“Lil! We need yer, gal!” Morris shouted as, outside, the blacks made a concerted run towards the house on two fronts. Spears began thudding into the walls, and one or two sailed right through the open windows, missing the two men by inches.
Over to the right, behind the back door, the prisoner took aim on a tall, bearded native, and fired, then watched with satisfaction as the man dropped to the ground, his spears and woomera flying from his hands. He heard Morris fire again, heard a native scream, then ducked down to reload the musket. His hand fell on a flintlock pistol lying near his hand, and he raised it, took aim again, and squeezed the trigger.
Outside, the oldest of the old men cried out, more in anger than pain, and hurled a spear, then stood momentarily frozen as he attempted to fit a second spear to his woomera. Around him, the younger warriors were now within ten yards of the house, and showed no sign of slowing their advance.
With trembling fingers, he finished reloading the musket, laid the long barrel on the window-sill, and fired again. But his shot had been hasty, misjudged. The natives continued their run towards the embattled house, as beside him, the old woman picked up the flintlock pistol and set about reloading it with trembling fingers.
He felt the pistol pressed hard against his forearm and reached across his body to take the weapon as old Lil gasped, choked, then fell forward onto her face, a spear buried in her back.
“Lil!” Morris yelled; “Lil! Get up, girl! Lil!” But the old woman could not hear him.
“Yer stinkin’ murderin’ bastards!” he cried, rose to his feet, his face suffused with anger, and fired through the open window. A moment later, a shaft took him through the throat, and he slumped forward over the sill, his head hanging outside, the musket dropping from his lifeless hands.
The prisoner looked about him. Towards the front of the hallway, the flames were advancing steadily, now no more than five yards from his back. Over to the far left, Morris’ dead body hung over the sill, and on the floor at his feet, Wallis lay, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Near his feet lay Lil, her face hidden by the shabby carpet that covered the dry floorboards.
In that brief instant of time that followed, all the brutality and cruelty he had survived in the past months came flooding into his mind. He thought of home, the land he would never see again, of the places he would never visit, and the harsh, almost unbearable years that lay ahead of him. Then he sighed.
Laying aside the musket, he picked up the shotgun that lay near to Morris’ lifeless body, reached a hand over the sill and dug in the man’s coat pockets and located a handful of shells.
He broke the shotgun, thumbed a shell into each barrel, then closed it, and rose to his feet. As he began moving toward the open back door, the words of an old hymn he had learned as a child came to mind, and he began humming the tune, softly, to himself, holding the shotgun at his hip, he limped to the head of the short flight of stairs leading down into the back yard as the first of the natives reached him…
THE END
About the author:
Adrian Scott has been writing short stories for a number of years, in addition to studying at university and taking care of media coverage and public relations for various charity organizations. He has three daughters, all in their twenties, one of whom lives in Bundaberg with her husband, the two youngest living in Brisbane.
‘DeVayne’ is his first venture into the world of novels, and he has followed this up with volumes two and three, all involving the DeVayne family and their problems in facing life as lycanthropes.
He now lives in a retirement village in Caboolture, Queensland with his wife Penny, and is completing his Masters in Professional Writing.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends