by Peter Watt
‘No nigger points a gun at Mister Macintosh, you black bastard,’ the shepherd spat with savage fury. ‘Remember that, you heathen darkie.’ Patrick spun on the shepherd with his fists clenched but froze.
‘Don’t take another step, Mister Duffy,’ Mort’s threat was backed by the pistol in his hand, ‘or I will put a bullet in your nigger friend.’
The Irishman glared at the police officer. ‘Anything happens to Billy and you will answer to me personally – Queen’s officer or not!’ he snarled with his fists clenched by his side as Gideon applied the heavy chains to his wrists. Mort sneered at the man now helpless in the shackles.
‘Your fate is in my hands, you Irish bastard. And I suggest you remember that well for the time being.’ He scanned the clearing until he found what he was looking for. ‘Corporal Gideon, secure Mister Duffy and his nigger to that tree over there,’ he said, pointing to a tall gum which stood out as a stranger among the smaller and stunted brigalow scrub trees.
Gideon led Patrick to the tree where he secured his arms around the trunk. The corporal felt uneasy. He sensed that something was wrong. But he feared the white officer too much to question his intentions.
Billy was similarly manacled to the tree and the two men faced each other. Billy saw Patrick’s expression of concern for him. ‘I’m all right, boss,’ he said with a weak grin to reassure his friend.
But he knew he was not all right. Nor was Patrick. He sensed that he was saying goodbye to the white man who had befriended him these many years past. Soon Patrick would go to his heaven and meet Jesus. Patrick had told him of the white man’s heaven and how Jesus had once been a carpenter in a land far away, in a time long ago. Billy knew carpenters were people who built the towns where white men lived, places which denied the pleasures of the wandering life of the teamster and the tribesman and he would shake his head sadly for Patrick’s afterlife. Surely the white man’s heaven was no place for a bullocky. Was it that Patrick would have to live with the carpenter Jesus and build towns? Better that he join him beyond the Dreaming where they could again roam free along the tracks they knew so well and together hear the sweet song of the butcher bird in the early morning. Or see the eagle on outstretched wings soaring high in the azure sky. Maybe Jesus would let Patrick come with him beyond the Dreaming! . . . If he was as good a boss as Patrick said.
When the two men were secured to the tree, Mort dismissed Gideon.
‘I want you to track that murdering nigger for Mister Macintosh. And after you have found him, you can go to Glen View where you can rejoin the troop.’ Gideon nodded. He felt even more uneasy about the situation. There were things happening that were not right and he wondered if he should tell Sar’nt Henry about the white man and the old Aboriginal. But this was impossible when he was ordered to track the wounded Nerambura warrior with Mister Macintosh.
Donald sidled his horse over to Mort. Both men were a distance from Gideon and the shepherds who waited eagerly to resume the hunt. ‘I expect you have everything under control here, Lieutenant Mort,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not take kindly to anyone coming between me and my rights to avenge the death of my son. You understand what I am saying?’
Mort stared across at his two prisoners. ‘I understand, Mister Macintosh. And I am sure justice will take its course here today,’ he replied quietly.
‘Good,’ the squatter grunted as he wheeled his mount away. ‘Make sure justice is done.’
Mort watched the squatter’s party follow Corporal Gideon and ride after the wounded Darambal warrior. He waited for only a few minutes until he could no longer see or hear the departing horsemen, then he dismounted and strode across to Patrick and Billy manacled to the gum tree. He was grinning with the fixed expression of divine madness as he approached his helpless captives with the infantry sword trailing in his hand.
It was then that Patrick knew that he and Billy would not live to see the sun set and he prayed silently that Tom would not be found. For if he were found, he would surely share the same fate.
SIX
The smoke rose as a grey column into a pale blue sky, and spread like the broad canopy of a rain tree. The black troopers gathered the last of the implements that had marked the life of the Nerambura clan. Stone-grinding dishes were smashed and dilly bags were thrown onto the bonfire along with shields, spears, boomerangs and nullas. They were subdued in their tasks. The place was baal! The killing ground was taboo to the living. Nightfall would return the spirits of the slaughtered and the Aboriginal troopers feared their awesome powers.
Sergeant Henry James looked into the rising flames fuelled by the gathered pile of wooden weapons and tools and stared with a spiritual numbness at the flames that carried the spirits of the weapons into the heavens. His soul was crippled. Or was it that the work of the dispersals had killed his soul?
‘Finished, Sar’nt Henry. Boys all finished.’
Trooper Mudgee stood at Henry’s elbow and his words seemed to come from a faraway place, interrupting Henry’s brooding thoughts.
‘All right, Trooper Mudgee,’ Henry replied with little enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Get the boys together and set up camp along the creek a bit. Make sure they get their uniforms and you can start a fire so we can eat. I’ll wait for Mister Mort here and tell him where you are camped. I’m putting you in charge for the moment and I will give you a thrashing with the cat if the boys play up. You understand me?’
The trooper’s nervous grin acknowledged the threat as he hurried away to relay the orders to the others with appropriate and embellished warnings. The thought of an overdue meal spurred the hungry troopers into gathering up discarded uniforms and leading their horses along the bank of the creek to a new camp site. Henry watched his men depart, chattering in their own dialect and jostling each other like excited schoolboys on an outing.
When they were out of sight, he walked away from the bonfire to the edge of the creek where he sat down on the grassy bank above the body of the girl he had shot through the head. She now lay with her long black hair trailing away in the muddy waters. As he sat and stared with vacant eyes at the dead girl, Mort rode into the deserted camp.
‘Have the men returned from the hill, Sergeant James?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Henry replied as he walked away from the creek. Mort did not dismount. ‘All but Corporal Gideon.’
‘I know where Corporal Gideon is,’ Mort said from astride his horse. ‘He’s with Mister Macintosh tracking a nigger. The one that murdered Angus Macintosh.’
Henry was startled by the news of Angus Macintosh’s death. ‘What happened?’
‘Speared. Damned nigger we missed in the dispersal ambushed him. Young Angus didn’t have a chance and unfortunately I was not in a position to save him. But it appears that one of my shots wounded the nigger responsible.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Very sad for Mister Macintosh. I suppose he will need us to help him bring the man in.’
Mort brushed from his face a cloud of flies that rose from the body of a nearby child. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘He has Corporal Gideon and his own men. That should be sufficient to hunt down one badly wounded nigger. We will have our meal and leave. Our job is done,’ he said irritably.
‘Very good, sir,’ Henry replied. ‘The boys are up the creek preparing a meal now. Should be ready by the time we reach them.’
Trooper Mudgee, at the head of the column, brought it to a halt. Mort and Henry rode up to where Trooper Mudgee sat, surveying the bullock team yoked to the dray. Henry commented in his puzzlement, ‘There appears to be no one around.’
Mort shifted uneasily in his saddle. ‘I think I know where the men are who came from this team,’ he said, feigning sadness in his lie. ‘I found a couple of men up the track who appeared to have been speared by the niggers. Poor beggars.’
Henry was surprised at his commanding officer’s oversight and said, ‘You didn’t mention this before, sir!’
Mort did not look at the sergeant when he spoke. ‘No . . . I was i
ncluding their murders in my report when we got back to the barracks. You would have known the details then, Sergeant James.’ And he continued to stare at the big bullocks, yoked to the centre pole of the dray. He felt sick in the stomach as he had not expected to stumble across the bullock team. The discovery was just bad luck. ‘I was a bit upset about the death of Mister Macintosh and forgot to tell you,’ he added, by way of making his ‘oversight’ sound reasonable. But the damned bullocks and dray stood before him as a silent witness of the existence of the two men he had murdered. The question remained of what he was to do about the evidence.
Trooper Mudgee dismounted and examined the footprints around the dray. ‘Bin t’ree men here, Mahmy,’ he said, as he crouched to peer at the signs in the earth. ‘One man a blackfella.’ Mort felt a knife twisting in his stomach – three! The Irishman had not mentioned the existence of any other white man before he died. Who – and where – was the third man?
‘You sure there were three men here?’ Henry asked the police trooper.
‘Yes, Sar’nt Henry . . . one old blackfella,’ he answered confidently. ‘One old white man. And a young whitefella. T’ree men.’
‘You said you found two bodies, sir,’ Henry quizzed his commander. ‘From what Trooper Mudgee says, there must be a third man out there.’
Mort pulled a face. ‘Yes, two bodies,’ he snapped. ‘My guess is that the third man, whoever he was, has also been speared by the niggers. It’s highly unlikely he is still alive.’ He was not inviting any further investigation surrounding the events pertaining to the deserted bullock team.
‘Don’t you think we should start a search for him?’ Henry persisted as he scanned the surrounding bush. ‘He might still be alive.’
Mort turned on his sergeant and his irritability became anger. ‘I make the decisions here Sergeant – not you – and I say we are wasting our time searching for a man who, in all probability, is dead.’
‘We could at least give him a Christian burial if we find him . . . sir.’ The English sergeant’s words had an edge that did not go unnoticed by Mort.
‘The best we can do right now, Sergeant, is destroy the dray and kill the bullocks. Thus we will deny any darkie survivors the supplies. And, as soon as we meet up with Mister Macintosh, I will bring to his attention the matter of the third man. I am sure that his shepherds are better placed to make a search of Glen View. They know the area better than you or I.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
‘If I were you, Sergeant, I would keep my mouth shut,’ Mort snarled. ‘Before you say something I might construe as insubordinate. I do not wish to put you on report but I will . . . if you persist with your questioning of my decisions.’
Henry seethed with anger. Years in the Queen’s uniform had conditioned him to obey orders no matter how distasteful. But the idea of leaving a white man alone in the bush was against all the unwritten laws of the frontier. His commanding officer’s behaviour was extremely erratic. But he knew that there was little he could do as a sergeant. Any complaint by a subordinate of his superior was not tolerated in the colonial constabulary.
Valuable stores went up in flames as the troopers torched the dray. Police carbines cracked and the big bullocks bellowed and died in their yokes. The final bullock to go was the leader, which did not die immediately. Mars bellowed and slumped to his knees before toppling onto his side.
When the police had finished their task, they rode away and a single black crow landed on the grass beside Mars. In two hops it was next to the big bullock’s head where it plucked out the sightless eyes. Then it flew away.
‘Baal blackfella gone, Mista Macintosh. No more tracks. Blackfella all gone.’ Donald stared hard at Gideon who stood nervously beside his mount among the dead Nerambura at the base of the hills.
‘Gone!’ he snapped angrily. It was incredible that a badly wounded darkie could just disappear as if into thin air. Corporal Gideon had assured them they were almost on top of the murdering savage and now, suddenly, he makes a statement that the man’s tracks have simply disappeared off the face of the earth.
Donald could feel a rage boiling up inside him. There was something about the whole affair of losing the trail that worried him, something about the manner of the police trooper who seemed very nervous – even evasive – as if he were lying about the disappearance of the myall. But the man had no reason to lie, Donald mused as he stared at the big police trooper. After all, he had been more than eager to hunt the man down. At least until now.
But Gideon had not lost the trail. He had no trouble tracking the wounded Nerambura warrior and even now knew where he was. He had lied to the squatter about losing the tracks and had gambled on the fact that the white man and his shepherds did not have his expert skills in reading the ground for a trail. From the puzzlement he saw in their faces, he knew he was right and the squatter had to accept what he said. ‘Me think blackfella probably die anyway, Mista Macintosh, no worries,’ he ventured to the squatter whose face was now a mask of fury. ‘Mebbe some day find baal blackfella and skin ’im.’
Donald shifted angrily in his saddle to stare up at the hill and felt cheated of personally revenging the death of his eldest son. Corporal Gideon was probably right, he thought. His chances of surviving the wound were slim. ‘All right . . . We will return to Glen View,’ he finally said. ‘Corporal Gideon, you are free to join your troop and my regards to Mister Mort for your help.’
Gideon nodded and shuffled, embarrassed at the squatter’s undeserved thanks, and he watched as the man and his shepherds disappeared into the bush. He turned to give the hill one last look and his gaze came to settle on the shadow of a rock overhang now being swallowed by the sun. The Darambal warrior was up there. Gideon knew that the wounded man was even now watching him.
He shivered superstitiously and tore his eyes from the overhang. Yes, he thought uneasily, the Darambal man was in a place where no man should go uninvited. It was a sacred place of the Darambal people, but also a place to be respected by all men – black or white.
The white men had not felt the force as he had felt its overpowering presence and they had been deaf to the voice that shouted from the heart of the hill. An angry voice that had called on him to stop and go back. It was as if he had hit an invisible wall at the foot of the sacred hill, beyond which he could see the tracks of a man protected by a spirit with a power he had never experienced before in his life. And he knew that the wounded man would not die this day. It was as if he had been chosen for something . . . Something beyond understanding.
Gideon spurred his mount into a gallop to rejoin his troop. Some places no man should go!
SILENT
ECHOES IN
THE DARK
SEVEN
The harbour breezes puffed across the shimmering expanse of blue water. White sails unfurled on the little sailing boats as they skipped the tips of the gentle waves mocking the inactivity of the big ships at anchor in the coves and inlets of the southern shore of Sydney harbour. The big sailing ships lined the wharves and shore where they appeared as a forest of tall and slender masts naked of the sailcloth that gave them the means to cross the world’s oceans. Many of the stately ships now had funnels among their masts and others had huge round paddlewheels that protruded from their once graceful lines. For this was a time of transition between wind and steam on the oceans of the world.
The young man perched at the edge of a sandstone ledge gazed over the magnificent harbour. From high above the expanse of blue water, his thoughts roamed across the myriad of possibilities that the vantage point gave him to record the tranquil beauty of the harbour. A sketchbook dangled in one hand and a pencil in the other and beside him lay a leather satchel case which held his sketches.
It was a hot day and his shirt sleeves had been rolled up to reveal biceps that rippled with the latent strength of a fighter. His face was clean shaven and the summer sun was leaving a reddish impression on his normally fair skin while his thick mop of brown
curling hair touched the collar of his starched white shirt which clung to a broad and muscled chest.
The twenty-one-year-old son of the teamster, Patrick Duffy, had been born in Ireland. But the land of his birth was now a sad and fading memory. Sadder was the distant sorrow of losing his mother to the fever that plagued the immigrant ship bound for the colony of Victoria from Ireland. A haunting memory of a terrible grief-stricken morning when the shroud-wrapped body was committed to the dark waters of the southern ocean. His mother’s final existence was marked by a transient splash in the cold seas and the land of his childhood was now a place haunted by the spirit of a soft and gentle woman who had sung to him in the night. For Michael Duffy, the beautiful harbour he now gazed across defined his new world.
Behind him stood his cousin Daniel, who might have passed as a brother had it not been for the difference in their physiques. Michael was broad shouldered whereas Daniel was lean and slightly stooped. Both men were of the same age and had grown up together, gone to school together and were, often enough, in trouble together. Michael was usually the instigator as he had learnt at an early age how to use his size and strength to settle disputes in the tough Irish-dominated streets of Redfern.
And it was Michael Duffy’s face that told the story of his fights. A small scar intersected his eyebrow over the right eye and his nose was slightly awry on a face women found appealing. But beyond his violently acquired badges of manhood were the grey eyes and slow smile. At times the eyes could be soft with a dreamy and faraway look. At other times hard with the appearance of a deep and cold sea. His smile and deep resonant voice charmed men as much as they charmed women and there was an aura about him that made women feel protected and men trust his word. He was not consciously aware of the strong effect he had on those around him. He was a young man preoccupied with dreams of fame as a great artist. But the considerable reputation he enjoyed as one of Sydney’s best bare-knuckle fighters was also a reality of his life.