by Peter Watt
After a week, Donald Macintosh emerged pale and haggard to resume control of the Glen View run. His Garden of Eden had a serpent in it. A deadly serpent with a name . . . Duffy!
TWENTY-ONE
Sergeant Henry James followed the old bushman through the thick tangle of mangroves and swore profusely whenever he slipped on the exposed roots, causing tiny mud crabs to scuttle for safety as he lumbered towards them. Corporal Gideon followed as agile as a cat as he scrambled through the saltwater swamp after him.
As the three men emerged at the edge of the lagoon, the old bushman cast about with keen and wary eyes. He had a healthy respect for the big saltwater crocs that lurked in the lagoon waiting patiently for the careless to enter their domain.
‘She’d be over there,’ he said, pointing to a body half submerged under the overhang of the mangroves. ‘Yep, never lose me bearings whether on water or on land. Me and Harry found her this morning. Surprised the ’gators haven’t got her by now.’
Henry took the lead and sloshed through the warm shallows towards the body. When he came close he could see that it was that of a young Aboriginal girl. He bent over her as she drifted face down. He gingerly rolled her over and what he found did not surprise him. The numerous wounds showed that she had died a slow and painful death almost identical to the other two Aboriginal girls that he and Corporal Gideon had found murdered near Rockhampton.
When the second body of an Aboriginal girl had been reported to him by the frightened tribesmen living at the squalid One Tree shanty settlement, he had discounted Trooper Mudgee as his prime suspect. The former Aboriginal trooper had been reported killed in a fight over a tribal woman outside Port Denison only a few weeks after the first murder. He could not have killed the second girl.
The water lapped warm around Henry’s legs, washing away some of the glutinous mud that had caked his knee-length boots, and Gideon gave his boss a knowing look. It was their third body and in all cases the wounds were similar. Alone each wound was not fatal, but in combination the wounds would drain the life slowly from the victim.
The tough sergeant could feel no emotion at the sight of the mutilated body. He had seen so many on the frontier as a police sergeant in the Native Mounted Police. His only real emotion was that of puzzlement.
He understood what motivated men to kill under most circumstances, but he could not understand why this particular killer had a need to single out Aboriginal girls and torture them to death in an almost ritualistic way. Why Aboriginal girls? he asked himself and provided his own answer. Because they were easy victims! Who cared if a few darkie women got killed? Not the white police. But he also realised that the colour of the girl’s skin might not be vital to the killer’s twisted and perverted mind. Given the opportunity he might go after a white girl.
The significance of the gender of the victim, rather than just race, gave Henry the best ammunition to persuade Mort to treat the matter seriously.
‘Thought I’d best report the matter to you blokes rather than the Rockhampton traps,’ the grizzled old bushman said as he bent to get a better look at the wounds on the Aboriginal girl’s body. ‘Figure you blokes do all the blackfella stuff.’ He was fascinated by the mutilation to the girl’s mouth and vagina. ‘Bloody myalls never done this,’ he growled. ‘Or if’n they did, there’s a bad ’un roaming around out there. Myalls don’t do this sort of thing. They might sneak up an’ brain you with one of them clubs of theirs, but they don’t do nothin’ like this.’
Henry silently agreed with the old man. This was most probably the work of a deranged white man. A man capable of going beyond just killing Aboriginal girls. ‘You know this gin?’ he asked Gideon.
‘No, Sar’nt Henry,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘She not one of the gins from the barracks.’
Henry stood and stretched his leg as the old pain ached at the joint of his knee like fire.
‘See’d her floating when we was out in the punt this morning,’ the old man volunteered. ‘Never would have worried about it until I see’d where she had them wounds when we rolled her over. I think you got a real bad ’un on your hands, Sergeant. Might only be a matter of time before he goes after a white girl.’
Henry thanked the old bushman for his help and the man spat in the lagoon. The sight of the brutal wounds had left a sour taste in his mouth. He had learnt to respect the tribesmen whom he had encountered in his journeys and who, on more than one occasion, had saved his life with their unstinting generosity and kindness. But times had changed and he blamed the newcomers from down south for upsetting the trust that had existed between black and white. He picked his own way back through the mangroves leaving the two police with the corpse of the Aboriginal girl.
Henry bent and washed his hands in a mixture of sand and salt water.
‘The other two gins were from the barracks,’ he said as he wiped his hands dry on the side of his trouser legs. ‘Is one of the troopers doing this, Gideon?’
The Aboriginal trooper shook his head. ‘No, Sar’nt Henry. I would know if one of the boys was doin’ this.’ But there were frightening rumours among the women around the barracks. And none of the native police at the barracks were foolish enough to express what was being said. Not even to Sar’nt Henry.
Henry made a futile effort to wipe away the glue-like mud from his sleeve, but it stuck tenaciously. ‘I want you to start asking questions around the barracks when the boys return from the patrol,’ he said. ‘I want you to find out more about the two girls we found like this. If you think you have found something, tell me immediately.’ He sighed and reflected angrily on his commanding officer’s lack of concern. Admittedly there was little Mort could do for now. He had taken the Mounted Police on a patrol after some white man and an Aboriginal who had been reported by Donald Macintosh as suspects in the murder of two of his shepherds. Not that the finding of the two murdered Aboriginal girls earlier had caused Mort much interest anyway. Niggers killing niggers was of no real concern to white law. But Henry was not convinced it was a case of an Aboriginal killing the young girls.
And it was the odd thought that had occurred to him that day on the parade ground, after he had filed his report on the first murdered girl, that returned to him now. He shook his head and muttered, ‘No. Not possible,’ as he prepared to once again do battle with the maze of mangroves.
It was almost sunset and the air was cooling noticeably as the Mounted Police rode wearily into the Rockhampton police barracks. Horses’ heads drooped and sweaty foam slathered their flanks. They had been pushed hard for the last sixty miles and the riders slouched in their saddles, covered in dust.
Excited women and children thronged to meet their men returning from the patrol and the barracks echoed with happy laughter as wide-eyed children scampered around the long legs of the horses.
The troopers filed to the saddling yard with Lieutenant Mort in the lead. Henry presented a salute at the gateway which Mort barely acknowledged. He was in a bad humour as he slid from his big roan.
‘No good, sir?’ Henry asked.
‘No bloody good, Sergeant James,’ Mort replied sourly as he brushed himself down and turned to yell at one of the Aboriginal troopers, ‘get those bloody gins away from the yards, Trooper. And make sure you take care of my horse or you will be in for a taste of the cat.’ He was frustrated and this made him dangerously angry. The unlucky trooper obeyed immediately. He knew what the cat-o’-nine-tails felt like on his back.
Henry fell into step beside Mort as they strode towards his quarters.
‘Did you get any tracks on them at all?’ Henry asked with professional interest. Mort had not told him much about the patrol’s purpose, other than it was on the request of Donald Macintosh of the Glen View run. All that Henry knew was that one of the suspects was a white man by the name of Tom Duffy. And the other, known as Wallarie, was the probable killer of Angus Macintosh. It appeared that both wanted men had teamed up in a dangerous combination of black cunning and white kno
w-how, according to Mort’s opinion.
‘Not a damned trace,’ he snarled. ‘The bloody colony is just too big and we need more police up here. Those bloody politicians in Brisbane haven’t a clue of our problems. Why don’t they get off their fat arses and come up here to see for themselves?’
For once Henry sympathised with Mort about not having enough men to police the frontier. But the politicians were reluctant to increase the numbers of Aboriginal police as the city journalists hounded them with questions about the actual methods used in the dispersals. The politicians publicly condemned the tactics used to maintain the Queen’s peace on the frontier, but at the same time they privately told the Native Mounted Police to continue their good work.
It was a no-win situation for the troopers and only the powerful influence of the squatters in Parliament kept the Mounted Police a viable force. But not all squatters supported the Mounted Police. Some flatly refused to allow the patrols to come onto their properties and they openly accused the police of stirring up trouble among the peaceful tribes.
When they reached the bark shack that served as an office for Mort, Henry chose to broach the subject he knew his commanding officer did not want to hear.
‘Sir, while you were gone, Corporal Gideon and I found another darkie girl murdered.’
Mort sat with an audible sigh on the step of the verandah to his office. He was stiff, sore and tired from the hard ride. ‘Help me get these boots off, Sergeant,’ he said as if he had not heard Henry, who gripped the boot and gave a sharp tug, pulling it off.
‘Sir, I think we have a serious problem around here. I think the man might go after a white girl,’ Henry persisted stubbornly and Mort rubbed at his foot, ignoring his sergeant.
‘Who won the sprint between Purcell and Jenkins?’ he asked on a completely different tack.
‘Little Boy Purcell. He gave Harry Jenkins a real hiding this time,’ Henry replied as he referred to the outcome of the long-awaited rematch between the local footrace hero, Harry Jenkins, and the out-of-town challenger Willie Purcell. The race had attracted a lot of attention in the town and large amounts of money had changed hands on the outcome.
‘Ah! Good. I had a fiver on Purcell,’ Mort said, smiling for the first time since his arrival back at the barracks. ‘Knew Jenkins was not up to it. About these killings, Sergeant James. If you ask me some deranged nigger is doing us all a favour and the more of those nigger women he kills, the less of their kind to breed in the future. So we don’t trouble ourselves about him unless he steps out of line and goes after a white woman. Forget the matter and get on with running the barracks. That is all, Sergeant James,’ Mort said bluntly, making it plain that he was dismissing him.
Henry stepped back smartly and saluted his commanding officer. Wait until he went after a white woman. How many more black women would have to die before something was done? He seethed as he limped away from the verandah. What occurred during a dispersal was unpalatable enough, but outside a dispersal the unlawful killing of any person – white or black – was a crime.
‘Corporal Gideon!’ he bellowed and his command was loud enough to cause a flock of white cockatoos to rise from a nearby tree and circle overhead, screeching their protests at having their rest disturbed.
‘Sar’nt!’
‘Over here . . . Now!’
Gideon doubled over and came stiffly to attention.
‘You have anything for me about the deaths of those three gins?’ Henry scowled.
‘No, Sar’nt Henry,’ Gideon replied as he remained at attention. ‘The boys jus’ got back.’ Henry stared past his corporal to the troopers unsaddling their mounts and walking the weary sweating horses around the saddling yard to cool them down.
‘Yes. You’re right. Sorry, Corporal Gideon. You will need to talk to them tonight,’ he said wearily, as he realised that his frustrating conversation with Mort had manifested itself in the way he had spoken to Gideon.
‘Soon as they get some tucker, I will talk to the boys, Sar’nt Henry,’ Gideon offered.
Henry dismissed him and rubbed his forehead as the white cockatoos swirled in a graceful arc to alight in a tree on the far side of the parade ground. It was not an Aboriginal killing the girls. It was a white man. He was sure of that now. Unless one of the myalls had learned the worst of the white man’s nature. But where to start?
Mort had remained on the verandah and watched his sergeant talking to Corporal Gideon and he wondered what they were discussing. He was a troubled and paranoid man who had failed to find the killer of Angus Macintosh. But worse still, he had failed to find Tom Duffy, who was a man who could cause him a lot of trouble if questions were raised concerning the death of Patrick Duffy and his nigger.
So far it appeared that Corporal Gideon had not said anything to Sergeant James about the incident in the scrub when Duffy had bailed them up. But it was only a matter of time.
He hurled a boot at a mangy dog that had skulked from the direction of the native troopers’ quarters on the scent of a bitch. The boot found its target and the dog yelped with pain as it scurried away with its tail between its legs.
‘Damned niggers and whores!’ he screamed savagely. ‘Worse then stray dogs!’
Someone had to die . . . And very soon!
‘Tom?’
Judith felt an unexplainable chill and superstitiously glanced over her shoulder.
Kate was between two worlds: one of brilliant light and the living, the other a dark world of eternal shadows. Judith watched Kate toss feverishly as she sat beside the bed and mopped her forehead with a cool damp cloth. The young woman suddenly ceased her feverish restlessness and lay very still with an expression of awe and peace lighting her gaunt, fevered face. Two weeks of nursing Kate had not prepared Judith for the events that had suddenly changed in the fever.
Kate began to speak calmly to a presence in the room.
‘Father has gone, Katie. You will not see him in our world,’ the vision of Tom said to her.
‘Am I dead, Tom?’ she heard herself asking her brother.
‘No, darlin’ Katie, you are alive but you must fight. Don’t give in. I cannot tell you why it is you who must live, except that you have been chosen by powers I do not understand. They have chosen you as a part in a great plan.’
‘Are you alive, Tom?’
‘Yes. I am asleep in a place of wilderness. And as I sleep, I think of you and Michael.’
‘How was Da taken from us? Where does his body rest?’
But Tom was gone before he could answer. He had left Kate as mysteriously as he had arrived to stand by her bed and speak to her. In his place, the vague and beautiful oval shape of a face hovered over Kate and a gentle hand stroked her hair. Kate felt the coolness of a damp cloth on her forehead. It was soothing and she drifted into another world of darkness with no memory of the past.
Judith felt her skin creep as a reaction to the unknown entity that had left the room. She rose and left Kate to sleep and closed the door quietly behind her as she joined her husband and Luke in the tiny dining room, just big enough to accommodate a table and four chairs. The Cohens did not have many guests and the room was adequate for their needs.
‘How is she?’ Solomon asked his wife.
‘She sleeps,’ she replied wearily as she sat down heavily in a chair. ‘But it is still a fevered sleep.’ The long hours of tending the sick girl had taken a toll on her strength. But Judith did not complain and it did not matter that the girl was a stranger. All that mattered was that she was her responsibility. ‘She was talking to someone called Tom about her father’s death.’
‘Did you tell her about her father’s death?’ Solomon asked with a frown, as they had agreed that she was not to be told until she was well and strong enough to cope with the tragic news.
‘No, Solomon,’ his wife replied irritably. ‘But I think she knows in ways that we would not understand.’
‘She must have overheard us talking about Mister Duffy,’ Solom
on commented, dismissing the matter.
Judith did not argue with her husband, as she did not expect him to understand things beyond the physical world men lived in. A man was too busy doing practical things to stop and listen to the disembodied voices that whispered in the dark. She excused herself to go to the adjacent kitchen and soon returned to the dining room with three plates of vegetable and chicken stew. The delicious aroma of herbs and chicken made Luke’s mouth water.
‘Ah, but she spoils you, Luke,’ Solomon lamented. ‘She never cooks me her chicken.’
Judith sat and placed a platter of oven-fresh bread at the centre of the table.
‘I do make you this meal, at least twice a year,’ she said gently, rebuking her husband. Solomon prepared to call blessings on the meal they were about to eat.
‘So, Luke, how is your plan to go north faring?’ Solomon asked as he poured a glass of red wine for him. ‘Do you have the money for the horses?’
‘Not enough for two horses,’ Luke replied as he chewed a tender portion of chicken. ‘I will need at least one packhorse for what I have in mind. Maybe another month of work and I will be able to head out west.’
‘I can lend you the money,’ Solomon offered. ‘It’s the least I can do for all your help you gave us when we first came here. I can afford it.’
‘Thank you, Sol,’ Luke replied gratefully. ‘But in my business I can’t promise results, so I will decline your generous offer.’
‘I have faith in you, my friend. If you say this colony has much gold to be found, then I think it will be you who will find it. And then, when you are a very wealthy man, you can pay me back . . . with interest, of course.’ Both men laughed at his self-deprecating reference to the supposed usury tradition of his European relatives. Luke knew full well that Solomon had no intention of charging him interest.