“thou hast said well; for some of you there present,

are worse than devils.”

the tempest.

t

aking advantage of the storm whose parting fusillade has left claude hors de combat for the time being, manager browne’s “rounding-up” party, under the skilful generalship of inspector puttis and sub-inspector morth, has completely invested the native village upon the rocky promontory.

it is made up of strange constituents, this murderous shooting party. squatter j.p.’s are there; youthful “rouse-abouts,” some of these youngsters only a few years released from the sanctified thraldom of a christian home in the old country; reckless, godless 373 stockmen; a colonial legislator, who has made a name by howling for separation from england; and numerous blacks, oiled, naked, and anxious for their work to begin.

there, in the darkness, around the unconscious villagers, amongst wet, dripping rocks and slimy brushwood, crouches a bloodthirsty circle of native constables, naked, save for a cartridge-belt and a red band round the head, and armed with snider carbines and tomahawks; and with them are a number of no less sanguinary white men.

regardless of the majestic fury of the roaring elements overhead, of the heavy, drenching rain, of dangerous snakes and poisonous thorns, and with the fierce, sweet love of slaughter warming each individual’s heart with its terrible excitement, the cruel cordon has shrunk its wreath of death nearer and nearer around its slumbering prey; and now some thirty pair of eyes are watching the small glimmer of the black camp-fire, and thirty fingers itch to pull the smooth, cold triggers against which they rest.

on all sides is the noisy dropping of water from the leaves, and occasionally a dead bough, sodden with moisture, and thus suddenly grown heavy, breaks from its parent tree, and crashes through the underwoood with startling echoes.

but it is not our purpose to describe the sickening scene of murder and rapine that follows, when towards four o’clock inspector puttis gives the revolver shot signal to commence the holocaust. we have already rendered to our readers a faithful account of a similar occurrence in an earlier chapter. to those gentlemen who, taking a special interest in such kinds of sport, 374 have honoured our pages by perusing the same, we will respectfully point out that they can obtain their fill of it by making their way to up-country australia. partly for the benefit of such “sports,” and partly for another class of reader, our publishers have deemed the late dr. dyesart’s map of the “wicked island” worthy of reproduction with this our narrative of his nephew’s adventures.

so, instead of “potting” a few “buck” niggers, or tomahawking a woman or child, or otherwise assisting the police (queensland native mounted) in the execution of their duty, let us follow mr. wilson giles and watch his movements and actions, which more nearly affect our story.

it having been reported to mr. morth that a party of runaway “boys” are encamped a few miles from where he is assisting his senior officer in the development of his plan of attack, the sub-inspector, taking a few native troopers with him, starts off to investigate matters in this new direction, being accompanied by mr. giles and a few other gentlemen.

after a dark ride of an hour the party reach the cliffs which claude angland has descended only a few hours before, and, leaving their horses with a couple of station-hands, creep silently through the shadows after their black guide.

presently each man feels, rather than hears, the whispered order to halt, and mr. morth glides forward like a snake to reconnoitre.

as ill-luck would have it, at the time when the police officer raises his keen eyes above the edge of a sheltering rock that commands a view of the camp, the only members of angland’s party in sight are 375 general gordon and the myall black, whose friends, a short distance off in the village, are in like imminent peril to themselves. both are naked; for having discovered claude’s absence, and guessing something of what has happened, they are about to set forth in search of him. don and joe lie in the deep shadow of the rock and are invisible; neither does the feeble illumination afforded by the wood embers reach the blankets, pack-bags, and other civilized impedimenta, and warn the scout that what he takes for a warragal camp is at present occupied by the “boys” and belongings of a white man.

on the other hand, morth recognizes gordon, as he stoops over the fire for an instant to light his pipe, as a runaway from murdaro station. so crawling backwards to his waiting friends and troopers, he commences to arrange them quietly round his intended prey.

the early morning sky is now clear and star-studded, and in another hour or two another day will have begun.

the men creep forward amongst spiny grass trees, rocks, and tree-stems, but are not yet in position, when, above the roar of the creek hard by and multitudinous noises of a water-laden scrub,—all veiling the approach of the foe from the occupants of the granite shelter,—comes the muffled sound of a distant rifle volley.

the stalkers hear it as they slink through the darkness, and know that their friends have commenced their work of destruction at the village. the runaway “boy” gordon and his myall friend hear it also, and guessing its fearful import spring to their feet and 376 stand trembling to listen, as the faint echoings of a few more single shots follow the first discharge.

the tall black forms of the aborigines before the firelit granite background offer too tempting a pair of targets for certain of the younger members of the attacking party to be able to further restrain their sportsmanlike proclivities.

out from the blackness two rifles spit forth their ringing, sparkling tongues of flame, and gordon, leaping upwards without a cry, tumbles forward into the shadow of the rocks below the camp.

then the crash and blaze of many rifles follow, as other figures, startled and hesitating in which direction to escape, are seen moving past the fire.

mr. giles, who is the nearest of morth’s party, covers one black form rapidly and pulls the trigger. as he does so the cliff echoes with a wild, boyish scream of mingled agony and terror.

there is something so piercing in that note of anguish, something that seems so like some echo from the past, that hardened as the squatter is by a large previous experience of such scenes, he feels a passing pang of remorse tapping at his heart strings.

morth and the other men are scrambling back down the hill; some making for the horses, others for the creek. for, as though bearing a charmed life, the myall, having hitherto escaped unhurt from the hail of bullets aimed at him, is now bounding over the plain with the speed of an antelope towards the river’s angry tide.

giles thus left alone—for he is not the kind of man to hurry after the others—reloads, and then377 turns to descend the cliff; but something makes him alter his mind, and without knowing exactly why, he clambers up to the ledge whereon his victim is lying.

as the squatter’s head rises on a level with the camp, he starts as if he had been bitten by a snake; for the dull-red glare of the fire shines upon pack-bags, blankets, billies, and other objects, that tell him at once that a terrible mistake has been made, and that this is no wild blacks’ camp, but that of some party of travellers.

then fearful thoughts begin to paint a vivid prophecy in his mind of what is to follow.

and forgetful of his age and the stiffness of his limbs, he drags himself frantically upwards, till, upon the granite platform, he sinks upon his knees where two little forms lie almost side by side before the glowing embers.

then, as if mocking the horrified wretch’s agonizing fears, the fire flares up before the rising morning breeze, and upon the side of a leathern satchel suspended from a bough hard by he reads the name of claude angland.

a sickening odour, resembling roasting pork, is beginning to make the air heavy around, and a little pulseless black hand lies cooking on the ashes. but giles sees nothing with his staring eyeballs but one small, pallid face, that even in the ruddy light of the fire lies white as marble upon the dead body of a ragged-coated dog.

no need for giles to search for the marks by means of which billy and claude had discovered the identity of the long-lost child.

378

with fearful, awful clearness the distracted man sees his dead wife’s features in those childish ones now gasping at his feet.

a groan bursts from his lips,—the deep moan of a soul too paralyzed with torture to feel further torment for a time.

raising the child into a sitting posture, giles madly tries, with shaking fingers, to wipe away the dreadful froth that is oozing from poor georgie’s mouth.

as he does so, his touch seems to rekindle, for a moment, the waning spark of life within the boy’s fragile frame. the pallid lips open to gasp out their last words on earth, and giles, bending to catch them, hears don murmur,—

“don’t ’it me. ain’t doin’——”

then the expression of pain fades off the child’s features, and a smile of peaceful restfulness comes to take its place, as with a sigh the curly head falls back on giles’s arm, and the spirit takes its flight. and at that moment giles—as giles—dies too. his feeble brain, whirling round with a wild and ever wilder rush of fearful changing scenes and thoughts, suddenly breaks down.

a madman lifts the dead child from the ground, and, leaping over stocks and stones with a fearful, ape-like agility, vanishes into the darkness.

and none witness the false step in the dark or hear the maniacal howl, as, from a cliff hard by, a form resembling that of murdaro’s owner, clasping something to its breast, spins downwards into the angry waters of agate creek.