Read Online Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 by Peter Watt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Watt
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with the cat if the boys play up. You understand me?’
The trooper’s nervous grin acknowledged the threat as he hurried away to relay the orders to the others with appropriate and embellished warnings. The thought of an overdue meal spurred the hungry troopers into gathering up discarded uniforms and leading their horses along the bank of the creek to a new camp site. Henry watched his men depart, chattering in their own dialect and jostling each other like excited schoolboys on an outing.
When they were out of sight, he walked away from the bonfire to the edge of the creek where he sat down on the grassy bank above the body of the girl he had shot through the head. She now lay with her long black hair trailing away in the muddy waters. As he sat and stared with vacant eyes at the dead girl, Mort rode into the deserted camp.
‘Have the men returned from the hill, Sergeant James?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Henry replied as he walked away from the creek. Mort did not dismount. ‘All but Corporal Gideon.’
‘I know where Corporal Gideon is,’ Mort said from astride his horse. ‘He’s with Mister Macintosh tracking a nigger. The one that murdered Angus Macintosh.’
Henry was startled by the news of Angus Macintosh’s death. ‘What happened?’
‘Speared. Damned nigger we missed in the dispersal ambushed him. Young Angus didn’t have a chance and unfortunately I was not in a position to save him. But it appears that one of my shots wounded the nigger responsible.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Very sad for Mister Macintosh. I suppose he will need us to help him bring the man in.’
Mort brushed from his face a cloud of flies that rose from the body of a nearby child. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘He has Corporal Gideon and his own men. That should be sufficient to hunt down one badly wounded nigger. We will have our meal and leave. Our job is done,’ he said irritably.
‘Very good, sir,’ Henry replied. ‘The boys are up the creek preparing a meal now. Should be ready by the time we reach them.’
Trooper Mudgee, at the head of the column, brought it to a halt. Mort and Henry rode up to where Trooper Mudgee sat, surveying the bullock team yoked to the dray. Henry commented in his puzzlement, ‘There appears to be no one around.’
Mort shifted uneasily in his saddle. ‘I think I know where the men are who came from this team,’ he said, feigning sadness in his lie. ‘I found a couple of men up the track who appeared to have been speared by the niggers. Poor beggars.’
Henry was surprised at his commanding officer’s oversight and said, ‘You didn’t mention this before, sir!’
Mort did not look at the sergeant when he spoke. ‘No . . . I was including their murders in my report when we got back to the barracks. You would have known the details then, Sergeant James.’ And he continued to stare at the big bullocks, yoked to the centre pole of the dray. He felt sick in the stomach as he had not expected to stumble across the bullock team. The discovery was just bad luck. ‘I was a bit upset about the death of Mister Macintosh and forgot to tell you,’ he added, by way of making his ‘oversight’ sound reasonable. But the damned bullocks and dray stood before him as a silent witness of the existence of the two men he had murdered. The question remained of what he was to do about the evidence.
Trooper Mudgee dismounted and examined the footprints around the dray. ‘Bin t’ree men here, Mahmy,’ he said, as he crouched to peer at the signs in the earth. ‘One man a blackfella.’ Mort felt a knife twisting in his stomach – three! The Irishman had not mentioned the existence of any other white man before he died. Who – and where – was the third man?
‘You sure there were three men here?’ Henry asked the police trooper.
‘Yes, Sar’nt Henry . . . one old blackfella,’ he answered confidently. ‘One old white man. And a young whitefella. T’ree men.’
‘You said you found
The trooper’s nervous grin acknowledged the threat as he hurried away to relay the orders to the others with appropriate and embellished warnings. The thought of an overdue meal spurred the hungry troopers into gathering up discarded uniforms and leading their horses along the bank of the creek to a new camp site. Henry watched his men depart, chattering in their own dialect and jostling each other like excited schoolboys on an outing.
When they were out of sight, he walked away from the bonfire to the edge of the creek where he sat down on the grassy bank above the body of the girl he had shot through the head. She now lay with her long black hair trailing away in the muddy waters. As he sat and stared with vacant eyes at the dead girl, Mort rode into the deserted camp.
‘Have the men returned from the hill, Sergeant James?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Henry replied as he walked away from the creek. Mort did not dismount. ‘All but Corporal Gideon.’
‘I know where Corporal Gideon is,’ Mort said from astride his horse. ‘He’s with Mister Macintosh tracking a nigger. The one that murdered Angus Macintosh.’
Henry was startled by the news of Angus Macintosh’s death. ‘What happened?’
‘Speared. Damned nigger we missed in the dispersal ambushed him. Young Angus didn’t have a chance and unfortunately I was not in a position to save him. But it appears that one of my shots wounded the nigger responsible.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Very sad for Mister Macintosh. I suppose he will need us to help him bring the man in.’
Mort brushed from his face a cloud of flies that rose from the body of a nearby child. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘He has Corporal Gideon and his own men. That should be sufficient to hunt down one badly wounded nigger. We will have our meal and leave. Our job is done,’ he said irritably.
‘Very good, sir,’ Henry replied. ‘The boys are up the creek preparing a meal now. Should be ready by the time we reach them.’
Trooper Mudgee, at the head of the column, brought it to a halt. Mort and Henry rode up to where Trooper Mudgee sat, surveying the bullock team yoked to the dray. Henry commented in his puzzlement, ‘There appears to be no one around.’
Mort shifted uneasily in his saddle. ‘I think I know where the men are who came from this team,’ he said, feigning sadness in his lie. ‘I found a couple of men up the track who appeared to have been speared by the niggers. Poor beggars.’
Henry was surprised at his commanding officer’s oversight and said, ‘You didn’t mention this before, sir!’
Mort did not look at the sergeant when he spoke. ‘No . . . I was including their murders in my report when we got back to the barracks. You would have known the details then, Sergeant James.’ And he continued to stare at the big bullocks, yoked to the centre pole of the dray. He felt sick in the stomach as he had not expected to stumble across the bullock team. The discovery was just bad luck. ‘I was a bit upset about the death of Mister Macintosh and forgot to tell you,’ he added, by way of making his ‘oversight’ sound reasonable. But the damned bullocks and dray stood before him as a silent witness of the existence of the two men he had murdered. The question remained of what he was to do about the evidence.
Trooper Mudgee dismounted and examined the footprints around the dray. ‘Bin t’ree men here, Mahmy,’ he said, as he crouched to peer at the signs in the earth. ‘One man a blackfella.’ Mort felt a knife twisting in his stomach – three! The Irishman had not mentioned the existence of any other white man before he died. Who – and where – was the third man?
‘You sure there were three men here?’ Henry asked the police trooper.
‘Yes, Sar’nt Henry . . . one old blackfella,’ he answered confidently. ‘One old white man. And a young whitefella. T’ree men.’
‘You said you found
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