by Peter Watt
Smoke curled from gun barrels too hot to be touched and everywhere the naked black bodies of the Nerambura lay shattered in the powdery red dust. The shepherds’ ears rang with the silence which was broken only by the pathetic moaning of the wounded who attempted to drag themselves away.
It was a glorious day for Angus and it was further improved by the thought of what was yet to come. A sense of supreme and savage power had overwhelmed him. Never had there been a sport invented as satisfying as killing darkies! English fox hunting paled in comparison with this Australian pastime.
Donald slid stiffly from his mount and was grateful to be out of the saddle. He stretched his aching back and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his shirt sleeve. ‘Give me your gun, Jack,’ he said as he reached out for the shepherd’s long-barrelled musket.
‘It’s not loaded, boss,’ the puzzled man replied as he leaned forward in the saddle to pass the gun.
‘Just give me the gun,’ Donald grumbled irritably as he took the musket from the shepherd and walked casually over to an old woman who moaned in her terrible pain. She tried to drag herself away from the terrifying spectre of the white man striding towards her.
The squatter raised the butt of the musket over his head. She screamed as he brought the carbine down and with a sickening crunch, the brass butt plate cut short her cry. Grunting, Donald raised the butt again and smashed it down on the woman’s already crushed face. The second blow had been unnecessary as the woman was already dead.
‘Finish the rest off the same way. Don’t go wasting shot on the wounded,’ he said as he handed the blood-spattered musket back to the stunned shepherd. ‘And make sure you don’t leave any of the gins alive when you are finished with them.’
The men nodded. The cold and brutal manner in which their boss had dispatched the old gin had impressed the shepherds. He was truly a man to be feared and respected.
They dismounted and went eagerly about the work of slaughtering those who were not of immediate interest to them. Only wounded women and young girls were spared temporarily for the pleasure they would bring, and those spared screamed and rolled their eyes in terror as they watched the white men go among the wounded Nerambura with their muskets. The terrible crunch of shattering skulls was mixed with the grunting of the shepherds’ exertions as they brought death to the helpless wounded.
Angus returned to the young girl who he could see had attempted to crawl towards the hill. Blood caked her long hair as she lay on her stomach whimpering in her despair and he rolled her over with his boot.
With just a small twinge of guilt he searched about for his father. Killing darkies was one thing, but coupling with them was another. He was relieved to see his father walking into the bush with one of the Aboriginal troopers who had emerged from the scrub naked and gleaming with sweat.
The girl groaned at the young squatter’s feet and shivered with uncontrollable fear. Her bladder voided when she looked up at the white man standing over her and the ammoniac scent of her urine excited Angus. With a savage leer, he grabbed her by a twist of her hair. She screamed her despair but her cry was lost in the sounds of her doomed sisters now in the hands of the shepherds.
FOUR
Patrick Duffy leant against a fire-blackened tree.
The distant sounds of the dispersal had ceased.
‘All finished, boss,’ Billy said with a sad sigh. ‘All blackfella finished and gone.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Poor bloody bastards,’ he muttered sadly. ‘Probably come across what’s left of them before sundown.’ He turned to walk back to the dray.
Tom greeted his father with a questioning look.
‘It’s all over for the poor buggers.’ Patrick answered the question and swigged from a water canteen which left a bloody taste in his mouth. ‘May as well get back on the track and get the team down to the creek,’ he said as he shaded his eyes and gazed in the direction of the sun now high over the scrub. ‘It’s going to be another bastard of a day.’
Patrick glanced at Billy who still had the look of a man sentenced to die and he placed his big hand gently on the old Aboriginal’s shoulder. ‘It’s done, Billy,’ he said gently. ‘What you saw in your dreams is done. Whoever . . . squatter or trooper . . . has finished their bloody work, and we are all right.’
But Billy was not convinced. In his vision an Aboriginal warrior had come to him with blood on his face and so far the warrior had not appeared to them this day.
‘No, boss,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘This place baal . . . No good we go to the water . . . Better we go along next place.’
The Irishman sighed. He respected Billy’s convictions, but they were low on water and the big beasts’ heads lolled the way they did when they were thirsty. ‘We have to get to the water before sundown, Billy,’ he pleaded, with a note of exasperation for the doggedness of his old friend’s convictions. ‘You can see the bullocks need to drink or they will go down. It’s either the water now or we are going to end up with six dead bullocks. And I’m not about to pull the bloody dray.’
‘No boss. The debil is here,’ Billy stubbornly reiterated and stared down at the ground. ‘He will get us if we go up for water.’ Although he did not like arguing with the big Irishman, he knew this time he must if they were to remain alive.
Patrick let out the air from his lungs with an audible sound of frustration and he knew that he would have to think of a compromise to settle his friend’s fears. ‘What if you and I take a look up ahead? We can leave Tom with the team and go on a bit to see if things have settled down,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘If you think we should turn around and come back, I promise you that’s what we will do. What do you think about that?’
Billy appeared deep in thought as he recalled flashes of the vision. Had he not seen the lead bullock, Mars, standing in a pool of blood? Then this must mean that the death would come to wherever the team was. Maybe they could find a way to get through the evil place and come back to lead the team through safely. The feeling of dread was not as strong where they were now. That was it! If they located the place of the dispersal they could steer around it. And out of the spirit haunted places.
He looked up into the grey eyes of the taller man with his hand on his shoulder. ‘All right, boss,’ he replied. ‘We have a look around . . . then come back.’
Patrick was visibly relieved at his decision. ‘Good fella, Billy. You will see that everything will be all right.’
Despite his boss’s assurance, Billy still had a nagging feeling that everything was not going to be all right. He was not able to fully persuade himself that the vision had been more of a warning than an actual prediction of future events.
Patrick turned to his son who stood by the dray. ‘Stick with the dray until we get back. We should be here by midday.’ But Tom was uneasy about his father’s decision to split the party.
‘Why not leave Billy here and I’ll go with you?’ he offered, but his father shook his head.
‘Billy knows the bush better than you and I put together. We won’t be too long away,’ he said to reassure his son. ‘Billy knows the bush and you know the bullocks,’ he added as a means of justifying his decision. Tom did not reply because his father always made the right decisions.
For some reason he had a sudden urge to say something to his father as he watched them stride into the bush but it was an urge without rational basis so he kept his thoughts to himself. His father was not a man who expressed love easily in words but he was strong in showing it in his actions.
After a couple of minutes, the sparse timbers of the bush came together to hide the two men from him. Other than the jangle of the cowbells dangling from the necks of the bullocks, there was no sound in the bush. The young teamster shrugged his broad shoulders. He would say something when his father returned.
He returned to the dray and sat leaning against the big spoked wheel.
The sun was warm and the silence of the bush first lulled him into a fitful
doze where strange and disturbing thoughts, incomprehensible in their own right, came to him in his troubled sleep.
The girl lay face down in the hollow and with the cold detachment of a butcher, Angus slit her throat as he straddled her. He could still feel the warmth of her bare bottom against his exposed groin as he wiped his blood-soaked hands on her back, before rising stiffly to his feet to adjust his trousers with a grunt of satisfaction.
He did feel a little regret for killing her as she might have provided some entertainment on the trip back to the homestead, but the explosive sexual climax had left the young squatter devoid of passion. In its place had come a dispassionate emptiness and the girl had no other reason for her existence other than the short-lived pleasure she gave him.
‘Want some black velvet, boss?’ Monkey called to Angus as he strode towards a group of shepherds huddled around a young girl. The shepherd, known as Monkey because of his simian resemblance, sat at the head of a girl barely older than a child, with his boots on her shoulders as he stretched her arms over her head. Two other shepherds held the girl’s legs apart while a fourth grunted with bestial pleasure as he entered her tiny body. His pale and naked buttocks rose and fell rhythmically above the girl who alternately screamed and sobbed as the white man entered her.
‘No thanks, Monkey, I might ruin her for you,’ Angus replied with a wide grin and the shepherds, holding the near dead girl child, laughed with delight at their young boss’s retort.
The shepherd ravishing the girl gave a final grunt as his back arched and he spent himself inside her and his place was soon taken by Monkey. Unlike Angus, they were not particular about their privacy nor about sharing what they had.
The use of the term ‘boss’ by Monkey had not been lost on Angus. Prior to the dispersal, he had always been ‘Mister Macintosh’. But now the tough shepherds had used the term they normally reserved for men they respected as employers. And the title was not lost on Donald who had overheard Monkey’s offer.
‘You did well today, Angus,’ he said to his son with a note of pride. ‘The men will follow you without question,’ he added as he surveyed the killing ground and the shepherds, busy with their prize. ‘This sort of thing is good for bringing men together.’ But his mood suddenly changed.
Angus followed his father’s angry gaze to a shepherd known as Old Jimmy and he saw the look of disgust and disapproval in his father’s eyes. Old Jimmy had claimed a terrified and trembling boy, who had miraculously survived the slaughter, for his own pleasure. The sodomised boy under him sobbed and bucked from the pain of the violation. But the young Aboriginal’s resistance only excited the wiry shepherd to greater exertions. Old Jimmy’s eyes were glazed and rolled back in their sockets, like those of a stallion covering a mare, while he drooled like an imbecile.
‘Damned sodomite!’ Donald exploded. ‘I want him gone when we get back. His act is an abomination in the eyes of Jehovah.’ Angus nodded, but secretly he did not agree with his father. After all, he thought mildly, was not sodomy practised in some of England’s best boys’ schools?
‘I thought I might ride back to the darkies’ camp and pick up some of their things before the troopers destroy everything,’ he said casually, thinking that his statement might take his father’s attention away from Jimmy. ‘Some of the spears and nullas will look good on the wall of the library back in Sydney,’ Angus added. ‘Kind of battle trophies, I suppose.’
Donald nodded. ‘Before you go, make sure the men leave the gins alive for the troopers. I promised Corporal Gideon they could have them before we leave here. But make sure you put down that darkie piccaninny after Jimmy is finished. I don’t want the Queen’s men perverted by his sodomite ways. Bad enough they need to mount the gins, let alone darkie boys.’
Angus casually checked his pistol and walked away from his father. Donald could hear the whining protest of Old Jimmy, interrupted in his pleasures, and then the blast of Angus’s revolver. His son had carried out his task efficiently and without fuss. Yes, Donald thought contentedly, some day the Macintosh empire would be in good hands.
Wallarie had followed the sounds of death; the screams of the dying and the terrible explosions that were like the old trees splitting and crashing to the ground in the silence of the night.
As the noise of the slaughter advanced towards the rise, he had hoped that some of the clan might reach its safety. But his hopes were shattered by the volley of the shepherds’ guns that drifted to him from the lower reaches of the sacred hill. Hope turned to impotent rage until the distant drumbeat sound of a galloping horse caught his attention.
The young warrior merged with the blackened trunk of a tree and became one with the tree spirit as the rider appeared briefly within range of his spear, but he was moving too fast for an accurate strike. The rider seemed intent on pursuing something – or someone. Then Wallarie saw what the man was chasing. Mondo – youngest sister to his mother.
The girl was only one moon from being initiated into the secret rites of the women and after her initiation she would have been the wife of the elder of the clan, Kana. But Kana was dead! Wallarie had seen him fall at the creek. A mysterious hole had appeared in his back, and the elder had toppled forward never to move again.
Mondo was young and agile. Her lithe and naked body twisted and turned as she swerved to avoid the pursuing horseman who was uttering unmistakable sounds of frustrated rage as she dodged his attempts to bring her down. He wheeled his mount to cut across the path of the nimble girl. She ducked and twisted avoiding his ruse to block her flight towards the edge of the clearing of tall dry grass. She was wisely trying to reach the thicker scrub where the horseman would have trouble pursuing her.
The spear shaft lay balanced and poised in harmony with that of the warrior’s intent. If only Mondo would make a break towards him he might be able to get a clear and close throw at the pursuer . . . or at least his animal. Forced from the horse, the white man would be on equal ground with him and he could then close with his enemy and effectively use the deadly nulla.
Wallarie watched the chase being played out in the clearing and he could see that his kinswoman was weakening. The series of twists and turns had sapped her reserves of strength and her young body was pushed to the extreme limits of exhaustion. She was now surviving on pure fear and spiritual strength alone.
In one last act of desperation she made a sprint towards the grey scrub on the furthermost side of the clearing and Wallarie hissed his disappointment. She was running to her death. Unwittingly, she had turned away from the warrior waiting with the spear for her pursuer.
Mort gave a victorious shout as he galloped after her. He had her!
The broad chest of his horse slammed into the slight figure and flung her tumbling into the dry grass where she attempted to rise, but the breath was gone from her lungs. Mort reined his mount to a halt and his boot caught her a savage kick in the ribs. At the same instant Mort had claimed his prize, Wallarie’s attention had shifted to an unexpected threat that had suddenly materialised in the scrub near him. The young Aboriginal warrior saw Angus Macintosh before Angus saw him and, with the speed of a striking taipan snake, Wallarie whirled to confront the startled horseman whose mount shied and reared at the sudden appearance of the black warrior stepping into its path. Angus’s attention had been so fixed on the chase of the black girl and its outcome that he had failed to see the dark shape until it was too late.
With a cry of despair the young squatter vainly tried to bring his frightened horse under control. But the mount would not respond to his frantic attempts to rein it out of danger and the highly strung thoroughbred crabbed sideways, resisting him. An irrational fleeting thought of a cave painting flashed through Angus’s mind as Wallarie’s spear hissed with blurring and lethal speed across the short distance between them.
With a scream that ended in a pain-racked grunt, the heir to the Macintosh empire toppled from his saddle and crashed into the hard sun-baked earth. The spear shaft snapp
ed with a pistol-like crack as he hit the ground leaving the tail of the broken spear protruding from his chest.
He lay on his back grasping frantically at the shaft while the pain came as an overwhelming sensation. But more than the pain was the certain thought that he was dying and he was only vaguely aware that his mount was galloping away to leave him alone with the warrior who had speared him.
Mort had instantly forgotten the young girl at his feet when the young squatter’s agonised screams drove all thoughts of her slow and painful demise from his twisted mind. With a chilling clarity, he realised his vulnerability to an attack from the black warriors should the mad gallop of Angus’s horse threaten to cause his own mount to bolt.
He desperately scrambled for the reins of his horse which had sensed the panic of the riderless animal galloping towards them. Its nostrils flared and it swung away from the police officer.
Who had cried out? Mort did not know but the sound was unmistakably that of a dying man. He hauled himself frantically into the saddle and grappled for his revolver. From his vantage point high on his horse, he had a momentary glimpse of a dark shadow disappearing into the scrub. He fired wildly at it until he had emptied his pistol.
‘Help me! God help me!’
The sobbing cry for help chilled Mort as his imagination ran riot. At the edge of the clearing just inside the line of scrub, he could see the young squatter writhing on the ground, clutching futilely at the spear in his chest. How many more of the black savages were around him? Mort cursed himself for allowing the girl to lure him away from his troopers. Were the black warriors waiting for him to go to the aid of the dying man, then spear him? Every shadow took on a sinister shape in the scrub and he knew that his best chance of survival was to stay in the centre of the clearing and out of range of the deadly spears.
He closed his mind to the agonised cries for help and with trembling hands reloaded his cap and ball pistol. Powder in, wad in, ball in, ram home with lever under the barrel, percussion caps on the nipples. The litany of loading the pistol was his sole thought of survival. ‘Shut up, you fool,’ he screamed hysterically across the clearing. ‘No one can help you. Shut up and die like a man.’