On Emerald Downs

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

It's time to return to civilisation... Patricia Shaw's On Emerald Downs is a dramatic tale of an escaped convict, set against the amazing back-drop of the Australian outback. The perfect read for fans of Colleen McCullough and Fleur McDonald. ' On Emerald Downs is a solid, exciting and well-researched story with the added novelty of being set in Australia during frontier times' - The Argus (Brighton) Ten years after he first took shelter with the Queensland Aborigines, Jack Drew - an escaped convict - has decided the time has come to return to civilisation. He finds employment on a back-country farm called Emerald Downs, and when the owner, Major Ferrington, is ordered to roust the Aborigines who have been terrorising the area, Jack is horrified to find he must go with him as a scout. The farm is left in the hands of Adrian Pinnock - the brother of Major Ferrington's fiancée, Jessie - but when Jessie herself insists on accompanying him dealings on the once well-ordered estate take a very different course. It soon becomes clear that the shattering events of these frontier times will give new meaning to all their lives... What readers are saying about On Emerald Downs : ' Impossible to put down ' ' Outlines the problems that existed between the convict settlers and the free settlers, and the problems they encountered in opening up new territory' 'Well worth the 5 star rating '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

The man, Ilkepala, watched the raid on Montone Station from the cover of trees further up the hill. He was a tall, powerfully built man of middle years with hard, expressionless features, thick hair that hung in strands plaited with snakeskin and a chunk of beard that jutted from an already prominent jaw. His body was laced with cicatrices, reminders of painful initiations, but unlike the other men with him, he wore no paint. Ilkepala had no need of decorations of any sort, for he was a magic man, a keeper of knowledge, confidant of the spirits. His people respected and feared him . . . his enemies knew him not. Few white men had ever heard of Ilkepala, let alone set eyes on him. Jack Drew, the man he was watching now, was one of the privileged few.

Jack Drew, white man, absconded convict, had sought shelter among the Aborigines some ten years ago and his presence among the families had been brought to the attention of Ilkepala by hostile clans. They wanted the rogue killed, disposed of without delay, but his friends and his lover, Ngalla, pleaded for his life, claiming he was a good man, worthy of their pity. Ilkepala didn’t know about that. Drew did not have the face of a good man, it seemed to him; his eyes were too sharp, always hunting about, wary. Shark’s eyes. But then it was true that he had escaped from his own kind and was afraid to go back. Some Kamilaroi men had come forward to say the troopers had tracked the fellow through the bush for days when he first escaped, and they certainly would have hanged him had they caught him. In which case, he would have no love for the white authorities . . . Perhaps it would be a good idea to let him stay awhile. Observe him. There was much he could teach the families about the white man’s world if he made the effort to do so.

On that note, the matter rested. Jack Drew, though he did not know it, was under the protection of Ilkepala, who could have ordered his destruction at any time, but who instead became intrigued by this white fellow, the first one he’d been able to study at close range. He found Drew a mass of contradictions . . . bold and brash in his talk, mean and selfish at times, but a born leader. He was a fighter, in his own style, but no warrior, keeping clear of confrontations by resorting to jokes and humble apologies which, Ilkepala observed, were in fact meaningless. This white man did not suffer from loss of face at any time; such a condition did not exist in his terms, he just got on with his days. And there was his strength. He tried to fit in, was kind to his woman, made an effort to learn the language, and all the time unconsciously he was teaching them the white men’s ways.

Ilkepala issued instructions to the men who shared their campfires with Jack Drew, that they were to listen to him and learn. Question him as much as they liked because it was obvious he enjoyed answering. By his side they were able to learn about the white men and their ships, and the good men they called ‘convicts’ who were their slaves. They learned about horses who were good fellows and cows that you could eat, and sheep too, but their fur made the best coverings. All sorts of things were to be heard by his side, even that white women were the same as black women when their massive coverings were removed, and that was rather a disappointment.

Ilkepala even knew about Jack’s plan to find the yellow stones, known as gold, much prized by white men. He was always asking about gold, especially of tribesmen passing through, and though many brought him samples of what they thought he might be seeking, it was only recently that they had actually found some for him. What he intended to do then was of great interest to Ilkepala. He hoped Jack would stay, his fount of knowledge important in these terrible times. And had not Drew suffered too? His wife, Ngalla, and many of her family members had been murdered by white men when they ignored his pleas and went back to their sacred places. He had warned them that even a peaceful walkabout in country inhabited by whites was dangerous, but they could see no harm. He had begged them not to go, explaining that he couldn’t risk returning to that district with them, for fear he’d be captured, so he had waited in the hills for the loved ones who never returned. After that he linked up with another family, travelling north, keeping ahead of the terror, and eventually was permitted to attend a corroboree, where he had the privilege of glimpsing some of the powers of magic men.

‘Who is that?’ he’d asked fearfully, when Ilkepala himself had appeared, first on a nearby ridge and in a second rearing up among them, a giant breathing fire, his voice like that of a great spirit, echoing throughout the valley. The demonstration had been necessary to force the various clans at this meeting place to concentrate on the dangers, casting aside all of their differences. The time had come to make decisions. Those who could would go forth and join with the Tingum warriors. Since the Tingum and Kamilaroi peoples were not known to be the best of friends, this caused some mutterings, but Ilkepala roared his displeasure, frightening them into silence.

‘This is a time of great danger. You will heed me! Who dares turn his face away? Warriors go to Tingum country, families travel further into the shelter of the bush, keeping away from the whitefeller tracks!’

Later he gave instructions that Jack Drew was also expected to move to Tingum country and was astonished when he heard the white man had declined, arguing that he was not a warrior. Which was obvious, Ilkepala allowed with a snarl. Then he realised that the fool didn’t know any tribal boundaries; most of the time he’d hardly known where he was.

‘Just see that his travels take him towards Bussamarai’s camp,’ he ordered, and so it was done.

Many moons later, when he returned from conferring with worried northern tribes, he found Jack Drew living uneasily on the fringe of a large war camp, unable to obtain permission to depart.

‘What’s the point of having him here if you don’t use him?’ Ilkepala demanded of the chief.

‘I’ve been busy. I can’t be bothered with renegade white men.’

‘You’d better be bothered with this one. How many men have you lost lately? More than forty, and plenty wounded from the guns. That Jack Drew knows how the white men do battle, see what he can teach you.’

‘I won’t ask a dirty white man for help!’

Ilkepala gave a grim smile. ‘You won’t have to ask. Just bring him into the circle when you plan raids. Let him listen. The man is incapable of shutting his mouth. It is my belief he’ll be telling you your business in no time, such is his cheek. He may have things of interest to divulge.’

From that day on, Chief Bussamarai’s fortunes took a turn for the better. He had always been able to keep the white men out of his lands near the Wide Bay, but he was failing in his attacks on the settlers who were gradually surrounding him. Now the tide was turning. With Drew mapping out plans of attack, refusing to allow the traditional ways to take precedence, Bussamarai’s men were becoming the scourge of the district, driving white men out of their homes and rousting their sheep and cattle.

Ilkepala remembered the first time that Jack Drew had intervened in a discussion about a raid. He’d attended that meeting himself, unseen by the white man, because he had reason to be nervous. Jack Drew wasn’t proving to be at all helpful; he’d just squatted there, for the third night in a row, with his mouth firmly shut. Bussamarai was not impressed, nor would he lower himself to ask for this fellow’s opinion.

But just when Ilkepala had about given up and was considering asking Drew’s friends to give him a nudge, the man had exploded, butting in in a most violent manner.

‘You fools!’ he’d shouted, jumping up to face them. ‘There’s nothing brave about running at bullets. Your shields are useless against bullets. You’re all mad!’

The chief’s face blazed with anger at this outrage. Insult upon insult in only a few words. Ilkepala feared for Jack’s life. Quickly he conjured a thick curl of smoke from the central fire and a voice was heard to commend the chief for his wisdom.

‘A wise man hears all opinions and digests them,’ the voice added.

Never again did these warriors line up with their flimsy shields and spears to do battle. From Jack Drew they learned to value cunning above valour. To seek out and kill their main enemies . . . troopers. To forgo their war cries and bullroarers and attack in silence. From cover. To stampede herds, burn houses . . . Oh, he had a bagful of tricks did Jack Drew, tricks he paraded with great glee. Ilkepala thought he enjoyed the planning more than the battles.

The raid on Montone Station meant a lot to Bussamarai. His attack on this place last summer had been a disaster. Not only had the first row of his warriors been cut down by gunfire, after the battle the white men went among the fallen and slashed at those still alive with swords. Then they threw the bodies in a pile and set fire to them. To add to the chief’s anguish, as far as he could make out there were no casualties among the white people. Certainly there followed none of the usual funerals they normally observed.

Ilkepala felt a rush of exhilaration when he saw the Tingum men filtering through the scrub surrounding the homestead and the outbuildings on Montone Station, creeping up on white folk the way Jack Drew had advised. Though Jack Drew and the chief had become friends, if this second attack failed it would be a serious blow to the chief’s reputation, and it was possible that Jack Drew would have to carry the blame. Ilkepala shuddered. His own reputation could also be damaged. He tapped on the totem stick he carried to remind the spirits of his need for good fortune here.

But then Bussamarai led the attack and Ilkepala leapt up to watch. He saw the chief break cover and race forward with his spear and tomahawk as the station dogs began to bark, his men darting out from all sides.

A white woman emerged from the bird house carrying a basket and was immediately killed. As she fell, eggs toppled from the basket and smashed all about her. Ilkepala sighed. The attackers had raced on, the caged birds shrieking and cackling in a panic, and those good eggs were wasted. He had become particularly fond of the eggs those strange birds laid, and always gave special blessings to any person who could bring one to him.

But what was this? Jack Drew was in among the first wave of warriors, and already guns were blazing from the windows. He dodged between buildings, soon making it to the main house, keeping up with Bussamarai.

‘What’s he doing there?’ Ilkepala demanded of his own men.

‘The chief’s rule,’ Moorabi said. ‘All his men have to fight.’

‘But not him. He’ll just get in the way.’

‘Bussamarai wanted him to fight, to show loyalty.’

Ilkepala shook his head. He didn’t imagine Jack Drew would be happy about this, since he’d always managed to avoid fighting, and had never taken part in raids before. He didn’t have the strength or agility of the black men. Quite possibly, the magic man mused, Bussamarai was testing him, forcing him to confront his own people. An interesting experiment, but a waste.

The whites were resisting strongly, keeping up a steady fire, causing many casualties, but Tingum men were dashing over to a veranda, racing along, battering at doors, finally breaking in. Guns were banging like thunder. Someone had set fire to the outbuildings and was running with a flaming torch to fire the main house but was shot down. Another man rushed forward and picked up the torch. Nothing could stop the assault now.

The defenders obviously knew that too. Ilkepala saw them making a run for it. There was a woman with them. They dodged from the house still firing their guns, and ran across to a long building, which wouldn’t protect them for long, Ilkepala thought, as he lost sight of them. But all of a sudden a mob of horses could be seen bearing down on the house from a front paddock, racing wildly, he thought, in as much of a panic as the caged birds.

The homestead was burning now. For a few minutes he lost sight of the main action and could only see more of Bussamarai’s men converging on the house. But suddenly, over past the long building, he glimpsed a group of white people making their escape on horseback, the big animals, fleet of foot, flying down the track with warriors racing after them, spears hurled hollowly into the dust.

‘Get down there and find Jack Drew,’ he told his two followers, and they sprinted away.

Bussamarai had won! The whites might have escaped but their station would not survive. All the buildings and that big haystack were afire, and celebrations had begun. There would be a great feast to mark this success. Later. Much later. Jack Drew had warned that if they won this battle they should get away fast, for this was the best of the sheep stations in the district and posses of gunmen and troopers would soon be on their tails, seeking revenge.

Smoke was curling into the sky and casting away into the breeze, that in itself enough to alert other whites in the area. Someone would come to investigate, and indeed there would be great anger over this day’s work, but it had to be done. Ilkepala had no false hopes about who would win the final battle in this part of the country. The Tingum days were numbered, as were those of the Kamilaroi nation before them and all the other tribes and nations in the south, but he could allow himself to believe that the more warlike tribes in the north would survive either by force or through disinterest by the whites. After all, they surely didn’t need all of blackfeller country.

He dropped down the slope in time to see the two men carrying Jack Drew towards the trees, and even from that distance he could see the man was in trouble, blood colouring his chest.

‘Fool,’ he muttered. ‘Playing at heroes. He could have hung back, gone off looting and firing sheds, as many a timid man would do.’

They placed him gently on ground softened by thick ferns and shook their heads as Ilkepala approached, so he was prepared for the bad chest wound, but the burns shocked him.

‘He was lying face-down in the house,’ they apologised. ‘What can we do for him?’

‘Take him from here as fast as you can, before he wakes up and the pain attacks him and he starts screaming. Put him in the cave behind the falls.’

‘Will he live?’

Ilkepala did not reply. He could not afford to be wrong. Maybe, he thought, maybe not.

He was half alive, but teetering between the worlds. They washed dust and debris from his sun-browned body, a peculiar sight with its white patches under arms, between thighs and toes and at the nape of his neck, protected by his shaggy hair, but his blood was normal, and plentiful. He had lost so much, his face, what could be seen of it, was paling to grey. Ilkepala sighed. The man was a shocking mess. The bullet had smashed into his shoulder and gone right through, fortunately not on the heart side, but that side of his face was badly burned, as were his left shoulder and arm, his hip and part of his leg. Roasted. As if on a spit. He wondered if it might be kinder to help the fellow die peacefully. But then he was a medicine man; here was a good chance to test various salves. First, though, the wound.

He packed it with poultices of ground tubers and herbs, front and back, hushing the man as he came awake, groaning and trying to free himself from the hands that held him still, as Ilkepala turned to the burns. He applied a protective skin of honey and weak sap, sending Moorabi, one of his helpers, into the bush to find more wild honey, a lot more. He would need a supply to keep tending all the burns on this big man. Then he reached into his dilly bag for a small pouch of ground fungi and fingered some into Jack’s mouth. It was strong medicine; it would ease the pain for a while.

The blue eyes snapped open as Drew spat out the foul-tasting powder and jerked his head away.

‘Who are you?’ he groaned.

‘I am Ilkepala.’

‘Oh, Jesus! That’s all I need. Get away from me!’

It surprised his physician that Jack Drew was speaking English, rare for him over the last few years, but he took the meaning as the fellow thrashed about and had to be held tighter. After all, the only other time this whitefeller had ever set eyes on him was back at that corroboree, where he learned to fear him. And he would have heard the name many times since.

Of course, with that effort, the pain really surfaced and Drew was writhing in pain and starting to yell, so Ilkepala forced the powder into his mouth this time, holding it closed until it would have dissolved.

‘Be still. The more you move, the more you suffer.’

Jack screamed in rage. Who was doing this to him? Who had put his body into this inferno? Into hell! That was where he was. Hell! ‘Oh, Jesus. Spare me. Don’t do this to me.’

A hand clamped over his mouth and he bit it. Who was this, trying to choke him? If he could only get up he’d kill the bastard with his bare hands. His tongue was swelling. It was growing like a thick lump of dough, right there inside his mouth, swelling. Jack panicked; he grabbed an arm, to beg for help, mute now, helpless, dying, gagged by his own tongue.

‘Be still,’ a voice said, settling him down, soothing him, and the panic wave flowed past him, taking with it the great burden he was carrying. Jack was so relieved, tears of gratitude flowed as he tried to think who his rescuer might be. A friend, he supposed, but what friend? He didn’t have any friends on this ship. Stuck down here with a hundred stinking felons, none of them worth spit, with no room to move. No wonder they said be still or you’ll suffer more. He would have to remember that. In this hell it was every man for himself, and Jack kept to that rule. By God he did. They moved aside pretty smart for Black Jack if they knew what was good for them.

He could hear them talking now, in a strange language. Who were they, for Christ’s sake? Maybe the ship had docked at Sydney Cove, the strange new land, and this was the local language. He guessed that would be right. They must have arrived to be placed in prisons from which there was no escape. Since when? He chortled. He’d be off first go.

‘Is he getting better?’ Moorabi asked. ‘He seems better.’

‘No.’ It had been five days. The powders were working, so Ilkepala retreated to the cool springs above the falls. They could not stay here indefinitely; Moorabi and his brother had to guide a contingent of their clan to new and safer lands, and he himself had to make a difficult journey into the dividing mountains to meet elders from the mighty Kalkadoon nation. He had serious business to discuss with these difficult and dangerous men who never grew out of the warrior stage, no matter what their years. Most of them had never even seen a white man, and all of them were convinced that their own power and magic made any sort of threat from the invaders laughable. It was Ilkepala’s job to be sure they heeded his warning, and – he took a deep breath now, for courage – to lodge a formal request for Kamilaroi and Tingum people to enter their land, where they would at least be safe for many years to come.

As he worried about the reaction of the Kalkadoons to such an outrageous proposal that didn’t even carry the incentive of trade, since his people had nothing much left to trade, he made short message sticks for Moorabi to take with him. The sticks were hewn to the size of his middle finger, the marking etched in and daubed with white paint. They were unmistakably from the great magic man, so few would dare disobey the instructions to assist and protect the traveller.

That chore completed, he returned to the cave and found Moorabi, a good and kind man, patiently brushing persistent flies away from the patient with a fan of leaves.

‘Is he awake?’ he asked, and Moorabi nodded.

‘We have to go soon. Two more days. That is all we can spare.’

‘Yes.’

Eventually time was up. Moorabi awaited instructions.

‘Get a canoe,’ Ilkepala said slowly, forming a plan as he spoke. ‘We can’t carry him and we can’t leave him. The river down there connects with the big river. I want you two to put him in a canoe and take him as far away from this place as you can. He must not be associated with this raid or they’ll kill him. That is, supposing he lives long enough.’

‘I’ll bloody live,’ the Englishman whispered, and Ilkepala thought he might just too, he was contrary enough. Wounded, burned, barely able to breathe properly let alone take care of himself, Jack Drew had the cheek to make that cranky remark a threat. As if it were Ilkepala’s fault he was in this mess.

The magic man called Moorabi aside. ‘He must be kept quiet on your journey so I’ll give him some heavy sleeping juice when you’re ready. I want you to go quietly down the river, as close as you can get to the big settlement, and leave him on the riverbank where he can be found. He will be in the hands of his own spirits then. They may help him, if they haven’t forgotten him.’

He cleaned the wounds again and smoothed on a lotion gleaned from the stalks of moonflowers, to produce a numbness and reduce pain while he worked. He had hoped to leave the maggots in place for a while yet, to continue their work of cleansing, but there was no more time. He would just have to sew up the wounds as they were and hope for the best. He searched his dilly bag for the twine and some fine slivers of bamboo, and started stitching, first the chest wound; then, as Moorabi gently turned the patient over, he closed the hole in his back. That done, he covered the wounds with clay and bark to stay the bleeding and hopefully protect them from further injury. The clay set hard within minutes. Next he turned his attention to the burns. They were coming along fairly well, the honey mixture hardening over them, giving the skin a chance to dry out and regrow.

The patient had gone back into his head again, muttering, arguing, cursing, and as Moorabi dripped water into his mouth, Jack Drew shifted restlessly, clutching at his chest. Ilkepala removed the hands firmly. ‘It might be a good idea to bind those hands to stop them pawing at wounds that have to be given peace,’ he told Moorabi.

As the early-morning mists drifted over the mangroves, he watched his two followers carry Jack Drew down to the log canoe and place him on a kangaroo skin crushed into the narrow base. They gave him a mantle of bark for shade and squatted front and back of him, their oars propped in the mud. Quickly Ilkepala pushed them off and the canoe shot out into the stream.

They all had to make up time now, not least Jack Drew. He had lost ten years of his whitefeller life; it would be hard for him to find his way back. If he lived. But he would have to do that, because he’d never find his blackfeller families again. They’d disappeared into strange new worlds.

He was back on the transport ship, in that hold again, water sloshing against the timbers, listening to O’Meara belabouring his friends over the need to watch for every chance to escape, since they’d heard the Emma Jane was right now sailing in Sydney Cove and due to drop anchor this very morn. It was hot in here, stinking even more than usual, but Brosnan was laughing at something. He was one of O’Meara’s mob. Politicals, they were called. Sent away from Ireland for raising hell. Jack liked that. The politicals were the only ones he found worth his time as the weeks passed, a cut above the rest of the scum. He liked the way they talked, the things they talked about, your rights and all that stuff that Jack had never known existed. He had his own rights. Me first they were, not as complicated as the Irish rules. But that Brosnan, he was always laughing, even in this hell, and to Jack’s astonishment, he could make him laugh too. Who would have believed it?

He felt a terrible pain in his chest and his hands flew but he couldn’t move them, they were bound. No, it was the bloody chains, they were all chained, and suddenly it was pitch black and silent and Brosnan was no longer there. He could hear O’Meara asking for Brosnan, and he told him. He was weeping, God help us, Jack Drew never wept over anyone, but there . . . Brosnan was dead. Shot. That’s right, they were at the Mudie farm, working for the bastard Mudie, and there was an escape on. But poor bloody Brosnan didn’t make it.

Someone was giving him water to drink, and slopping it on his face. Maybe the ship wasn’t moving at all, maybe he’d imagined that, and he was only on the prison hulk in the Thames and he’d been here for years and years and years.

‘Let me out,’ he screamed. ‘Let me out!’ But it wasn’t to be; they held him down, the chains were heavy. He could still hear the water slopping, slopping out there. It sounded so cool, so inviting, he wished he could drown in it, drown all this pain. Die. Who cared? He was sick of life.

The two black men kept on, skilfully avoiding bracken and debris in the wide reaches, and days later they swung out on to the big river that wound its way out to sea, and dug the heavy oars deep to push their unwieldy craft into the current.

For Moorabi it was a sad journey. He loved Meerwah, this wide river, but his people were moving away. At every stroke he took in the landmarks he knew so well . . . the leisurely bends in the river with their quiet leafy reaches, deceptive in their way, for great torrents had been known to surge down this river and engulf the land; the abundance of food and the endless beauty of bush often reflected in the waters. He remembered their favourite fishing spots, looking out for them, and the places where they’d often crossed to the south side, leading down to Bundjalung country.

Each day they swung to shore, quietly lifting the white man out of the canoe and into the water, as Ilkepala had instructed, to clean him up and keep him cool, for so far he was free of fever, thanks to the great man’s medicines. Then they deposited him in thick grass to dry off.

He would wake, muttering again, trying to move about in a drunken and ungainly way, but that was good for him, to avoid stiffness of the limbs and encourage his blood to flow evenly. This was the reason for the short stops. They too needed to exercise their limbs and muscles while they searched about for some food, but soon they were on their way again.

As they passed, Moorabi kept his eyes on the bush along the shores. The countryside seemed deserted; everything was so quiet, so normal, but he knew it was not. There were still tribal folk living here, refusing to leave, wary of strangers and hostile to white men, and troopers patrolled the area, watching for escapees from their prison, and any blackfellers they could find and shoot. It was dangerous country. Though Ilkepala had given them no fixed instructions, they had decided to keep going through the night because the moon was high and the river was running fast after the recent heavy rains. They estimated it would take only a couple more days to reach the outskirts of the white settlement, and the sooner they were in and out of there, the better. They could turn back then, dump the canoe and head north across country at a much faster pace.

It was a mystery to him why the white men built their houses, like the place that had just been burned to the ground, so far inland, in such isolated areas, when food was so plentiful down here. He was not to know that the inlanders were moneyed men who claimed huge areas of land for themselves and their cattle, for he had no concept of private ownership. But these were matters for thought as the hours passed, for hadn’t Ilkepala advised that there was much to learn if the people were to survive? So they skimmed along in the darkness, hardly making a sound, the waters seeming to be smoother, more restful with just the stars overhead and the world at rest, and the white man mumbled in his sleep again.

One afternoon they rounded a bend and saw a house high on a hill. His brother lifted his oar and looked back to Moorabi.

‘Where are we? I thought you said we had another day to go before we came close to them.’

‘So I did.’ Moorabi was confused. How could he have made such a mistake? He peered about him. He knew exactly where he was . . . There were the two bunya trees at this bend, exactly where they should be, and on the other side a sandy beach below the rocky outcrop. Behind it, he knew, was an ancient cave, a Dreaming place, very sacred. A sanctuary, Ilkepala had told him, for goodness against evil. But what was this? A whitefeller house up there on the rise, and part of the hill now bald!

‘They’re here,’ he said dismally. ‘I never expected to see them this far up the river.’

‘So we put him down here?’

‘Yes. This would be the place.’

Once again they lifted the whitefeller out of their canoe, and took him up the high bank. Moorabi tapped his forehead, hoping his words would penetrate.

‘We have to leave you now, Jack Drew. You did good with us. Our people will remember.’

‘Come and look here,’ Bart, the post digger, yelled to the five men in their work party. ‘There’s a dead nigger down here on the riverbank. And not a stitch on him. Come and see.’

They rushed down to stare, but Albert, the gang boss, ventured closer, bending down to turn the b