Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (3 page)

As the police sergeant picked his way cautiously through the scattered bodies, he surveyed the devastation in the camp. Stone slabs, grooved for grinding seed for flour, lay scattered and broken among discarded spears, shields and boomerangs. A carcass of a wallaby lay black and hairless by a cooking fire and a gunyah, toppled by the impact of horse and rider, had collapsed into a nearby fire where it burned with a sweet and pungent scent from the oils in the timber framework. Henry had long steeled himself against such sights . . . they were the way of the frontier. Despite this, he knew that the day would leave a heavy debt on his soul.

He stepped over the dead Aboriginal and advanced cautiously towards the muddy creek. When he was near, he heard a sound he prayed would not be what he knew it was. The moaning was long and pitiful.

He scanned the creek and saw a young woman sitting in the shallow water in a tangle of her own entrails, which trailed away like pale blue sausages. In her agony, she was barely aware of the white man approaching her and it was only in the last second of her life that she looked up with pain-filled eyes into the face of her executioner.

The recoil of the blast from the revolver caused the gun to buck in the sergeant’s hand and the conical bullet tore through the girl’s forehead. It was not the first time that he had used the gun to end the lives of the critically wounded. Nor would it be the last.

The girl seemed to shrink as the bullet exploded in her brain and she slumped sideways turning the water crimson around her head. Her blood swirled away on the gentle eddy of the slow-moving creek and carried his words written in red to eventually stain the earth when the water was gone.

‘Poor, bloody myall,’ Henry choked as he turned and walked away from her. ‘Just a fucking girl!’

Wallarie trembled uncontrollably as the sergeant moved away from the dead girl. The line of troopers had passed by him and had not seen the young Aboriginal warrior crouching terrified in the scrub where he had watched with helpless horror the slaughter of his people. Why had he not used his spears in an attempt to stop the killing? His haunted question begged an answer and the answer came to him in cold and practical terms. How could he be expected to face such an irresistible onslaught of men and beasts?

The young warrior tried to control his fear as he crouched and tugged frantically at his beard. He fought his terror with the courage of a man who had lived through the shock of a lightning strike from the bowels of a raging storm. But soon the uncontrollable trembling of the frightened man became the tremor of an enraged warrior who knew that he would exact a toll on the killers of his people. He would use every skill he had – as warrior and hunter – to revenge his clan.

He watched warily the big white man limping among the bodies of his people: rolling each one over with his boot with the pistol pointed as he did so. Wallarie gripped his spears with a calm certainty, but the white man appeared alert and dangerous as he moved from one body to the next.

Although he was within range of the spear, there was thick bush between them that could easily deflect the weapon in flight and Wallarie knew that his option of closing with the white man across open ground was not a good one. The killers of his people carried a weapon that had the ability to kill with the sound of thunder. No, instead he would stalk the black crows who would not expect an attack from behind, as they would be too preoccupied in chasing his people who were fleeing for the comparative safety of the nearby hills.

He slipped deep into the bush away from the ground that he knew he would never visit again. It had become a place of spirits where only the dead should roam. A place where the dead could hear the whispers of the ancient warriors reaching to them from their graves on the sacred hill.

The young warrior did not know that he too was hearing the voices of the long-dead Darambal warriors calling to him down the corridors of time. But their words would come to him only when he had despaired of surviving the day.

Henry, unaware that he had been under observation from the warrior, continued with his grisly task of shooting the critically wounded Nerambura. He counted his blessings that, apart from the girl in the creek, he could only find three others alive.

When he was satisfied that the only surviving creatures were the flies, he slumped with his back against a coolabah tree where he wiped tears from his eyes with the back of a gunpowder-stained hand. The powder stung but his tears felt good. Killing warriors was one thing . . . killing women and children another.

The fires of burning gunyahs crackled and the smoke swirled on the early morning breeze to drift wraith-like in the azure sky. There would be times later in his life when the smell of burning eucalyptus would bring back the bitter memories of the dispersals. Eucalyptus was the scent that he had first associated with his new home, but now burning eucalyptus was the smell of death.

A solitary crow cawed in the distance while Henry waited alone for the troopers to return. He cried softly for the dead girl in the creek and he cried for the loss of his soul. But no man would ever see him cry. Grief was a personal thing that he shared with the Nerambura dead who now surrounded him with their accusing silence.

THREE

I
n the predawn, Donald Macintosh and his party had silently saddled their horses, snatched a breakfast of cold damper washed down with water from their canteens, and to the fading cries of the curlews and the creaking of saddle leather, picked their way to the sacred hill of the Nerambura people.

There they waited slouched in saddles, brushing away the swarms of flies that bothered man and beast as the sun rose in the clear skies.

Donald’s thoughts were not on the ambush but on the long dry season that had stubbornly persisted. The destructive tornado-like swirls of dust on the plains were more and more frequent, and they came as choking masses of red dust twisting and spiralling into the cloudless skies, tearing the bark roofs from the outbuildings of the homestead. The summer rains had come and gone the previous year without delivering the promise of a good drenching for the parched plains, and the last remaining water was quickly disappearing from the water holes.

For all his wealth and power, he had no control over nature. But he was able to console himself that he could do something about one problem affecting the future financial success of his property. He could drive off the Children of Ham who competed with his flocks for the precious last sources of water.

He gazed down the line of horsemen to his son who had taken up a position at the far end. When their eyes met, Angus flashed him a smile and the young squatter felt a rush of admiration for his father who seemed so calm, as if he were waiting for the start of a grouse shoot and not the slaughter of the Aboriginals who lived on Glen View. He envied his father’s apparent calmness because he could not feel the same peace. Something, somewhere watched him. Something with no form but as real as the dust and heat of the ancient land. A sickening wave of nausea overwhelmed Angus and he swooned. Donald noticed his son slump in his saddle and could see that he was pale and distressed.

‘Are you feeling unwell, lad?’ he called down the line with paternal concern. Angus could hear his father’s voice call to him, as if he were speaking from a long way down a tunnel, and he recovered momentarily.

‘It’s nothing, I am well,’ he reassured him. ‘Just a touch of the sun.’ But he knew it was not the sun that had made him feel the dread whose form was as real as the nausea that had almost swept him from the saddle.

The Cave . . . White warrior searching for his prey . . .

The image shimmered in his fevered mind like the sun-parched plains at midday and he desperately attempted to shrug the disturbingly persistent idea from his thoughts. But the image persisted as a haze before his eyes.

The white stick-like warrior stalking him with spear poised for the killing thrust . . .

A week earlier Angus had met the white warrior of the cave when he and two of his shepherds had stumbled on the sacred place of the Nerambura. They had gone in search of missing sheep in a small range of ancient hills on Glen View and stumbled into a cavern partially concealed under a massive rock overhang.

‘Jesus! What is it? What is this bloody place?’ One of the shepherds had sworn as they gazed with superstitious awe at the sweeping panorama of ochre paintings on the cavern walls. A depiction of life and death. And even beyond death! Of ancient hunts of creatures long extinct and stick-like men with spears. The shepherds had exchanged apprehensive glances. The primitive place was somehow frightening and the ancient paintings seemed to have a life of their own.

Angus had noticed the frightened exchange between his men and sneered contemptuously at their unspoken fears. The eerie majesty of the cavern had made him think of being inside a primitive cathedral – albeit a heathen place of worship – and it was apparent that his companions did not want to remain in this obviously sacred place of the Darambal people.

A hushed and brooding silence had warned him that he was trespassing. But he was, after all, the heir to a sprawling Anglo-Scottish empire and as such, he should not be cowed by primitive icons.

He had slid a broad-bladed knife from the side of his boot and approached the ancient paintings where he had singled out an ochre depiction of a white stick-like warrior poised in the act of holding a spear over his head. How long ago the ancient artist had painted the hunter was beyond estimation. The shepherds watched nervously as he scraped slash marks through the white figure.

‘I don’t think you should be doin’ that, Mister Macintosh,’ Jack scowled, shuffling his feet. ‘It could bring us bad luck.’

‘You’re right, Jack. It
will
bring bad luck . . . for the darkies . . . not us,’ Angus sneered as he had slid the knife into his boot and stepped back from his desecration to gaze upon the panorama of paintings. ‘When we get the chance we are coming back with powder . . . and blasting the overhang down.’

Satisfied that he had made his point, he led his men from the ancient cave to a world where one could feel the wind and hear the reassuring natural sounds of the bush. Inside the vast area of the overhang, none of those things had seemed to exist. There had been only an overpowering and brooding force that was frightening in its inexplicable existence.

Stones and pebbles showered down on the line of horsemen and the shepherds, tense with the waiting, jumped in fright. Muskets and pistols swung to face the threat from the rear as horses skittered under their riders.

‘What are ye, mon?’ Donald taunted. ‘Sassenach women to be frightened by a wee, furry beastie.’ The shepherds flashed sheepish grins at their tough boss as they watched the small rock wallaby bounding up the slope behind them.

Donald shook his head. He only ever lapsed into the Scots’ version of English when he was joking – or very angry – as he felt the Anglo-Scots’ dialect had more purity in expressing a point at these times.

He glanced anxiously at his son to see his reaction to the false alarm. His son’s bearded face gave him the predatory look of a hawk and Donald felt a swell of paternal pride for the young man who would some day inherit the Macintosh empire from him. He was still reflecting on this when the distant and violent sounds of the dispersal drifted to the waiting men.

The horses’ ears pricked and the shepherds stirred from the drowsiness that had returned to them after the false alarm. They became alert and fidgeted nervously with their muskets and revolvers. ‘Be ready, lads,’ Donald growled quietly down his line of horsemen. ‘Won’t be long before we see the darkies.’

But it was a long twenty minutes before the first of the fleeing Nerambura stumbled blindly into the ambush and Angus Macintosh killed his first man.

The young warrior burst from the scrub dragging his shield and spears. So intent had he been to avoid the pursuing troopers that the thought of reaching the comparative safety of the hills had distracted him and the naked warrior came to a gasping halt only ten paces from Angus.

‘Look out, Mister Macintosh . . . he’s got a spear,’ a shepherd called unnecessarily to Angus who was as aware of the man as the warrior was of him. There was a terrified and cornered look in the man’s smoky eyes as he realised the trap that he had stumbled into and he desperately brought back his arm to hurl the barbed spear at the horsemen blocking his escape. But he was off balance for the throw and Angus reacted quickly, thrusting his pistol at the warrior and snapping off four rapid shots. The first two rounds went wild but the second two struck the man in the chest and his spear clattered harmlessly to the ground as he was thrown backwards by the impacts of the lead balls smashing into him.

‘Good shot, Mister Macintosh!’ One of the shepherds congratulated as Angus stared at the body and wondered at the ease of taking a life. He felt no remorse. After all, it was well known that the black people did not have souls. So it was not a case of killing a fellow human. It was really no different to being on a kangaroo hunt, except that this quarry had the potential to be more dangerous.

He flashed a broad smile acknowledging the praise, and twisted in his saddle to see how his father had reacted to his first kill. He caught a nod from the tough squatter and felt a rush of elation.
Now he was truly a man
!

‘There’s more acomin’!’

The shouted warning snapped him out of his self-congratulatory elation as more Nerambura survivors stumbled, panting and sweating, into the killing grounds.

A young boy staggered to the line of mounted shepherds and came to a sudden, wide-eyed halt. Lead shot flailed his puny body and he crumpled in the dust as blood oozed from the many puncture wounds inflicted by the bullets.

‘Don’t all go after the same target,’ Donald roared. ‘Powder and shot cost me good money, you bloody fools! You’re wasting ball. You could have run that one down.’

The shepherds normally listened to their boss but they were excited by the sport and ignored him until an exhausted huddle of survivors burst from the trees. Less of a volley met the screaming Nerambura as they ducked and dodged between the startled horsemen and ran towards the slopes of the hill.

‘Leave ’em – more coming,’ Donald shouted as he levelled his pistol on a woman carrying a child at her breast. The gun bucked in his hand and he grunted with satisfaction to see that his bullet had passed through the bawling baby to also hit the mother. She toppled and the baby flew from her arms. Two for the price of one, he thought with grim satisfaction.

Now the shepherds were more careful selecting their targets and the dead and dying – men, women and children – were piled in untidy bloody heaps in the killing ground as the murderous gunfire cut them down. Only the young and more nubile Aboriginal girls were spared. The shepherds rode them down and dispatched them with kicks and clubbing from the butts of their muskets.

The slaughter continued furiously – and then spasmodically – until no more of the Nerambura survivors emerged from the scrub.

Angus was not even aware of how many times he had fired and reloaded his pistol. At one stage he was caught in the act of reloading the pistol when a young girl tried to dodge past him. He had pulled down on the reins of his prancing mount to turn and knock her down but she ran like a frightened hare until the horse caught up to her. With a savage kick from his boot, Angus dropped her to the ground where she tumbled and came groggily to her hands and knees in the dust.

He had tried to trample her but the horse would not cooperate. It was not in the animal’s nature to kill a human. Angus stared angrily down at her and he was acutely aware of how inviting her nubile body appeared as she lay face down in the dust. His anger dissipated as he contemplated the pleasure she would provide when the dispersal was complete and he kicked his mount forward and trotted it back to the line of horsemen.

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.