For a moment, the old man stared into the eyes of the subaltern. Then he said something in his own language, and behind him, spears were raised, nulla-nullas lifted threateningly.
Suddenly, a shot rang out on the morning stillness. The old man staggered, dropping his spear, and pressing his hand to his abdomen as blood appeared from between his spread fingers.
“Who fired that shot?” the subaltern barked, turning in his saddle, and all at once, the air was filled with spears. The subaltern was struck high in the back, the shaft of the spear burying itself deeply in his flesh, and he slowly toppled from his horse and lay still.
“Fire!” someone shouted, and a volley of shots sounded from behind the prisoner. He ducked his head, and a long, deadly spear flew past his shoulder, to bury itself in a eucalypt behind him. Then a young warrior ran towards him his club raised high. Four paces separated the two men when a lone shot sounded, and the warrior pitched face-down on the earth, his club flying from his fist. He lay, kicking and digging at the earth with his fingers, strange guttural sounds emanating from his open mouth, then slowly stiffened, and lay still.
Then, suddenly, the natives had disappeared into the bushes, simply vanished from sight.
Looking behind him, the prisoner saw a man, a shaft buried in his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he broke off the haft of the spear close to his body. The subaltern lay, dead, on the ground, and another older man lay near to him, a spear buried in his spine.
He watched in horror as the troopers reloaded their weapons, and on a given command, fired a volley into the bushes shielding the natives. A sergeant, older than any of the other troopers, dismounted, knelt beside the body of the subaltern and pressed fingers to his chest, then lifted the body and slung it across the saddle of the officer’s horse. He moved to the second man, shook his head, and slowly lifted the body and laid it across the saddle of the trooper’s horse.
“Let’s get out of here, before they come back!” the sergeant cried, and as one, the troop turned and rode off, back the way they had come.
The prisoner shook the reins, and his horse lunged forward, pulling the buggy over the rough ground behind the troop. In the exchange, which had lasted no more than seconds, four men had died and one was wounded. As the troop broke into a gallop, the prisoner cracked his whip and followed as fast as his horse could manage.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“…Two of my men are dead, one is wounded, and we left two dead natives in the clearing,” the sergeant told Morris, who stood, smoking and leaning on the fence; “but I hope the sight of the Army will send those natives running, and they will not bother you again, sir.” Then, flipping a lazy salute with his right hand, he waved, and the troop rode off through the main gates and out onto the roadway.
Morris stood, gazing at the prisoner. His mouth was set in a firm, hard line, and he stood, thinking, for some time, before speaking: “Well, ‘e can ‘ope them natives won’t be back…but they will. They never knows when they’s ‘ad enough. You better not go down the fences again terday, I don’t think. Never can tell what can ‘appen. I’ll find work fer yer ta do around the ‘ouse fer the next few days. Then, when we go down tha fences again, I’ll go with yer…an’ we’ll both be armed!” And he turned away and headed back towards the house.
The prisoner turned and gazed off back towards the little clearing, now hidden behind the eucalypts beyond the river. He thought about the fierce exchange that had taken place, the two natives that had been killed, and wondered who had fired the shot that had started the battle. Somebody had been too quick on the trigger, and because of his nervousness, four men were dead. The natives would return to collect and bury their dead comrades, or whatever it was that they did with the dead in their society, of that he was certain. But what would be their reaction to it all, now that the soldiers had left? Would they seek revenge on Morris and his men?
He shook the reins and drove the buggy into the barn, climbed down from the seat and unharnessed the horse. Then he spent some time washing the animal down and stabling it, and ensuring it had enough fodder and water, closed the door, and left the barn. As he walked down to where Wallis was sitting, one eye on the flock of sheep, he could not help casting frequent glances back towards the hidden clearing.
“Hear yer ‘ad some trouble,” Wallis said as the prisoner closed the gate to the paddock behind him and limped over to where the shepherd sat, smoking; “over beyond tha river…some blacks give yer a ‘ard time?”
“Yes…the troopers had to shoot two of ‘em, and lost two of their own men. Worryin’, though…think they could be back…’specially when they find out that sugar Morris gave ‘em is poisoned.”
“They’d know by now, mate,” Wallis said, gazing away towards the clearing; “an’ I bet they’re back, lookin’ fer more trouble, now they know tha soldiers is gorn. There’s only three of us an’ Morris ain’t likely ta give us guns.”
“Mightn’t ‘ave any choice,” the prisoner said, lighting his pipe; “if the blacks come back…there’s a lot of ‘em over there. Too may fer one man ta hold off until tha traps get ‘ere.”
Wallis looked at him: “How many you reckon there are…warriors, that is?”
“Twenty, per’aps more. I counted at least that many in the group we ran inta. An’ they don’t like us one bit. If they know Morris is the only one here with guns, they’ll be back. He’ll ‘ave to arm us…if ‘e wants ta live, an’ protect ‘is missus.”
Nothing was seen of the natives for the rest of the day. Morris did not arm the two convicts, but the prisoner noticed the man carried two flintlocks, shoved in the waistband of his trousers, from then on.
For the remainder of the day, the prisoner stayed with Wallis, guarding the flock of sheep in the paddock nearest the house. The grass was not as long or as thickly-grown as in their usual grazing paddock, but it was nearer to the house, and to assistance, should the band of blacks reappear.
As dusk fell, and the two men shepherded the flock back into the night holding-paddock, Morris came down into the yard and scanned the woods near the river for any sign of the native, but saw nothing. He was not concerned that they might attempt retribution during the night – the natives in this new country seemed to have a fear of the night, and remained in their encampments until dawn.
When Mary brought the cauldron down to the shack for their supper, Morris followed her inside, and tossed a flintlock on each of the men’s beds.
“Keep ‘em by yer at all times,” he said; “I don’t like givin’ convicks guns, but there ain’t no choice right now.” Then he turned and followed Mary back to the house.
The prisoner picked up the flintlock lying on his folded blanket, and checked it. The weapon was old, the barrel slightly rust-coated, the trigger loose. But it was loaded, although, to judge from the age of the weapon, there was a chance it would do no more than blow off his hand should he choose or need to fire it.
Wallis’ weapon was in even worse condition. Morris was certainly taking no chances in arming the two men: he had chosen the oldest and most unserviceable weapons he had to give them.
As they sat on the steps in the chill of the falling night, their eyes kept wandering to the river, and the woods beyond it. But there was no sign of movement in the bushes, nor in the further clearing, which the prisoner could locate by the presence of an exceptionally-tall eucalypt at its edge. Time and again, he found himself turning in that direction, scanning the forest even after full dark had fallen and nothing could be seen.
There was not even the distant flicker of a campfire. It was as if the natives had simply vanished.
Finally, shortly after seven pm; when a cold wind sprung up from the west, both men retired. But regardless of Morris’ belief that the natives would remain in their camp during the hours of darkness, neither man slept well that night, dozing fitfully, to awaken at the slightest noise, and lie awake until dawn broke.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
September 2nd; 1822:
The prisoner rose as grey touched the far horizon, donned a tattered old army greatcoat Morris had given him, and limped outside to relieve himself. As he stood in the dawn chill behind the shack, he glanced across the river – and there stood a large group of natives, lined out before the forest, each carrying spears and nulla-nullas, and staring towards the farm.
“Think we got trouble,” he said as he stumped into the shack; “they’re back…an’ they look like the mean business.” He picked up the ancient flintlock and tucked it into the waistband of his worn trousers, then moved to the door and stood, peering around the jamb.
A moment later, Wallis joined him, his weapon in his hand. As he shoved the muzzle around the door and sighted along the barrel, the prisoner raised his hand, placed it on top of the barrel, and pushed it gently downward.
“Not yet…” he said softly; “…we ain’t got no reloads. We gonna hafta make every shot count.”
“Hey!” Morris yelled from the back door of the house; “git yerselves up ‘ere! We’ll ‘old ‘em orf from ‘ere, if we hafta!”
At that moment, the big stallion burst from the barn, Mary bent low over the saddle. As it raced out through the gates and turned onto the roadway, Morris yelled: “She’s gorn in ta fetch tha army! Hurry up! Git up ‘ere!”
His pistol still in his hand, Wallis ran for the house, leaving the prisoner hobbling along in his wake. When he was halfway to the house, one of the natives drew back his right arm and hurled a spear from his woomera, or throwing-stick. It sailed high in the air, and the prisoner watched as it buried its shaft in the soil not thirty feet behind him.
He turned, braced his right wrist on a fencepost, took aim, and fired, then turned about and headed for the house as quickly as his stump would allow him.
On the far side of the river, the natives ducked down as the shot crashed in the early morning stillness, and the ball passed harmlessly over their heads.
Morris reached out and took his arm, pulling him up the steps and into the house, then slammed the door. Handing the prisoner a powder-horn and shot, he ordered: “Reload that gun! Yer did well!” and the prisoner looked up, surprised at the compliment.
“Yer showed ‘em we got guns! They’ll likely think careful before comin’ any closer,” Morris told him, a double-barrelled shotgun braced beneath his right arm; “it’ll take tha army per’aps half an hour ta get ‘ere…if them natives come, we gotta hold ‘em orf til then!”
They watched through the rearward-facing windows of the old house whilst the natives stood in a large group, arguing volubly. Occasionally, one of them would stop and stare across the river at the house, then return to the argument. Then, as the debate seemed to have reached its most heated, the older men spread out in a line facing towards the house, whilst the younger ones – some dozen or so – grouped themselves at the centre of the line, and began moving towards the river.
Morris disappeared inside, and when he returned, he held a musket, its barrel shining with a coating of oil, and handed it to the prisoner.
“Yer eyes is better than mine,” he explained; “when they reach this side, take a crack at hittin’ one of ‘em…it might be enough ta put tha rest orf comin’ any closer.”
The prisoner rested the long barrel on the lower sill of the open window, thumbed back the hammer, and sighted on the tallest of the warriors, a man who was now stepping into the river, a woomera in one hand, two or three spears in the other. It was a long shot – some eighty yards or so – but assuming the weapon was new, by the time the warrior had reached the near bank, the range would have fallen to some sixty yards. He would be within range, but only just.
He watched as the young warrior waded out into midstream, his weapons held over his head, and waited. As the warrior’s foot touched the near bank, he sighted on the man’s chest, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a puff of smoke, a loud, resounding crack as the gunpowder exploded, and the warrior suddenly threw his arms wide, the weapons flying from his grasp.
“”Yer did it!” Morris shouted, slapping the prisoner on the shoulder; “yer got ‘im!”
The three men watched as the warrior slowly sank into the water then resurfaced, to lie, floating amongst the reeds. The remaining warriors began to turn about and make their way hurriedly from the river. When they had all regained the far bank, the line of elder warriors closed in about them, and the argument resumed, with much arm-waving and shouting taking place.
“That was a damn good shot!” Wallis said, grinning at the prisoner; “yer give ‘em summat ta think about. Mebbe they won’t be so keen ta take us now.”
“I just shot one of their warriors,” the prisoner said as he accepted the powder-horn from Morris; “they’ll be arter revenge, an’ make no mistake about it. They’ll come fer us, sooner or later.” He finished loading the musket, and stood it on its butt against the wall next to the window. He looked up across the river again, and as he watched, a second group of warriors appeared from the eucalypt forest behind the group gathered near the riverbank.
All were fully armed. And the face and body of each warrior was painted with coloured clay.
“Reinforcements jes’ arrived,” Morris said; “we’re fer it now.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted: Mary! Git out ‘ere!”
“She can’t, Mr Morris…you sent her into town to fetch the army,” the prisoner said, and Morris looked at him for a moment, then ran, doubled over, back into the house. A moment later, he reappeared with his grey-haired wife, who looked scared and strained.
“Stay out ‘ere with us, Lil;” Morris told her; “we’ll need yer ta reload fer us…if we’re ta ‘ave any chance of holdin’ ‘em orf. Git down, an’ reload the guns as we pass ‘em to yer, girl. I think we’re for it now, lads!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Across the river, the natives now numbered some thirty to forty armed warriors. There seemed to be a discussion or voluble argument taking place involving all the warriors, for there was much arm-waving, pointing across the river towards the house, and shouting.
The three men and the old woman crouched below the windows and peered across at the melee, waiting to see what the group would do next. And they were not kept waiting long.
An old man, seemingly older than the rest, stepped forward, and began shouting, and gradually the tumult subsided, the warriors paying close attention to what he was saying. Then they split into two groups, separated by some twenty yards, and moved towards the river. As they began wading out in the shallows, their weapons held above their heads, they remained separated, obviously intending to attack the house on two fronts, from the left and from the right. It would be an attempt to split the fire of the defenders, for the natives seemed to have reasoned out that it took some seconds for each weapon to reload after being fired. A steady, swift rate of fire could not be maintained, and if the defenders were forced to defend two sides of the house at once, this further lessened the response rate.
“We’re for it now, lads!” Morris said grimly, laying aside his shotgun and taking up a musket, which had a longer range than the shotgun; “they’ll take us from two sides. I never counted on that!”
Morris proved to be right: when the natives reached the nearside of the river, they waded ashore, and the two groups separated even further, moving down along the riverbank in both directions until some eighty to a hundred yards stood between them and the house. Then they began moving up, over the rise towards the house.
The group watched as the natives moved in closer to the little house, and when still some fifty yards from the buildings, a native stood and hurled a spear from his throwing-stick. The defenders watched as it sailed through the morning air and landed just short of the left-hand wall.
Then both groups dropped down on their stomachs and began crawling through the long grass towards the house, sitting on a slight rise above them. By doing so, they had ensured the defenders lost sight of both groups in the paspalum that stood to well over knee-height. As
they moved closer, one native, a firestick tucked into his woolly hair, separated from each group, and began crawling slowly and stealthily towards the front of the house. When they had moved far enough up towards the roadway to ensure they could not be seen from the back of the house, they rose and ran in towards the front of the house, laying their firesticks against the walls and heaping handfuls of dead grass and light bracken over the smouldering firesticks. Then they fanned the tiny flickering flames with their hands until the kindling was ablaze, and backed away to watch, as the flames gradually engulfed the front wall.
“I smell smoke!” Wallis said suddenly, and as the three men turned, a wisp of grey smoke floated down the hallway towards the back of the house.
“Gawd! They’ve set fire ta tha house!” Morris yelled, and got to his feet just as a spear thudded into the wall near where he had been crouching.
Rising quickly. Lily ran up the hall, into the house’s only bedroom off to the left, and reappeared holding a blanket. She disappeared into the kitchen, and came out holding the blanket, now sodden with the washing-up water from a wooden pail in the sink. Heading back up the hall, she began beating at the conflagration with all her might, her thin arms flailing at the flames, which appeared to die beneath the damp weight of the blanket, then rose again as the weight of the heavy material was lifted up.
“Here they come!” Morris yelled, and fired. Twenty yards away from the house and out to the left, a native grabbed at his arm, cried out, then ignored the wound and hurled his spear. As it sailed past Wallis through the open window above his head, he ducked, then rose again and fired in the one motion.
The two men watched helplessly as Wallis seemed to straighten to his full height before the open window, then staggered back, and toppled to the floor, a spear embedded deeply in his breast. The man’s wide, staring eyes told them he was already dead.