Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (23 page)

The dog snarled and made a valiant attack on the stranger, but a volley of shots brought her down and she lay quivering on the earth as her life bled away. Tom regretted killing the dog but the courageous animal would have died for her useless master anyway.

Jimmy knew he had no hope of reloading the cumbersome rifle. He had known fear many times in his life but this was a fear absolute in the futility he felt for his hopeless situation. He realised that he was at the total mercy of the man with the twin revolvers levelled on him. The rifle slipped from his nerveless fingers and he felt his bowels void.

‘You . . . you . . .’ Jimmy’s toothless mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping out of water. For a second, he had a flashing recollection of a young Aboriginal boy screaming in agony, and he drooled like an imbecile because he knew God had sent an avenging angel to punish him for his wickedness. He watched with horror as the white man raised one of the pistols and the blast of the big Colt echoed in the hushed silence of the bush. Jimmy screamed and rolled on the earth, clutching at his bloody and mangled groin.

‘An eye for an eye, the Bible tells us Christians,’ the Irishman said softly as he watched the old shepherd writhe on the ground with a bloody stain spreading at the front of his baggy trousers.

‘Oh, God, help me,’ the shepherd screamed, oblivious to everything except his agonising pain. ‘Kill me. For God’s sake shoot me,’ he begged, when he looked up at the man standing over him. But all he saw were pitiless eyes staring down.

‘God will kill you in His own good time,’ Tom said as he slipped one of the revolvers behind the leather belt around his waist. ‘Before He does, He will want you to pray for forgiveness for what you did to those poor bloody myalls a few days ago,’ he said as he squatted beside the shepherd. ‘You are fortunate that I have given you some time on earth to repent before you pass into the next world. Do not waste your time begging me for mercy because I do not have the power . . . or inclination . . . to give you the forgiveness which you crave.’

Then Tom stood and walked away from the shepherd, who alternately moaned and blubbered as he lay on the ground, clutching the mangled remains of his manhood. Tom walked over to Wallarie, who stood impassively watching the dying shepherd. ‘I will teach you many things about the white man’s ways, Wallarie,’ he said as he held up the gun that he had used to shoot Old Jimmy. ‘How to use one of these and how to ride the best and fastest horses we take from the bloody squatters. I will teach you a lot about the ways that have destroyed your people.’

The tall warrior listened to the words without understanding their meaning, but he understood what he saw in his white brother’s face. He nodded and glanced at Mondo, who stood trembling. Was the white man an evil spirit? Mondo wondered. Or part of the powerful magic of the sacred hill? She cared not for the answer as she knew, with the certainty of a woman, that she would never leave this white man.

Two weeks later the shepherd taking supplies to Old Jimmy found the remains of his body. Donald Macintosh was informed of the discovery and Goondallie confirmed that the shepherd’s death was the work of the same two men who had killed Monkey and Young Joe.

The employees of Glen View avoided their boss for two days as he drank himself into bouts of insane rage, ranting about evil myall spirits. They would hear his Gaelic curses shouted from the bark hut of his residence in the night, and wonder if he had gone mad. But none dared inquire, as their boss was in such a rage that he threatened to shoot anything that came within range of his drunken fury.

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

S
ergeant 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 know-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.’