possible that this ‘spirituality’ was linked to the grief that he still felt for his recently departed daughter, Susy. Some historians believe that it was this that motivated Twain, but it is too nebulous for me, a reason that is too easily accepted and dismissed under the same reasoning.
For my own part, however, I will agree with noted historian Jason Vella that whatever Twain experienced, it was linked to the Cross.
1797.
Before dawn, on the same night of the attack on the Toongagal outpost, Pemulwy and his warriors—joined by an addition twenty—swept into Burramatta [4] .
The wooden outpost of the English town appeared in the misty morning, looking like an atrophied beast, and Pemulwy slipped up to it silently. With a vaulted leap over the veranda railing, the Eora warrior plunged his spear (brought to him by the additional warriors) into the belly of the lone Englishman on guard. Standing there, he turned to the dark figures of his warriors, white war paint curving like bladed bones across their skin, and motioned for them to sweep into the outpost, where they butchered the ten Englishmen inside.
After the outpost, they continued into the town, breaking open the pens, scattering livestock, and killing the men and women who investigated the chorus of agitated animal noises that swept through the morning sky. It was there, watching the animals, and his men, and the dirty orange sun rising, illuminating the muddy streets and crude houses of the town, that Pemulwy realized how poorly he had planned the attack.
He would die here, on these streets, as the Elder had said.
Shaking his head, pushing the thoughts aside, Pemulwy gripped his spear and walked down the cold, muddy street. Around him, his warriors were firing into the houses, the battle having already broken down into individuals, rather than a combined force. Pemulwy had feared that this would happen—he had stressed that they had to fight as one, that they needed to remain together to take and hold the town, but his words had fled them, lost in the rush of emotions they were experiencing.
To his left, the cannon fired; the sound of splintering wood and a peak in screaming followed.
You will die here
.
Shaking away the unsummoned thoughts, Pemulwy advanced on a white man that emerged from his house. Thick set, bearded, barely dressed, the man raised his rifle, but before he could fire, Pemulwy hurled his spear, skewering the man. The Eora stalked up to his body, retrieving his spear and the man’s rifle, before turning back to the chaos of the town.
The cannon fired again, and the smell of smoke worked its way to the warrior; before him, bodies littered the ground. They were white men and women and children and between them, dark slices of the country given form, were his own warriors.
You will die here.
The thought was a cold chill, working up his spine, through his body. But he was a warrior, and he would not leave. Instead, he rushed through the churned mud and into the chaos of the battle, where he ploughed his spear into the back of an English woman.
When the shape of the battle changed, Pemulwy asked himself if he had seen the English soldiers arrive before the first bullet tore through his shoulder to announce their presence, or if he had not. In the split second the question passed through his mind, he realized that he had been so caught up in the bloodlust, in the killing, that he hadn’t.
When the bullet tore through his left shoulder, he fell to his knees, his spear falling into the mud; in his right hand, he still gripped the English rifle. Around him, fire leapt from crude building to building, acting as his warriors had done when they swept into the town, but with a more final devastation.
They had failed.
Pemulwy rose to his feet, clutching the rifle.
Before losing control of his warriors, he had planned to organize a defensive structure, to take prisoners, to prepare for the wave of red coated soldiers that swept into the
For my own part, however, I will agree with noted historian Jason Vella that whatever Twain experienced, it was linked to the Cross.
1797.
Before dawn, on the same night of the attack on the Toongagal outpost, Pemulwy and his warriors—joined by an addition twenty—swept into Burramatta [4] .
The wooden outpost of the English town appeared in the misty morning, looking like an atrophied beast, and Pemulwy slipped up to it silently. With a vaulted leap over the veranda railing, the Eora warrior plunged his spear (brought to him by the additional warriors) into the belly of the lone Englishman on guard. Standing there, he turned to the dark figures of his warriors, white war paint curving like bladed bones across their skin, and motioned for them to sweep into the outpost, where they butchered the ten Englishmen inside.
After the outpost, they continued into the town, breaking open the pens, scattering livestock, and killing the men and women who investigated the chorus of agitated animal noises that swept through the morning sky. It was there, watching the animals, and his men, and the dirty orange sun rising, illuminating the muddy streets and crude houses of the town, that Pemulwy realized how poorly he had planned the attack.
He would die here, on these streets, as the Elder had said.
Shaking his head, pushing the thoughts aside, Pemulwy gripped his spear and walked down the cold, muddy street. Around him, his warriors were firing into the houses, the battle having already broken down into individuals, rather than a combined force. Pemulwy had feared that this would happen—he had stressed that they had to fight as one, that they needed to remain together to take and hold the town, but his words had fled them, lost in the rush of emotions they were experiencing.
To his left, the cannon fired; the sound of splintering wood and a peak in screaming followed.
You will die here
.
Shaking away the unsummoned thoughts, Pemulwy advanced on a white man that emerged from his house. Thick set, bearded, barely dressed, the man raised his rifle, but before he could fire, Pemulwy hurled his spear, skewering the man. The Eora stalked up to his body, retrieving his spear and the man’s rifle, before turning back to the chaos of the town.
The cannon fired again, and the smell of smoke worked its way to the warrior; before him, bodies littered the ground. They were white men and women and children and between them, dark slices of the country given form, were his own warriors.
You will die here.
The thought was a cold chill, working up his spine, through his body. But he was a warrior, and he would not leave. Instead, he rushed through the churned mud and into the chaos of the battle, where he ploughed his spear into the back of an English woman.
When the shape of the battle changed, Pemulwy asked himself if he had seen the English soldiers arrive before the first bullet tore through his shoulder to announce their presence, or if he had not. In the split second the question passed through his mind, he realized that he had been so caught up in the bloodlust, in the killing, that he hadn’t.
When the bullet tore through his left shoulder, he fell to his knees, his spear falling into the mud; in his right hand, he still gripped the English rifle. Around him, fire leapt from crude building to building, acting as his warriors had done when they swept into the town, but with a more final devastation.
They had failed.
Pemulwy rose to his feet, clutching the rifle.
Before losing control of his warriors, he had planned to organize a defensive structure, to take prisoners, to prepare for the wave of red coated soldiers that swept into the
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