said.
Nine will do, said John Batman. It will do superbly.
There drifted in the night air the sound of a story being danced around the bonfires, the sound of one voice performing for a hundred souls. A single clansman passed before the flames and that warrior with his coiled ropes of hair was distinguished in silhouette, treading out the shapes of his narrative. His song rising and mingling with the drifts of smoke. In the late darkness a cold descended and even wrapped in blankets the party men could not escape the bitterness. The Parramatta men so recently come from their dustlands seemed crippled with it and sat huddled together, silent and rigid. Only Bill forwent his blanket. The jacket he wore wasthin but if he was cold he made no show of it. He was cleaning the gunblack from the pan of his oversized fowler. It was a venerable old piece hooded with possum hide to keep the lock dry. He wiped out the pan with the edge of his shirt, primed it for firing and replaced the hood.
What’s he singin about down there? the boy said to him.
Keep yer voice down, said Batman.
We ought to just get down there, the boy said. Surprisem in the dark.
Lad, if you had any sense of what’s comin you wouldnt be in no hurry for it. Batman was stretched out at rest beneath his hat and his eyes remained closed as he spoke.
The boy watched him. He hugged his knees up and looked away.
At midnight Batman dug an oilcloth from his drum and set the boy to polishing the pans and the boy bowed his head over each mechanism as if he was whispering something inside, fingering the cloth into the workings and drying the parts. Batman took the cleaned pieces across his knee where he tested the mating of lock and frizzen and when satisfied he passed them off one by one to the assigned men. They readied the weapons sorely slowly in the cold. John Batman, with his doublebarrel gun on his shoulder and his two fists clenchedinside his greatcoat, stepped before the rovers and offered them what small words he had.
If you want them tickets of leave from the Governor, you’d best save some live head. Makes for good show bringin em in.
They saw the sense in it and said so.
On the approach they wove a path down the slope and Howell Baxter in his odd gait tumbled and muddied his clothes. They waited while Baxter found his feet and then Pigeon, Crook and Black Bill carried on towards the towering light of the native fires, forcing the rest to jog a few paces along the track cut by the passing of the clanspeople. Pigeon drew long lungfuls of air through his nose. Then he followed the westerly into the scrub downwind of the campsite and the rovers followed.
What Black Bill witnessed from that cover stayed with him all his days. A crowd of shining damp faces were gathered in the firelight and its shimmer picked out incisions raised on their chests and streaks of ochre they wore like costuming. Manalargena strode among the revellers and bellowed out his epic: a tale of animosity among clans and the requital he’d delivered for his people when his cousin’s wife was carried off and he’d led men against the trespassers. He was naked, his greased skin aflame. He walked and he clapped and the singing rose around him into the sky as the voices praised their ancient dead. Above it all the full moon rolled like a blinded eye as Black Bill gripped the loaded fowling piece tighter.
They formed a line eight abreast. John Batman bade them to put the hammers on the cock and on that signal the strike of settling mechanisms sounded along their line. In formation they moved upon the two conferencing clans, wading through the loose packing of brush, their weapons at their shoulders. It was dogs scavenging at the edge of the campsite that started barking first, lean and boney mongrels working through the refuse where wallabies had been gutted. They bayed at the interlopers and the noise broke the headman from his narrative. As his singing waned into quiet talk the clansmen
Nine will do, said John Batman. It will do superbly.
There drifted in the night air the sound of a story being danced around the bonfires, the sound of one voice performing for a hundred souls. A single clansman passed before the flames and that warrior with his coiled ropes of hair was distinguished in silhouette, treading out the shapes of his narrative. His song rising and mingling with the drifts of smoke. In the late darkness a cold descended and even wrapped in blankets the party men could not escape the bitterness. The Parramatta men so recently come from their dustlands seemed crippled with it and sat huddled together, silent and rigid. Only Bill forwent his blanket. The jacket he wore wasthin but if he was cold he made no show of it. He was cleaning the gunblack from the pan of his oversized fowler. It was a venerable old piece hooded with possum hide to keep the lock dry. He wiped out the pan with the edge of his shirt, primed it for firing and replaced the hood.
What’s he singin about down there? the boy said to him.
Keep yer voice down, said Batman.
We ought to just get down there, the boy said. Surprisem in the dark.
Lad, if you had any sense of what’s comin you wouldnt be in no hurry for it. Batman was stretched out at rest beneath his hat and his eyes remained closed as he spoke.
The boy watched him. He hugged his knees up and looked away.
At midnight Batman dug an oilcloth from his drum and set the boy to polishing the pans and the boy bowed his head over each mechanism as if he was whispering something inside, fingering the cloth into the workings and drying the parts. Batman took the cleaned pieces across his knee where he tested the mating of lock and frizzen and when satisfied he passed them off one by one to the assigned men. They readied the weapons sorely slowly in the cold. John Batman, with his doublebarrel gun on his shoulder and his two fists clenchedinside his greatcoat, stepped before the rovers and offered them what small words he had.
If you want them tickets of leave from the Governor, you’d best save some live head. Makes for good show bringin em in.
They saw the sense in it and said so.
On the approach they wove a path down the slope and Howell Baxter in his odd gait tumbled and muddied his clothes. They waited while Baxter found his feet and then Pigeon, Crook and Black Bill carried on towards the towering light of the native fires, forcing the rest to jog a few paces along the track cut by the passing of the clanspeople. Pigeon drew long lungfuls of air through his nose. Then he followed the westerly into the scrub downwind of the campsite and the rovers followed.
What Black Bill witnessed from that cover stayed with him all his days. A crowd of shining damp faces were gathered in the firelight and its shimmer picked out incisions raised on their chests and streaks of ochre they wore like costuming. Manalargena strode among the revellers and bellowed out his epic: a tale of animosity among clans and the requital he’d delivered for his people when his cousin’s wife was carried off and he’d led men against the trespassers. He was naked, his greased skin aflame. He walked and he clapped and the singing rose around him into the sky as the voices praised their ancient dead. Above it all the full moon rolled like a blinded eye as Black Bill gripped the loaded fowling piece tighter.
They formed a line eight abreast. John Batman bade them to put the hammers on the cock and on that signal the strike of settling mechanisms sounded along their line. In formation they moved upon the two conferencing clans, wading through the loose packing of brush, their weapons at their shoulders. It was dogs scavenging at the edge of the campsite that started barking first, lean and boney mongrels working through the refuse where wallabies had been gutted. They bayed at the interlopers and the noise broke the headman from his narrative. As his singing waned into quiet talk the clansmen
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