Dust Off the Bones Read online

  Dedication

  To my parents, Stephen and Marion, for making anything possible

  Epigraph

  The chief topic of the past week has been the trial of the seven black troopers for the murder of aboriginals at Irvinebank, and that of ex Sub-Inspector Nichols for being an accessory before the fact to the same. The trial of Nichols only lasted about half a day. The evidence for the Crown was of such a nature [that] the police magistrate said there was not much use going on with the case. The prisoner was discharged amid considerable applause.

  —from “The Irvinebank Murders,” an article in The Queenslander, February 7, 1885 (abridged)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I: 1890 Chapter 1: Billy McBride

  Chapter 2: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 3: Billy McBride

  Chapter 4: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 5: Billy McBride

  Chapter 6: Henry Wells

  Chapter 7: Billy McBride

  Chapter 8: Katherine Sullivan

  Chapter 9: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 10: Billy McBride

  Chapter 11: Henry Wells

  Chapter 12: Katherine Sullivan

  Chapter 13: Billy McBride

  Chapter 14: Tommy McBride

  Part II: 1897 Chapter 15: Henry Wells

  Chapter 16: Billy McBride

  Chapter 17: Henry Wells

  Chapter 18: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 19: Billy and Katherine McBride

  Chapter 20: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 21: Henry Wells

  Chapter 22: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 23: Inquest

  Chapter 24: Inquest

  Chapter 25: Inquest

  Chapter 26: Billy and Katherine McBride

  Chapter 27: Henry Wells

  Chapter 28: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 29: Reverend Bean

  Part III: 1906 Chapter 30: Katherine and Billy McBride

  Chapter 31: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 32: Billy McBride

  Chapter 33: Police Sergeant Percy

  Chapter 34: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 35: Henry Wells

  Chapter 36: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 37: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 38: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 39: Magistrate MacIntyre

  Chapter 40: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 41: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 42: Katherine McBride

  Chapter 43: Tommy McBride

  Chapter 44: Tommy McBride

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Paul Howarth

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  1885

  Central Queensland, Australia

  They stood on the bank of the desert crater, staring down into hell. Trampled humpies, scattered possessions, discarded weapons, severed limbs, all bogged in a churn of crimson mud; the camp had become a slaughter yard. One of the men wept openly. The other vomited on the ground. Not two days ago they had been here, in this crater, welcomed by the Kurrong people, attempting to preach to them, sharing a meal. Now that same entire community lay heaped in an enormous pyre: a knot of mangled bodies, popping, crackling, peeling as they burned. A thick smoke column rising. A smell both men would carry to their graves.

  After four days’ nonstop riding over a wasteland of sun-scorched scrub they reached the settled colony in the east, and the single-street outpost of Bewley perched on its frontier. Desperate and disheveled they tore into town, slid from their saddles, and scrambled along a narrow path to the courthouse, bursting through the black-tarred double doors into the cool flagstone lobby beyond.

  “An outrage! A most terrible outrage!”

  From his desk by the wall, the clerk looked up at the piebald-faced white man, fair skin bleached and blotted by the sun, and a properly dressed native like none they got round here. “Help you?” he called, and startled, the white man spun.

  “There’s been an outrage in the desert. A hundred killed! More!”

  A guard wandered out from the cell block and crossed the lobby to where they stood, glaring at them, cocking and uncocking his revolver with his thumb, but before he could speak, a side door opened and out barreled Police Magistrate MacIntyre, barking, “Donnaghy, get that darkie out of here, or else throw him in the cells.”

  The accent was thick Scots. The guard smiled, clicked his tongue, tossed his head toward the doors. Nobody moved. The guard cocked the revolver again, but the white man said, “Matthew, please,” and reluctantly he went outside, Donnaghy following a few paces behind.

  “Well now,” Magistrate MacIntyre said, “what do we have here?”

  “There’s been an outrage in—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard all that. What I mean is: who the hell are you?”

  “Reverend Francis Bean, sir. That is Matthew.”

  “Ah, missionaries.”

  “Yes we are.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d thank me for a whiskey then?”

  Reverend Bean cast about the lobby. “Perhaps just some water, if I may.”

  The magistrate steered him toward the office. “Come through here and I’ll find you some. Let’s you and me have a little talk.”

  They sat on either side of a rosewood writing desk, MacIntyre cupping his chin in his hand, Reverend Bean fidgeting in his chair. Wiping his hands on his trousers, picking at his shirt hem; he’d soaked his chest with water, gulping it down. MacIntyre waited, expressionless, slumped over the desk, as falteringly Reverend Bean began recounting all that had happened, all they had seen: the horror of the crater, the posse they’d encountered the day before, the tall man who’d been leading them, the one calling himself Noone.

  “And how are you so sure,” MacIntyre asked finally, once Reverend Bean was done, “that this group of men you claim you met were Native Police?”

  “The officer admitted as much himself.”

  “I see.” With great effort the magistrate shifted his bulk and heaved himself upright. “And did Inspector Noone tell you the nature of his work out there, I wonder?”

  “He had two young white boys with him. There’d been a murder, he said.”

  “Exactly. Three innocents, butchered by savages in their own home. Those poor McBride brothers lost their parents, their little sister, their whole family just about. Meaning it now falls on Inspector Noone to find the culprits and bring them before the law. You don’t object to justice being done in the colony, do you, Reverend Bean?”

  “They can’t all have been suspects, surely. There were women and children in that camp. It was obviously preplanned.”

  “Obvious to who? You? Yet you didn’t try to stop them, or warn the Kurrong?”

  Reverend Bean was aghast. “But, I couldn’t have . . .”

  “You did nothing. Ran away, in fact. Do I have that right?”

  “There were far too many of them. We were unarmed!”

  MacIntyre only shrugged.

  “You don’t understand. The things Noone threatened me with . . .”

  “Are nothing compared to what he’ll do if he learns you’ve been in here telling tales. Noone is not a man to be trifled with. Not if you value your life.”

  Reverend Bean had turned ashen. He looked suddenly unwell. Steeling himself, he said, “There is only one authority I answer to, and it is not Inspector Noone.”

  “Well then, make your statement. But I promise you, he will find you, and when he does no god will be able to protect you then.”

  The magistrate reached
for one of the pens in a double holder on his desk, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it poised over his writing pad. His bushy eyebrow lifted, watching the reverend writhe, as a drop of black ink slid slowly along the gully, hung from the nib in a teardrop, then spattered on the pad.

  “Forgive me Lord, I haven’t the strength,” Reverend Bean whispered, jumping to his feet and scurrying for the door. As his footsteps receded over the lobby flagstones, MacIntyre speared his pen into its holder and flopped back in his chair.

  “If it’s spiritual guidance you’re in need of,” the magistrate called after him, laughing, “there’s a church at the end of the street!”

  Outside, Matthew was sheltering in the shade of the courthouse wall. He hurried over, asked what had happened; Reverend Bean only blinked into the glare.

  “Father? What did he say?”

  “He’ll take care of it now, Matthew.” His voice distant, detached.

  “Take care how?”

  “We’ve done our duty. It’s no longer our concern.”

  Matthew glanced at the courthouse doors. “And you believe him?”

  “We have no choice. He is a man of the law, after all.”

  “So were them others what did it!”

  “I know that,” Reverend Bean said sadly. “Yes, I know they were.”

  They rode out of Bewley later that afternoon, heading for Mulumba, as had once been their original plan. They were washed now, and clean-shaven, and had provisions in their saddlebags; the reverend had bought a pint of rum. They were no longer talking. Hardly a word between them since. When they passed the little church at the far end of town, Matthew blessed himself dutifully and muttered a short prayer, while in sight of the cross above the doorway, Reverend Bean turned his back on the building, and hung his head in shame.

  Part I

  1890

  Five Years Later

  Chapter 1

  Billy McBride

  The heaving bar of the Bewley Hotel erupted at the sight of the wall-eyed musician shuffling out from behind the curtain screen, the drinkers whistling and catcalling and rising from their chairs, hurling whatever was at hand, as the young man laden with all manner of pipes and gongs parped and jangled his way to the center of the stage. Through spectacles as thick as bottle ends he gazed out at the crowd, missiles sailing by him, or in some cases finding their mark, then put his lips to the mouth organ, blew a tentative note, and by pumping a foot pedal struck a beat on his drum. He wore it like a backpack, a giant bass with frankie’s traveling dance band stenciled in black lettering on the dirty cream skin, one of many musical contraptions he was scaffolded in. Next came a puff on the kazoo, a ridiculous birdlike honking that drew roars of derision from the crowd. They’d been expecting Theresa and her tassels. Her name was on the chalkboard outside. Instead they’d got this strange little man wearing clackers and cowbells, clutching a ukulele, a hand-horn strapped to his knee. They heckled him all the harder. Despite everything, Frankie began to play.

  From a table near the doors, farthest from the stage, Billy McBride sipped his whiskey and watched the performance steadily unravel. A chair was thrown at Frankie, glass smashed on the floor; someone had Horace, the hotelier, by his collar, demanding he get Theresa out here now. Regardless, the kid was really going for it, playing for his life so it seemed: cheeks puffing, eyes bulging, flapping his elbows and knees. A bloke took his shirt off and jumped up onstage, began imitating Theresa, fondling himself and calling her name. Frankie stalled and the man shook him. Frankie rattled like a box of spoons. “Play, you little bastard, I’m dancing!” the man yelled, to cheers from the crowd. Billy smirked and saw off his drink, rose to his feet, and started walking. He had to get the kid out of here. Only one way this would end.

  Pushing his way to the stage, jostling between the men—one took exception and turned with his fist raised, only to realize who he’d be swinging at and apologetically lower it again. Billy moved past him, bounded up the stage steps, and briefly the barroom fell still. He spoke with the shirtless man, a hand on his shoulder, and obediently he rejoined the crowd. There was booing. Someone shouted for Billy to leave it alone. But now Billy had Frankie by the arm and was steering him off the stage, the drinkers reluctantly parting, a similar reluctance in Frankie too, Billy noticed, like this was a calling he couldn’t leave. Billy could almost imagine him, tramping from town to town, maybe after years of watching his father perform this selfsame sorry act. Then one day the old man keels over and the act becomes Frankie’s to perform, playing street corners for coppers, these dead-end drinking halls, desperately trying to better his father’s legacy, or build one of his own.

  Well, that much felt familiar. Billy could relate to that at least.

  Out the door they stumbled, onto the lamplit verandah, down the steps to the dark dirt road. The crowd surged after them, and still Frankie was resisting—Billy had half a mind to let him go, see what became of him then. On a night just like this he’d once seen a hair cream salesman nearly mated with a dog, only for the dog to save them both by fighting harder than the man. That was what Frankie had in store for him, if he didn’t get out of town.

  The musician lost his footing coming down the steps, tripped and, unbalanced by his instruments, fell and landed facefirst in the dust. That brightened the mood a little. Laughter from the men spilling outside. Stuck on their cattle stations, or mustering the lonely bush, what they needed was entertainment, preferably from Theresa, but you couldn’t be too choosy out here. Billy hooked Frankie by the arm then when he was partway up let him go again, to great guffaws from the crowd. Billy smiled at them. The men now egging him on. Frankie was up to his hands and knees, his bass drum wobbling—Billy gave him a kick up the backside.

  “Get up,” he whispered. “Get out of here. Run.”

  Frankie climbed to his feet and stood there dumbly, pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He squinted longingly at the hotel but Billy took hold of the drum and spun him around facing east.

  “I said run, you bastard! Run!”

  Another kick up the backside, harder this time, and Frankie began edging away. Billy let him get so far then set off after him, kicking him down the road, the crowd howling as the pair disappeared into the darkness at the edge of town, only the white drum skin visible, swinging back and forth, accompanied by an occasional clash of cymbals or the honk of a knee horn.

  Billy returned to a grand ovation. He wasn’t short of a drink all night.

  * * *

  Sunlight glinted in the brass fittings and upturned glasses strewn over the tables and bar, smoke and dust hanging in thick swirls. Birds chirruped outside. A carriage clattered by. Slumped in a wooden chair, Billy opened a single eyelid and squinted at the wreckage of the room. Snoring bodies on the tables, in the chairs, on the floor. Someone farted. Billy tried to move. His throat burned like hellfire and both his hands were numb. He struggled upright and glanced out of the window and wondered what had happened to his horse. Could have sworn he’d left Buck outside by the water trough, but he’d not been there when Billy had chased off that musician last night. He cupped his face with his hands and groaned into the darkness, caught the stale and deathly blowback of his breath.

  “Morning.”

  Horace wandered through from a back room, carrying a mop and bucket; unshaven, his bald head glistening, white shirt unbuttoned to his chest. He set down his things, fetched a towel and a tray, and began clearing those tables he could get to, gathering up the glasses, wiping the surfaces down.

  “What time is it?” Billy croaked.

  “Seven.”

  “In the morning?”

  “What d’you reckon?”

  Billy dragged himself to standing, clutching the chair-back for support. “Some night in here last night,” he said.

  “There’s water behind the bar if you want it.”

  “How about some breakfast n’all?”

  “Don’t bloody push it. I should be charging you lot lodg
ing as it is.”

  Billy made it to the bar, flung himself against the counter, and clung on. When he had his balance he reached over and found a water pitcher, filled a glass and downed it, filled the glass again.

  “Better?” Horace asked, walking over, the tray clinking in his hands.

  “Getting there.”

  Horace unloaded the tray, watching Billy sidelong, picking his moment to speak. He had known the McBride family for years now—the father had been a touchy bugger too before he died. Now Billy had taken his place in the town and at the bar, came down from the station most rest days, and usually ended up like this. Not that Horace could blame him. The shit that young man had been through would have broken most anyone else.

  “Ask you something?” Horace said.

  Billy lowered his glass and looked at him. “If you want.”

  “Why’d you save the hide of that music man last night?”

  “Saved you, more like—they’d have tore this place to the ground.”

  “Come off it, Billy. You didn’t know him from somewhere?”

  “Where the hell would I know him from? Where’d you even find him?”

  Horace shrugged. “Wandered in asking if he could play. I’d have sent him packing but Theresa’s got a fever from the clap.”

  “You should have changed the chalkboard then.”

  “You reckon? And get nobody in?”

  “Mate,” Billy said, shaking his head, “where else are we going to go?”

  Horace waited to see if he’d speak again, then when he didn’t said, “Suit yourself,” and went back to the tables with his tray. Billy sipped his water and watched him in the long mirror, then paused and cleared his throat.

  “Reminded me a bit of my brother,” he said.

  In the Drover’s Rest roadhouse he ate a plate of sausage and eggs, with fried potatoes, bread and butter, and coffee as black as tar, then set about finding his missing horse. Buck had once been his father’s, a chestnut-colored brumby he’d caught and tamed, and Billy would have been sorry to lose him, though he doubted he’d got too far. He walked along the main street, returning greetings as they came: Saturday morning, but already people were at it, happy and eager to start the day. Billy didn’t know how they could stand it, this little town, their little lives. If he could have left by now he would have. Had the choice ever been his.