Shadow of the Osprey Read Online Free

retaliate against the ship floating arrogantly in the lagoon, mocking them with its devastating power.
    The bloody, mutilated bodies of David Macintosh and John Macalister lay on the beach amongst the wounded islanders who cried pitifully for help.
    Then the cannon was loaded a third time for a parting shot. Horton swung the brass barrel onto the village itself. He did not expect to cause much damage as he was not using explosive shells. This shot was intended merely as a demonstration of the power of the blackbirding ship. The small cannon let loose a booming blast of lethal lead balls which tore through the woven fibre sides of the huts. Satisfied at the damage Mort gave his orders. The Osprey unfurled her wings and fled the placid waters of the lagoon for the open sea.
    Chief Tiwi did not get a chance to vent his rage on the one remaining live white person on the island. Anne Macalister had been struck down in the final hail of lead shot.
    From the Osprey Mort surveyed the island disappearing on the horizon whilst Horton standing beside him wondered at the events that had occurred so explosively fast. His captain’s explanation had not coincided with what he had witnessed from the deck of the ship. But there was little chance that he was going to say anything about what he had seen; he now feared Mort more than ever. The man was by far the most ruthless killer he had ever met, even more dangerous than himself, Horton grudgingly admitted.
    ‘It was a terrible thing Mister Horton,’ Mort said casually as they both stared at the island, now a wounded turtle in that turquoise sea. ‘The way those niggers fell on Mister Macintosh and that poor brave missionary. I only regret that we were unable to punish them all for the cowardly murder of Mister Macintosh. But at least we were able to teach them a lesson for their treachery,’ he added sardonically.
    ‘That we did Cap’n,’ Horton answered dutifully. ‘I ’ope that will be a consolation to Mister Macintosh’s family when you make your report to Sydney.’
    Mort turned to his first mate. He knew that he would not have to kill him. There was just enough trace of fear in Horton to keep his mouth shut. ‘I am sure you saw everything happen the way I will report it, Mister Horton,’ he said, fixing his first mate with his pale and terrible blue eyes.
    ‘That I will, Cap’n,’ Horton replied without hesitation. The eyes that stared at him had that madness Horton had come to know so well. ‘That I will.’
    Mort smiled as he thrust his hands behind his back and turned to observe his crew going about their assigned duties. The death of one of his employers meant nothing to him other than that he had followed orders from Mister Granville White. But he also brooded that there would be many more he would have to kill to ensure that he kept his beloved Osprey.



ONE
    A t that time between day and night, the time before the curlews called with mournful and haunting cries from the depths of the brigalow scrub, the warrior came armed with spears and hardwood fighting clubs known as nullahs.
    The tall, broad-shouldered young Aboriginal’s black skin bore the scars of his tribal initiation – and the wound of a white man’s bullet. His long beard touched his chest and he was naked except for the belt of human hair encircling his waist. Two lethal nullahs were tucked behind the belt. Balanced in his left hand were three long and deadly spears whose tips bore the distinctive barbs that white settlers on the Queensland frontier had come to recognise over the years as the spears of Wallarie.
    Wallarie strode purposefully across the plain towards the setting sun which was hovering low over the brigalow scrub. For countless generations the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people had lived out their lives on these plains. But that was before the white man came with his herds of cattle and flocks of sheep to tear forever the fragile fabric of the world the Nerambura knew.
    The red