The other members of the party were lining up on either side of him. When they were in position they raised their loaded guns. Breath hot and eager in his throat, Blake watched Gavin with avid eyes as he waited for the command to open fire.
Gavin looked along the line of waiting men, turned to stare once again at the sleeping camp. He hesitated. He had expected to come across an armed camp making ready for war. What he had found was entirely different: people sleeping, at peace with the world. There was no threat here, no danger, yet having brought the men to this place he could not simply tell them to turn around and go home again. It was too late for that. He took a deep breath, committing himself to the action he no longer wanted.
‘Fire!’
The silence was shattered by the bellow of the guns.
The two youths froze, watching the men go by.
Mura’s hand tightened on Jay-e-son’s arm. Mouth close to his companion’s ear he said, ‘We must warn the camp.’
Jason’s face showed grey in the darkness as he turned. ‘How?’
‘We must go there. Get ahead of them.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘We’ve got to do something.’ Passion made Mura’s voice too loud. He drew a deep breath. ‘Stay behind if you want,’ he said more quietly, using the exact words that Jason had spoken earlier. ‘I’m going back.’
He scrambled to his feet and began to run through the trees, his night-adjusted eyes, instincts, warning him of branches with which he might collide, of hollows in the ground into which he might fall. He had covered twenty yards before Jay-e-son joined him, running silently at his side.
It was an impossible task. They had been only two hundred yards from the camp. There was no way they could bypass the attackers and still arrive in time to warn the sleeping clan of the danger descending upon them. They were still running when they heard the first volley of the sounds that Jason recognised as shots.
‘Too late.’ He grabbed Mura’s arm.
Mura tried to shake him off but Jason tightened his grip, dragging him to a halt. ‘Listen,’ he said urgently. ‘There is nothing we can do now.’
They stood side by side in the undergrowth, chests heaving, eyes and ears probing the darkness.
A chorus of screams and cries came to them, punctuated by yells and the repeated volleys of the guns.
‘What are they doing?’ Mura’s eyes were wild.
Killing them, Jason thought but could not bring himself to say so. He said, ‘They’re attacking the camp.’
Mura was not fooled. White eyes flashed in the black face. Fiercely he said, ‘I am going to help.’
Jason still clung to his arm. ‘Do that, they’ll kill you, too.’
Mura was beyond reason. The sounds of gunfire dinning in his ears, he wrenched his arm free and took off pell-mell towards the camp. Jason hesitated but could not stay here in safety by himself. Mura had called them his people. Well, to some extent they had become his people, too. He sighed once in resignation and went after him.
Kudnarto awoke to uproar. Screams slashed the darkness. A violent noise, louder and sharper than thunder. Smoke swirled in acrid clouds. People were racing here, there, turning, fleeing, turning again. That was the most frightening thing of all: the panicked charging to and fro while the thunder roared, the smoke rolled through the camp and people fell, crawling, crying, or lay still.
Her mother snatched her up, ran with her into the darkness. Kudnarto could feel her mother’s breathing, gasping in horror. Her mother’s sister ran after them. She was younger than Kudnarto’s mother and unburdened by a child. She ran more easily. She drew level with them. Kudnarto saw her falter, stop. There was a surprised look on her face. She opened her mouth. Her teeth were red. The blood flowed out of her mouth and down her chin. She fell. Terror wrenched at Kudnarto’s pounding heart. Eyes screwed tight, she clung to her mother as they plunged through the darkness.
There was a fresh salt air blowing, the sound of waves. Kudnarto opened her eyes. Sand dunes humped, mysterious in the darkness. The line of surf gleamed silver.
Her mother lowered her to the ground, whispering, ‘You must walk now. I cannot carry you any longer.’
Kudnarto did not want to walk. She clung tighter, arms wound about her mother’s neck.
‘Let go of me, child.’
She trembled, eyeing the dark, remembering the stories of ghosts, the quinkan that would steal her away.
‘We are safe here,’ her mother said.
There was a hollow in one of the dunes. They crouched within it, hearing the sound of the waves, smelling the harsh dampness of sand around them. The sea sucked over the rocks along the water’s edge and ran in sparkling tongues up the shelving beach. Kudnarto burrowed into her mother’s warm flank.
Through the swirl of powder smoke Blake saw the aboriginal camp erupt into frenzied movement. It was like watching an ant’s nest turned over by a stick. There were figures everywhere, running, turning, none with any idea where to go or what to do. He would have laughed but had no time to laugh. The killing frenzy was on him. Rifle butt smooth against his cheek, the recoil bruised his shoulder each time he fired. He moved like an automaton: home on a target, aim, fire, watch the target go down, reload, seek another target, re-aim, fire, watch it go down, reload …
The bitter smoke swirled, his ears rang with the crash of gunfire, there were bodies everywhere.
Blake’s body was shaking uncontrollably. A frenzy of excitement fed his heart, his blood. He did not want the killing to stop. He needed more targets, always more, he searched for them eagerly but soon there were no more to be had.
The gunfire petered out. Silence returned to ears still ringing with the noise of violence.
‘That’s it, boys.’ Gavin’s voice.
Blake wanted to shout aloud in protest. No! That’s not it!
There were still lots of them left, the ones who’d got away into the darkness. They couldn’t afford to let them go. None of them would be safe if they did that. They had to get rid of the lot of them.
Blake caught his father’s eye, knew they were thinking the same thoughts.
Guns at the ready, the men moved forward cautiously into the clearing. Blake strolled to the seaward side of the camp. He could hear the surf breaking beyond the sand dunes. His father joined him.
‘Reckon a few went this way,’ Hector Gallagher said softly.
Blake nodded. ‘Let’s see if we can find ’em.’
Silent as shadows, they drifted down to the beach. The humped shapes of the dunes rose at their backs. As far as they could see along the dim grey outline of the beach, nothing stirred. The two men moved, paused, moved again.
‘I’m sure some of ’em came this way,’ Blake whispered.
His father turned and looked back along the beach. Nothing moved. He turned again. His rifle clinked on a stone.
Blake said, ‘If it wasn’t so dark maybe we could see somen.’
He walked forward a couple of steps, paused again. His body craved action, something more physical than shooting people at a distance.
I want something I can get my hands on, he thought. He grinned in the darkness. If I could wring someone’s neck I reckon I’d feel better.
A faint, low sound came out of the darkness. Most men would have missed it but not Blake.
‘What’s that?’
His father paused. They both listened but the sound was not repeated. My God, Blake thought in frustration, these damn noises are haunting me tonight.
‘Didn’ ’ear nuthin,’ Hector said.
‘Shut up!’ he told his father fiercely. ‘Listen!’
He listened: with his ears, the tingling nerves of his skin. There was something …
His breath caught in his throat. Inch by inch he stretched out his hand, groping in the darkness in front of him.
Kudnarto felt the sudden tension in her mother’s body before she heard the sound of footsteps, heavy upon the beach. They clung close,
trembling. Their terrified eyes stared.
A voice spoke, so close.
‘Imsuresomeofemcamethisway …’ A sound without meaning, heightening their terror.
They held their breath. A dark shadow moved between them and the sea. Another followed. The shadows stopped and there was a clinking sound.
‘Ifitwasntsodarkmaybewecouldseesomen.’
The men moved closer, so close that Kudnarto could see the starlight gleaming on their eyes, smell the rancid stench of their bodies.
She felt the tremors running through her mother’s body, heard the moan of terror gathering in her throat.
‘Whatsthat?’
Silence.
‘Didnearnuthin.’
‘Shutuplisten.’
So close. She could have touched them. Her mother’s arms were clasped tight about her. She could sense the wave of panic welling unstoppably in her mother’s trembling body.
A hand groped, stopped.
‘Whattheell?’
The wave broke.
Movement erupted under Blake’s hand. Two figures exploding into movement, hurtling away from him along the beach. One was large, the other small, dragged stumbling along.
Blake grinned. Too easy. He gave himself a second to enjoy the sense of power that filled him, then loped after the fleeing forms.
Moaning, her mother ran, Kudnarto’s hand tight in her own. Kudnarto ran, too, stumbling, slipping, running, fear driving her feet. Something behind them, a sound quick and purposeful. A terrifying shadow swooped across the darkness.
Blake caught up with them easily, raised the butt of his gun and brought it crashing down on the head of the taller figure: a woman, he saw now. She threw up her arms, collapsed like a felled tree.
When her mother opened her arms and fell forward Kudnarto did not stop, ran with screams bubbling in her throat. Something seized her, a hand wrenched at her hair, forcing her head back. She was lifted, released. She fell heavily.
Blake’s grin widened. He reached out, fingers closing in tangled hair. He lifted the child, kicking, screeching, struggling, and flung it down on the sand in front of him. It fell with its face in a rock pool. Without thinking, instinct moving faster than thought, he put his foot on the back of its neck and pressed down.
Salt water covered her face. A heavy weight on the back of her neck pressed her down. Her body convulsed, seeking air after her panicked flight. There was no air. The weight on her neck grew heavier. She opened her eyes. Splintered starlight danced in the water of the rock pool. The roughness of the rock ground against her cheek. She had clenched her teeth shut but the need for air was too great. Her mouth opened, sucking water deep into her starving lungs. Squirming vibrations ran in waves up his leg but Blake did not move. They stopped soon enough.
‘Enjoyin’ yourself?’
Blake heard contempt in his father’s voice, reacted to it with his normal anger.
‘I thought we come ’ere to kill ’em. Maybe you’d be ’appier if we kissed ’em?’
He never saw the blow that hit him above the ear and stretched him flat on his back on the sand.
His father looked down at him. ‘Don’ start bein’ smart with me.’ Contemptuously, he rested his boot on his son’s chest, pinning him to the damp sand. ‘I was you, I’d stick to little black kids that can’t hit back. That’s about your mark.’
Blake thought, One of these days I shall kill you.
Something of the thought must have communicated itself to his father. Hector’s cruel grin widened. ‘I wouldn’t try nuthin. You ain’t man enough to take me yet and I doubt you ever will be.’
He turned on his heel, walked across to the fallen figure of the woman and checked it briefly.
‘Stone dead,’ he said. ‘Some would say that was a waste. Though mebbe you’re the sort that fancies dead blackies?’
Laughing, he turned and began to climb the steep face of the dune towards the camp. Blake got to his feet and followed, the soft sand dragging at his boots, rifle heavy in his hand. Ahead of him his father’s head bobbed as he climbed.
It would be so easy, Blake thought. One shot, that’s all it would take.
Hector turned. ‘Thinking of shooting your old dad in the back, by any chance?’ His voice was rich with contempt. ‘About your mark, I reckon.’ He waited until Blake came up to him. ‘Seein’ I don’t want my only son to hang, maybe you’d better walk ahead of me, eh?’
Face congested, eyes hot with fury, Blake shoved past his father’s mocking laugh. Shoulders squared, he marched on towards the devastated camp. Hating. Hating.
They were too late, as Jason had always known they would be. In mute horror he and Mura stared through the latticework of branches at the line of barely visible men, the muzzle flashes of the guns, the swirling smoke, the crumpled, crawling, fleeing people.
Mura gathered his resolve to hurl himself forward in a futile charge against the guns.
‘No!’
Jason’s hand clamped tight on his arm, restraining him by sheer force from throwing his life away. For a minute Mura fought him in passionate silence, face closed, eyes blank with shock and fury, but Jason hung on until suddenly he slumped, breath noisy in his throat, watching in sullen silence the continuing massacre of his people.
Jason put his mouth to Mura’s ear. ‘Nothing we can do here …’
He turned, arm protectively around Mura’s shoulders, and on trembling legs guided him away from the sounds of slaughter into the darkness of the bush. A hundred yards was all they could manage before shock stripped the remaining strength from their limbs. They slumped to the ground. Around them the peaceful voices of the bush contrasted bitterly with the mayhem they had just witnessed.
‘Why?’ Mura stared unseeing at the darkness. ‘Why did they do it?’
Jason’s head was filled with the vision of hell they had just seen, the darkness riven by gunflashes, the contorted, motionless bodies, the dragging movement of the injured. He said nothing.
‘Nantariltarra said there would be peace,’ Mura said.
‘Yes.’
Neither of them would admit what they both knew, that Nantariltarra had fatally underestimated the savagery and ruthlessness of the newcomers.
Mura stared at Jason with hostile eyes. ‘Your people—’ he said.
Jason interrupted him at once. ‘No.’
‘They are kuinyo.’
‘I never saw them until yesterday.’ But knew it was useless. Mura was right: they were his people. He had to share whatever guilt existed because of this night’s work but there were more important things to think about now than who was to blame. They were in mortal danger. Judging by tonight’s performance the kuinyo would kill them, too, if they found them. They had to get away but where and to do what he did not know. The night’s events had fractured the framework of their lives.
The initial fury had faded from Mura’s face. He looked at Jason appealingly. ‘Do you think they killed all of them?’
‘No.’ It was hard to believe that anyone could have survived the carnage yet reason told Jason they must have done. ‘We’ll stay here tonight,’ he decided. ‘In the morning we’ll find the others.’
For the survivors—somehow—life would start again.
‘Where’s the rest of ’em?’
Hector Gallagher looked about him in baffled outrage. Six bodies plus the two more they knew about on the beach: that was all. He would have been prepared to swear they had knocked over twenty or thirty at least, yet there it was. Six. Somehow the rest had managed to sneak off into the bush.
He went looking for Gavin and found him standing with Ian in the middle of the camp.
‘Looks like we missed most of ’em.’
Gavin looked around at the woven shelters, the handful of bodies, the silent bush at their backs. ‘Looks like it.’
‘We’ll ’ave to go after ’em,’ Hector declared.
Gavin shook his head. ‘No.’
Hector was horrified. ‘We can�
�� let ’em get away, not after tonight. Won’ ’ave no peace, we do that.’
‘We wanted to give them a warning,’ Gavin said. ‘We’ve done that. We’re not trying to wipe out the whole tribe.’
Hector disagreed. ‘That were why we come ’ere. Six dead?’ he scoffed. ‘Ain’t nothing, only six. We don’t follow ’em up while we got the chance, you mark my words, we’ll be havin’ a war on our hands. Won’t be a sheep or shepherd safe in the whole district.’
Ian said, ‘He has a point, Gavin.’
‘We can’t go chasing them in the dark.’
‘I don’t see why not. We got here all right, didn’t we?’
‘We knew where we were coming. And they weren’t ready for us. They’ll turn the tables on us soon enough if we start chasing them through the bush.’
‘That’s crazy,’ Hector said belligerently.
‘You’ll have to live with it.’ Gavin did not take kindly to argument from his employees.
‘Aye,’ Hector said unrepentantly. ‘Or die with it.’ And stamped away, set shoulders shouting outrage.
‘I think he’s right,’ Ian said.
‘Well, I don’t.’
Gavin was troubled, nonetheless. He had convinced himself that they were in danger of imminent attack. The peacefully sleeping camp had given lie to that but he had gone ahead anyway. Now their situation was far more dangerous than before. In his heart he knew that Hector was right—they had turned the blacks into enemies without weakening them sufficiently to make them harmless—yet could not bring himself to go after the survivors. The whole expedition had been a catastrophic mistake.
At least the white youth was not among the dead. Asta would be pleased about that although why she should care he did not know. His father had warned that was what you got by marrying a foreigner but he had taken it for granted that she would adapt to his ways, the ways of their new country. There were times when he wondered whether she had done so as successfully as he would have wished.
A Far Country Page 14
