Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (5 page)

‘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.’

But Angus did not hear the terrified and cowardly advice from the police officer as he was already dead. Wallarie’s slender and primitive wooden spear had taken the life of the man who was to inherit a financial empire that spanned two continents and encompassed the most modern technology the European world had to offer.

So preoccupied had Mort been with his own survival that he had not noticed the Aboriginal girl slip away into the sparse cover of the scrub. Mondo had found a second reserve of strength to run, and she did not stop running until her body and spirit led her exhausted into the silence of the bush, where she collapsed and lay in a stupor. Although her fear persisted, something in her head told her that she was safe. It was like a voice coming from a long time ago.

Wallarie had heard the crack of shots as he fled from the dying squatter and one of the sounds had reached out to stab him. It was like the sting of a giant wasp, he thought, as he gasped and stumbled from the impact.

With a groan he slumped to the ground and examined the wound above his hip as a more intense pain came over him in agonising waves. He had seen the same wounds, from the invisible spears of the black troopers and white devils, on the bodies of his own people.

He plucked at a clump of grass to plug the wound and groaned from the searing of raw nerve ends that came into contact with the prickly grass. The bleeding did not stop and the pain continued. He knew that he must get away.

He regained his feet and stumbled blindly forward. Deep in his spirit he knew he was already a dead man and it was only a matter of time before the black crows would find him. He was beyond covering his tracks that were leading him back to his Dreaming.

FIVE

B
illy froze and stood as still as the breathless hot air of the scrublands. ‘Blackfella . . . blackfella over here, boss,’ he hissed as he covered the unconscious warrior with his old Baker rifle.

‘Dead?’ Patrick asked Billy, who had not taken his eyes from Wallarie.

‘No, boss, this blackfella alive,’ he replied through his teeth. ‘But mebbe not long.’

The Irishman squatted beside the naked warrior and could see where the bullet had entered and exited through the man’s side leaving an ugly purple swelling. The bleeding had ceased but the man had lost a lot of blood. Patrick wiped his hand over the freshest of the bleeding and examined its colour. Had the blood been a coffee colour then it might have indicated a stomach wound and such a wound usually eventuated in a slow and painful death. The blood was a bright red colour.

The Aboriginal man was in the prime of his life. His body glistened with sweat which ran in rivulets along the contours of his muscled chest where he had many raised welt-like scars indicating that he had a respected standing among his people.

Patrick reached for his water canteen and pressed it against the unconscious man’s mouth. Wallarie stirred as the water trickled through his parched lips and his eyes flickered, then snapped open with alarm at the terrifying sight hovering over him. Had he met a ghost in the other world of the Dreaming?

Behind the white man he could see the less than friendly face of an old Aboriginal dressed in the manner of the whites.

‘Take it easy, old fella,’ the white man said kindly and, although Wallarie did not understand the words, the man’s soothing voice had the tone of a mother with a child.

‘We should leave this blackfella. No good we should help him,’ Billy said fearfully as he cast about the scrub for signs of lurking tribesmen. ‘This blackfella bring us bad luck, boss.’ Patrick ignored his warning.

‘The poor bastard’s been shot and left to die like some dog, Billy,’ he said as he encouraged Wallarie to drink slowly from the canteen. ‘There’s probably a good chance he won’t last. But he may as well have a drink before he leaves this world. And I do not think he is in any condition to be a threat to us.’

Despite the Irishman’s opinion on the wounded Aboriginal warrior’s physical state, Billy kept the rifle trained on him. He did not trust the blacks of central Queensland whom he considered treacherous and cunning, particularly one that was wounded, who could react like the big plains kangaroo. When it was cornered, it would fight to the death.

Wallarie felt the cooling water slake the terrible thirst that had tortured his body and he groaned as he sat up. The white man helped him and his touch was gentle, but still Wallarie felt fear rising in his chest. Why would a white man help him when all the others had slaughtered his people? His dark eyes flicked from the white man to the black man. Then back to the black man where he saw both fear and hostility reflected in the old Aboriginal’s eyes.

‘You savvy this myall’s lingo, Billy?’ Patrick asked as he replaced the cap on the water canteen.

‘No, boss. This blackfella a bloody savage,’ Billy spat with disgust. If the man was not of his own people then he was inferior, in Billy’s opinion. But he was also the warrior of his vision.

‘No matter,’ Patrick grunted as he helped Wallarie to his feet. ‘We will get him back to the dray and see if he comes good. But I don’t think it looks very good for him.’

‘Bloody waste of time,’ Billy grumbled. ‘Bugger will die and his spirit will hang round us.’

The Irishman ignored his friend’s ungracious attitude as he helped Wallarie take teetering steps, and Billy followed, grumbling with a surliness that he very rarely displayed. They had taken only a few steps when his attention suddenly shifted from contemplating the warrior to the faint sound in his head. Not a whisper on the wind but a tangible sound in the bush.

‘Horses! Horses comin’!’ Billy warned quietly and Patrick felt an unexpected and ominous knot twist in his stomach.

‘Coming this way?’ he asked tensely. The old Aboriginal teamster remained facing the west.

‘Comin’ this way, boss,’ he replied quietly. ‘Plenty horses.’

Patrick instinctively thought of the revolver at his hip. He did not know exactly why he felt the need to be armed when to all intents and purposes the men approaching were no doubt white men or black police. His reasoning told him the horsemen were coming for the wounded Aboriginal. He felt a shiver run through the body of the young black man leaning on his shoulder as he too could hear the horses approaching. Wounded and alone, up against impossible odds, the warrior would have no hope.

The Irishman remembered a time when he had been in a similar situation. It was the Eureka Stockade all over again. How the police and some of the soldiers had massacred the wounded and those who surrendered foolishly believing in British justice. He knew exactly what the position of the wounded Aboriginal would be when the horsemen arrived, and he also knew what he must do.

Corporal Gideon had not needed to dismount to follow the warrior’s tracks as he could see from the footprints that the man they hunted was near collapse and had not attempted to cover his trail.

Behind the Aboriginal corporal rode Mort, Donald Macintosh and his party of shepherds – less two – who were preparing the squatter’s son’s body for transportation back to the Glen View homestead for burial.

They rode into a clearing where the appearance of the big bearded Irishman and the old Aboriginal came as a surprise to all in the mounted party. But more was the shock and anger at seeing them helping the wounded warrior as they might a white man.

Mort raised his hand, bringing the riders to a halt. ‘I see, sir, that you have caught the man we have been tracking,’ he said, addressing Patrick who stood supporting the warrior. Wallarie glared at the police officer with barely concealed hate and Patrick could feel his shiver turn into a trembling of despair.

‘We haven’t caught him, Lieutenant,’ he replied with an almost casual indifference to the police officer’s statement. ‘We were trying to help the poor bastard. Seems your lot have been up to your old tricks, dispersing his people. Would I be right, Lieutenant?’

Mort did not answer immediately. He did not like the Irishman’s attitude and he sat astride his mount, eyeing him with contempt. The man was aiding a killer, and he did not have to justify himself under the circumstances. He cleared his throat.

‘I would advise you strongly to step aside from that murdering nigger and allow me to take him as a prisoner. I order this in the Queen’s name, Mister . . . ?’

‘Patrick Duffy. And I have no intention of handing this man over to you . . . Not here, anyway,’ he replied as he stared back at the uniformed policeman. There was something about the man. Something about the eyes that glared at him with undisguised hostility. ‘Not out here where he wouldn’t last five minutes with that bunch of cut-throats riding with you.’

Mort was dumbfounded. It was unthinkable that any white man on the frontier would oppose the Queen’s lawful representative bringing to justice a killer – let alone a nigger!

Donald also viewed the Irishman’s insolence with disbelief. He was not about to have any damned Irishman stand between him and vengeance for his son’s brutal murder. ‘Stand aside, Mister Duffy,’ he said softly, but with the venom of cold fury, ‘or I will shoot you down. Step aside from that murdering darkie now!’

Patrick saw the gun in the squatter’s hand levelled at him, and from the corner of his eye he glimpsed Billy bring his rifle to bear on the squatter. With a swift and almost casual gesture he brought his own Colt up and levelled it at Mort before the shepherds could react. ‘That may be. But I promise you, Mister, that we will both be dead before I hit the ground. And most probably the Lieutenant here as well,’ Patrick said, calmly addressing Donald without taking his eyes from Mort who could see in the Irishman’s expression that he meant exactly what he said. He had watched, with a kind of morbid and paralysing fascination, the big Irishman’s arm rising to point the pistol directly at his chest and, although the gun was heavy, there was no sign of trembling in his hand.

Neither did Donald doubt the Irish teamster’s resolve and he had a sudden grudging respect for the man who stood facing them. But this did not diminish his anger or hatred. Now the Irishman and his darkie had placed themselves squarely with the black killer. ‘You realise, Mister Duffy, that you have just committed a serious crime. You are aiding a darkie who is wanted for murder,’ Donald said. ‘A cold-blooded killer of my son. You can probably understand that under the circumstances I could have you shot down as you stand. If you look to my men you will see that they all have their guns on you . . . and the darkie with you. Under the circumstances we are fully entitled to use any force necessary to take appropriate action in removing the darkie bastard from you.’ The Scottish squatter’s voice was cold and calm as he prudently lowered his pistol and he held no doubt that the old Aboriginal pointing the ancient but lethal Baker rifle at him would shoot him down.

Patrick fully understood that what the squatter said was true in all respects, but he also realised that he had pushed himself into a very tiny and exposed corner. He was once again confronting the might of the British Empire. But this time there was no quarter, no retreat. It had been the sight of Mort’s uniform that had reinforced his resolve to give the Aboriginal some chance and he fully realised that he was now laying his and Billy’s lives on the line for a wounded black man he had only known for a few minutes.

Patrick’s mouth felt uncomfortably dry and the gun he held on the police officer was very heavy in his hand. He tried to lick his dry lips. ‘Under the circumstances I will concede what you say has a lot of merit,’ he said. ‘So I will make a deal with you . . .’

‘No deals, Mister Duffy,’ Mort snapped. ‘As a representative of Her Majesty, I do not make deals with criminals.’

‘I said I would make a deal. I think you should find it satisfactory to yourself . . . and the Queen,’ Patrick continued patiently. ‘I will let this myall go. But you will give him a fair chance to run as I have no doubts that otherwise you will gun him down here without recourse to Her Majesty’s justice. Just like I saw your kind do at the Ballarat diggings in ’54. We will give him half an hour to get away and then I will lower my gun. I see that you have a trooper with you who is, no doubt, more than able to track a wounded man. You have more to gain than lose by the deal.’

‘You were at the Eureka Stockade?’ Mort asked with veiled interest.

‘I was that,’ Patrick replied softly.

‘Then you and I may have met before,’ he mused as he eyed the Irishman more closely. The fact that the captured rebels who had stood trial in Melbourne were acquitted, and treated as heroes by the thousands who rallied outside the courthouse, would forever rankle with him. A travesty of British justice that condoned rebellion and treason. Worst of all for the embittered Victorian policeman had been the sight of the tumultuous reception received by the giant American Negro, John Josephs, who had been the first of the rebels to be acquitted. The crowd of rebel sympathisers had gone wild and carried the Negro triumphantly on their shoulders around Melbourne’s streets . . .
A nigger!

Mort had been a sergeant in the Victorian Mounted Police and he had walked away from that day swearing he would not forget the court’s failure to mete out justice. And now one of the Irish rebels stood a few feet from him with a gun levelled at his chest. Half an hour was not a long time to wait, he thought with seething hatred. Especially when he had been waiting eight years for a chance to even scores. He realised that all attention was focused on him for a decision.

‘Your offer sounds reasonable, Mister Duffy,’ Mort finally replied. ‘But you realise that you will have to honour the deal when the half hour is gone. I will require you to throw down your arms. Or we cannot go ahead with what you propose.’

Patrick stared into the pale blue eyes of the police officer and saw something there that disturbed him. Was there a madness? Or was it merely his imagination stretched thin with the situation at hand? Half an hour was not much time for a badly wounded man to evade his hunters, especially when they were on horseback and had the services of an Aboriginal tracker. But that was better than nothing – and nothing he had plenty of! So the lieutenant would take him prisoner, but it was doubtful if any conviction would be recorded when the facts of what had happened out here were revealed to the court. The government was not keen on having the true nature of dispersals advertised.

Outnumbered and out-gunned, he had little alternative. ‘Sounds fair enough, Lieutenant,’ he replied. ‘You have my word I will surrender to you as soon as the half hour is up.’ Patrick turned to Billy, who had not taken his eyes off the squatter. ‘See if you can tell the myall here to get going.’

Billy nodded but he did not take his attention from the squatter, while he used words that were common along the Aboriginal trade routes between the many scattered tribes. Wallarie understood the word
run
and Patrick shoved him in the back to reinforce Billy’s order.

Wallarie was hesitant at first. He was confused by the events unfolding around him. But he did realise that the white man had somehow used sorcery to keep the men who would kill him at bay.

He broke into a stumbling run for the sanctuary of the scrub while Donald watched the departing warrior with hate and vengeance-filled eyes. He had accepted the deal without comment as he knew he had little choice, but he also knew that half an hour would not get the wounded man very far. And then he would have the man’s hide – literally! Yes, he would have the murdering black bastard’s skin peeled from his living body while he screamed in his heathen language for mercy. There would be no mercy . . . just a lingering death marked by extreme pain.

‘Pray that we catch him, Mister Duffy,’ the squatter said quietly, ‘or I promise you that I will peg the skin of your darkie on my wall.’