shade of the trees by the creeks.
But the white man had not completely driven out the people, she reflected. Their spirit still existed in the shiny black faces of the Aboriginal stockmen and their families living and working on Balaclava Station. The unseen spiritual forces of the land still existed alongside the white man's houses, sheds and stockyards.
And so it was that Adele Rankin was not surprised to see Sarah Duffy standing, drawn and haggard, in the doorway to the living room in her sweat-stained nightdress. Adele Rankin dropped her sewing and hurried across the room.
‘My brother has been here.’ Sarah's first words came as a hoarse whisper. ‘But he has gone.’