Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  She backed away quietly, feeling like an interloper in a moment of such intimacy, but even as she withdrew, she sensed some strange connection of her own. What was it? She felt no spiritual presence – but rather a kind of restlessness that emanated from the land itself. She was uneasy in this place.

  She decided to climb the larger outcrop and examine the sign, leaving Matt in his trance-like state, buying time, putting distance between them. When she returned he would hopefully have regained consciousness and they could discuss what it was he had learnt from the ancestors.

  The hillock was not difficult to climb, but she moved very slowly, choosing each hand- and foothold with infinite care, wary of dislodging any loose rock that in falling would disrupt the silence.

  Travelling at the rate she was, it took her some time to reach the sign and when she did it proved strangely disappointing. Carved roughly into the flat surface of one of the granite rocks, it was weathered and had clearly been there for some time, but apart from its age little else appeared of significance. It was not the ancient Aboriginal artwork she’d hoped for, but of course she should have known that, she told herself. In recounting his vision of the site Matt had said the sign was carved into the rock. The artwork of the central desert Aborigine was never carved, but painted in kaolin or ochre. The iconography was not familiar to her either, and if it had been Indigenous she would most certainly have recognised it. So what did the sign mean? Who had put it there? Jess wondered.

  At first glance the roughly hewn pattern might have been a bird, but upon closer examination perhaps it was a caterpillar, how could one tell? The simplistic squiggles were impossible to decipher. What on earth could it mean? It signified nothing to her. But then perhaps it was not intended to signify. Perhaps it was simply a form of graffiti, old indeed, but graffiti nonetheless. It may have been left by men working on the Overland Telegraph Line a hundred and thirty years back. If so, how interesting, she thought. Some things never change. Men always need to leave their mark.

  She turned and was about to slowly make her way back down the hillock when below in the clearing she saw Matt drop to his knees. He started to rock back and forth and she could hear his voice. He was calling out, one word, over and over, and she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Abandoning care, she scrambled down the rocky outcrop, bringing with her a shower of stones, slithering on her backside, scraping her elbows raw as she went.

  Upon reaching the clearing she ran to him. His face was bathed in sweat, his whole body shaking, his eyes staring unseeingly at the ground, and as he rocked back and forth he continued to call out the one word, again and again.

  ‘Arrtyaneme! Arrtyaneme! Arrtyaneme!’

  She crouched beside him. He was speaking Arunta. ‘Run!’ he was calling out. ‘Run! Run!’

  1880

  The linesmen have made their plan. There is no turning back. The mere thought that a white woman is being defiled by black heathens is abhorrent to them, as it would be to any decent man of Christian faith, they agree. It is their bounden duty to rescue the unfortunate creature even at their own peril and they will not be deterred. But the motive that drives them is not altogether altruistic for they firmly believe their noble action will reap a sizeable reward.

  Upon returning to the campsite Wilt had recounted what he’d seen to his partner.

  ‘A young white woman, Col,’ he’d said, ‘buck naked like the black savages themselves. They clearly have their way with her. I tell you here and now I was fair sickened by the sight.’

  Colm Doherty, a tough, savvy Irishman, had been equally appalled, but in his customary manner also quick to recognise an advantage in the discovery.

  ‘Do you think it’s at all likely it could be the McQuillan girl?’ he’d asked.

  The thought had not occurred to Wilton Baker. He too was tough, a Yorkshire man who, like Col, had been working the line for five years, but Wilt did not possess Col’s opportunistic eye.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he replied after a moment’s consideration. ‘She’d be of an age that would fit, around twenty by my reckoning, and they say the McQuillan girl was sixteen when she disappeared.’

  Both men had read all about Emily McQuillan. Everyone had. The story had been headline news throughout the whole of South Australia. James McQuillan, one of the state’s wealthiest men, found dead from a snakebite barely two miles west of his cattle station in the remote lands far north of Adelaide. He’d been out riding with his young daughter. Emily’s horse had returned to the homestead, but there’d been no sign of the girl herself. Nor had her body been discovered, despite the efforts of costly and extensive search parties over the ensuing months. Huge reward offers had appeared in the newspaper; posters and leaflets had been distributed throughout remote areas, all seeking information and offering rewards, but no-one had come forward. Young Emily McQuillan had simply disappeared.

  ‘But do you really believe,’ Wilt said, ‘that the savages would have kept her these past four years? Wouldn’t you think they’d have killed her after having their way with her?’

  ‘Nope,’ Col replied, ‘she’d be a novelty to them, they’d have fun passing her around – nothing’s sacred to those black bastards. I swear to you, Wilt, it’s our duty to save that girl from a life of unspeakable shame and degradation.’

  Wilt nodded. He couldn’t possibly disagree with that.

  ‘And even if it turns out not to be the McQuillan girl,’ Col went on, ‘there’ll be a family out there only too happy to reward us for the return of their daughter. The McQuillan purse would be preferable, I grant you, but either way I’ll warrant there’s money for us in this.’

  Again Wilt nodded. Col was making infinite sense. The two had only recently partnered up, as linesmen they normally worked alone, but Wilt had quickly come to realise it was wise to listen to Col. Col was smart. So as they’d loaded their weapons and set about making their plan he’d paid close heed to all Col had to say.

  ‘We shoot the men first. Three of them, you said, am I right?’

  ‘Yes, I counted three, an older one, grey-haired and two younger ones.’

  ‘Three, good,’ Col says, ‘that won’t be difficult, and when we’ve done with them the women will be easy. You didn’t count the women?’

  ‘No, but there were two, maybe three.’ While systematically feeding the bullets into the magazine of his Winchester repeating rifle, Wilt casts a querying glance at his partner. ‘We don’t need to shoot the women, do we?’

  ‘Ah well now, you never know,’ Col appears dubious. ‘If they get hysterical and out of control they can turn like rabid dogs; let’s not forget these are savages we’re dealing with. We’ll just have to see what happens.’

  There is a gleam of anticipation in Col’s eyes as he loads his twin Colt revolvers. They are .45 calibre ‘Peacemakers’ recently purchased from a gunsmith in Adelaide. Formerly the property of a wealthy American mining engineer who’d settled in Australia during the gold strikes, the revolvers are Col’s pride and joy. A ‘man’s man’, guns are his passion: he loves nothing more than the hunt. And on this cloudless evening with the moon near-full, conditions are perfect. Col is very much looking forward to the night’s sport.

  The family has feasted well. Curled up next to his mother, little Kwala, his belly full, is already dozing off. Even the two pet dingoes that assist the men with their hunting are replete, the desultory gnawing of bones being for pleasure rather than hunger.

  Nangala is seated beside the flat stone that has served as a cutting table. One by one and with great care, she is wrapping the several spare slabs of raw meat in emu feathers. They will be kept for the following day. She and her grandson and his wife work as a team. When Nangala has completed a parcel she passes it up to Letye who in turn passes it on to Nyapi who is standing some way from them beside an acacia tree. Nyapi then ties the parcel into a fork of the tree’s limbs, keeping it safely out of reach from marauders while Letye returns to await the ne
xt parcel.

  Ngita is digging out from the hot soil the several yams and bush potatoes that were not eaten, these too will be kept for the following day, while nearby Atanum and Tjumuru lounge lazily in the sand by the cooking fire, Atanum chewing his bush tobacco. Soon he will sing.

  The family is unaware of the danger that lurks barely twenty yards from them. Even the dingoes have sensed nothing, for the linesmen, experienced hunters both, have made their approach from downwind.

  Then the double click of the Winchester being cocked cuts through the silence, startlingly loud.

  It is a sound foreign to the family and all eyes turn in the direction from whence it came, a thicket of ti tree bushes at the edge of the clearing.

  A moment frozen in time as the family waits, not alarmed, but rather puzzled, watching for something to materialise and make itself known to them. And then something does. Stepping from the thicket are two white men with weapons raised.

  The realisation hits in that second that here is cause for alarm indeed, and the same collective thought flashes through the minds of the three Arunta men. ‘Run,’ they want to scream to their women, ‘Run! Run!’ They are willing to fight, but they know their spears are no match for the weapons of the white men. There is not time enough to issue the warning, however, not time enough for any reaction at all as gunfire shatters the night.

  Atanum and Tjumuru are the first. Easy marks in the light of the cooking fire, they slump back without a sound, victims of Col’s twin Peacemakers. For good measure, he shoots the woman beside them too. Ngita does not even have time to cry out.

  But the other women do. In the seconds that follow, Nangala’s screams rend the air, as do those of Macanti as she seizes her now wailing child and holds him close to her, shielding Kwala with her body even as she waits for death.

  Wilt is frantically searching the group for the other man. There had been three: where is the third? He has no desire to kill the women, but the men? They must kill all three in order to rescue the white girl.

  Less evident where he stands by the acacia tree, Nyapi has had these precious seconds to prepare. He races for his spear, gathers it up and starts charging the white men. He will die fighting.

  In those same precious seconds, Letye too has assessed the situation. White men are killing her family, white men whose language she speaks, men with whom she must surely be able to communicate.

  ‘No!’ she screams, ‘No! Stop!’ She has not spoken English for four years. If she had ever thought upon the matter, which she has not, she would have presumed she had forgotten altogether the language of her former life.

  ‘Stop!’ she screams. Nyapi continues his charge, the white man’s rifle is at the ready, only ten yards separate them, and she hurls herself forward, directly into the path of her husband, arms outstretched in a desperate appeal. ‘You must …!’

  The .44 calibre bullet from Wilt’s powerful Winchester slams into her chest, killing her instantly. But it does not stop there. The bullet passes right through Letye and into her husband, felling him. Nyapi does not die in that moment, but mortally wounded and incapable of further action, he writhes in silent agony.

  Wilt is horrified by what he has done. The white girl’s body lies in the dust at his feet, a gaping hole in her chest. He stares down at her in a state of stupefaction, oblivious to the mayhem that surrounds him. How has this happened?

  Col has continued on his killing spree, unaware of the awful mistake that has occurred. He had known the last of the men, the young one who had taken up his spear, was well in Wilt’s sights, so he’d advanced, concentrating instead upon the women. First he shoots the old one who, having risen to her feet, is screaming, then he shoots the other one, hunched over by the fire. He hadn’t realised she was shielding a child, but when the boy is revealed, he shoots him too: best to make a clean sweep. Then, with the pet dingoes going berserk he shoots them as well, all in the name of sport, dingoes, blacks, same thing really. Col is having a fine night.

  Within barely a minute it is over. Col wanders among the fallen discharging an odd bullet here and there to ensure no life exists then turns back to Wilt, triumphant.

  But Wilt is still staring at the body on the ground … the white body on the ground.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus!’ Col exclaims. ‘What have you done?’

  Crossing to join his partner, Col notes that the young savage who’d been on the attack is still alive. A gut shot, he realises, and puts a bullet through the man’s brain. He never leaves animals to suffer.

  ‘What have you done, man?’ he demands. ‘In God’s name are you mad?’

  Wilt is shaken from his stupor. ‘I didn’t even see her. She came out of nowhere. I had him all lined up,’ he gestures at the young black, ‘and she threw herself in front of him. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t mean to kill her. Oh dear God in heaven, I didn’t mean to kill her!’

  Col is annoyed that their chance for a reward has been thwarted, but he realises there is no point in taking his frustration out on Wilt. Wilt is badly unnerved, he can see that, and with just cause. He must put the man at ease and they must make plans.

  ‘Ah well, what’s done is done,’ he says, clapping his partner on the shoulder. ‘No fault of yours – an accident is all. Don’t be too harsh upon yourself. We shall have to bury her though,’ he adds, looking down at the body, ‘we can’t have her found, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No, no of course we can’t.’ Col always knows best, Wilt thinks. He will do whatever Col says. ‘We shall bury her, that’s it, and no-one will ever find her. They won’t, will they?’ he asks fearfully.’

  ‘No-one will ever find her,’ Col assures him. ‘You’ll be safe, I promise.’

  They return briefly to their own campsite where the horses are tethered and fetch tools that are part of their travel equipment at all times.

  Between them, with pick and shovel, it does not take long to dig a grave of suitable depth. But as they labour a thought occurs to Wilt.

  ‘Without any just reason now for killing the blacks,’ he says, ‘what will we do with their bodies? Should we bury them too?’

  ‘Must one have a just reason for killing black heathens?’ Col replies. ‘But yes, you may be right. Questions could be asked, there might be repercussions.’

  ‘So we bury them too?’

  Col leans on his pick, taking a breather and giving the matter a moment’s consideration. ‘No need,’ he decides, ‘let them be found. We’ll be well clear by then and folks are bound to associate the killings with Barrow Creek. Police are still wreaking revenge where they can, and good riddance I say.’

  The argument makes sense to Wilt. The killing of two white men at the Barrow Creek Police Station several years previously by a group of Kaytetye had led to endless reprisals. Some said the Kaytetye had attacked in retaliation for the white men’s treatment of their women, others said it was a rebellion against the denial of access to their water source, but either way retribution had been swift and brutal. Blacks from all surrounding areas, men, women and children, had paid the ultimate price.

  Wilt stops shovelling dirt from the now nearly completed grave and looks at the black bodies strewn on the ground, seven in all. Who would ever consider this the work of two innocent linesmen? No, this would be seen as further revenge killing by members of the mounted police and no questions would be asked. Col’s decision, as always, is the right one, Wilt thinks.

  Several minutes later Col calls a halt. ‘That’s deep enough,’ he says throwing aside his pick and crossing to the girl’s body. ‘You take her legs.’

  He grasps the white girl’s wrists, Wilt takes a hold of the ankles and together they carry her to the grave.

  Wilt averts his eyes from the girl’s nakedness. Her pubic covering hangs to one side and her private parts are exposed, which he finds shockingly indecent. When he visits the whores in the brothels he never looks at their private parts: the business of coupling is always conducted in the dark. And
this young woman is not at all like the whores he has come to know. Even in death this appears to be a young woman of breeding. Guilt overwhelms him.

  Wilt is plagued by something far greater than the fear of discovery and the possible threat of a manslaughter or even a murder charge. He fears the wrath of God will be visited upon him for the death of this girl. Fervently he prays that the Lord will recognise it was an accident.

  They place her gently in the grave, Col too respectful. He has no compunction about burying the evidence of this terrible accident – what alternative is there? But he is thankful he is not the responsible party. To kill a white woman is to invite divine retribution.

  They labour for a further ten minutes, filling in the grave, stamping down the earth, covering it with rocks and vegetation, rendering it invisible. Then when the task is completed Wilt stands silently for a moment, head bowed. Col isn’t sure whether he is paying his respects to the dead girl or offering up a prayer for forgiveness, but either way he remains silent himself, not envying the threat of eternal damnation that must plague his partner’s conscience.

  It is in this mutually observed silence that they hear the strange muffled whimpering sound. At first Col thinks it is one of the dingoes that must have survived, although he was quite sure he had finished them off neatly.

  A quick examination proves him right. There is no life left in any of the bodies, animal or heathen.

  And then they discover the baby. Nestled in a soft hollow of sand and swaddled in emu feathers is a little girl around one year old. And she is white.

  Both men find the sight confronting, even Col. If the baby had been black he would have shot it without giving the matter a second thought, but a white child? He watches as Wilt picks her up, swaddling and all, from her sandy nest.

  ‘There’s black blood in it, Wilt,’ he says, trying to convince not only his partner, but also himself of the action they must take. ‘There has to be. This is a product of the heathens raping the white girl. We have to kill this baby. We have to kill it and bury it along with the mother. There must be no evidence.’