Bloody Colonials

Stafford Sanders

Description

Shameless Halloran, convict stablehand, has a problem. He knows of a murder but doesn't dare tell anyone. Who can he trust? Every figure of authority in this early Australian penal settlement is a potential suspect—all have dark pasts and ruthless ambitions.

So the canny Irishman enlists the help of a young doctor, newly arrived, as respectable front for his sleuthing. What follows is a tension-packed and hilarious romp as the odd couple lurch erratically towards an unlikely revelation.

Bloody Colonials is a wickedly satirical piece of crime fiction set in a forbidding landscape—where big fish battle to the death in a dangerously small pond.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Historical
• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 08 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780992548766
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A Shameless Halloran mystery
 
 
A novel by Stafford Sanders ,
from a story by Stafford Sanders & Tony Latimore

 
 
Bloody Colonials
© Stafford Sanders 2015
All Rights Reserved
 
Published in eBook format by A Sense of Place Publishing, 2015
ISBN-13: 978-0-9925-4876-6
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
I wish to acknowledge the very valuable collaboration of Tony Latimore on the original story and feature screenplay of Bloody Colonials – including his conception of the character of Shameless Halloran.
 
I’m also very grateful for their critical input to friends and authors Frankie Seymour (All Hearts on Deck), Dr Julie Browning (Dynasties) and Gary Bryson (Turtle); and to the following for their creative/critical contributions: Lucy Browning, Kea Browning, Rebecca Browning, Rod Crundwell, Janet de Bres, Suzy McKenzie, Celeste Pena, Charlie Sanders, Dr John Sanders, Kim Sanders, and Dominic Stone.
 
Cover Design by Jessica Bell.

DEDICATION
 
I dedicate this book to the memory of my father John Sanders (1917-2010) – doctor, carpenter, husband, father; lover of the bush, the beach, and a good laugh.
 
Dad enjoyed my first draft – said he ”couldn’t put it down.” Yes, I said, arthritis can be a bugger. At least he doesn’t have that to deal with any more.
WIDE BROWN LAND
(Extract from the theme song to the intended feature film of Bloody Colonials)
 
Dawn of a new day in strange paradise
We rise with first light as one
We hitch up our chains and we take up our tools
And toil till the long day is done
Far from our homes and the land that we knew
The natural laws we once took to be true
Still the climate’s not bad and there’s fine lands in view
To work when our sentence has run
 
We follow their orders, we do what we’re told
Don’t question the wrong or the right
We’re slaves to an empire where sun never sets
‘Cause God wouldn’t trust them at night
The ground rules keep shifting, the words don’t ring true
“Do what we say, never mind what we do”
Still, the water is cool and the sky is bright blue
And we’ve independence in sight
 
Drowning in sunlight, jumping at shadows
Struggling so hard to understand
This wide brown land
 
Working on long leads, drifting in dreamworld
Struggling so long to understand
This wide brown land
 
© 2008 (R.Crundwell/P.Fenton/T.Latimore/S.Sanders)
 
You can listen to or download the song, performed by the author’s band Men With Day Jobs - Track 3 at
 
http://menwithdayjobs.bandcamp.com/album/dreams-and-tinsel
Prologue: THE HORSEMAN COMETH
A thunder of hooves comes carving at daybreak through the roll and roar of ocean swell crashing against high cliffs.
 
Wild irregular sandstone crags, they are. Laid down by eons of sedimentary deposit, which ageless motion of wind and wave have scooped and swirled like massive spoonfuls of caramel ice. Far below, huge chunks of this rock, sheared away by the relentless erosion, have crashed to the shelf beneath. There they now lie, like fallen behemoths being slowly consumed in the jagged, frothing jaws of the animal ocean which roars and gnashes and hurls itself repeatedly against the feet of the weatherworn giants.
 
All this beneath a sky far too blue, a sun far too high and unrelenting than it would appear from the Scottish coast, the White Cliffs of Dover or anywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere. This swirling sea is not the North Sea, the North Atlantic or the Mediterranean. It is, rather, the great South Pacific Ocean.
 
We have arrived, in the bright dawn of this crisp morning, at the oldest continent in the world: Terra Australis, the Great South Land. Later, of course, called “Australia”; but that will be almost a century beyond this fateful morning in the year 1810.
 
Listen, the thunder draws nearer.
 
Around the towering cliffs, a horse bursts into view, ridden at a hearty canter along the narrow rocky clifftop track. It moves with sureness born of familiarity.
 
Its rider is a man of slight to medium build, perhaps middle-aged, possibly grey-haired, probably clean-shaven, certainly hatless, and wearing a plainish brown riding coat. Though the surroundings are not European, the rider in his manner of dress certainly appears to be from that part of the world.
 
In the rider’s face there is a grim set: brows knitted together just a crease more tightly, jaw set a twitch more firmly, than can be explained solely by the effort of riding. Something is going through the mind of this man. Something that troubles him.
 
Seeming comfortably set in the saddle and well versed in the twists and turns of the rough track, the horseman digs his heels into the flank and drops his head as his mount approaches a sharpish bend. He shifts his weight automatically in readiness, the horse slowing just slightly to negotiate the oft-taken turn.
 
But at the very fulcrum of the bend, the rider gives an abrupt and startled cry. A desperate moment of scramble - but purchase is hopelessly lost, centrifugal force doing its inexorable work, body sliding outwards with a rush of fabric and leather.
 
And whatever concern he had felt up to this point is nothing compared to what he feels now - at finding himself suddenly and finally airborne.
 
The hapless horseman plummets from view like yet another lump of sandstone towards the rocks far below. Doomed figure followed by something else falling with him, final scream drowned in crash of waves.
 
Flecked with dreadful crimson, ripples start to spread. And spread.
 
There now comes the single mournful cry of a seabird – as the horse, having renegotiated its equilibrium following the unexpected loss of burden, comes shuffling to a halt on the clifftop. There it stands, alone in silhouette, whinnying gently towards the unforgiving ocean.
1. LAND HO
In other circumstances, the hearty cry of “Land Ho!” ringing out from the throat of a sturdy young sailor, stripped to the waist atop the crow’s nest of a majestic tall ship, might have elicited feelings of excitement, elation or even exhilaration, of a tremendous sense of the achievement of a dream or of the dawning of a life reborn in a bold new world.
 
In this case, however, all I was able to feel at this exclamation was a rush of numb relief that the interminable blasted journey was finally over and I might soon be back upon dry land at long last.
 
I hauled my wretched body up from the ship’s railing, having just attempted for the latest of God knows how many times to fill the heaving ocean with the contents of my equally heaving stomach. However, having long since lost the entirety of its contents to previous heavings, no more remained within that chamber to be thus emptied.
 
As I sagged utterly spent against the railing, that hideous and vivid memory once more came flooding back which had so often plagued me upon this long and gruelling voyage. A vision of similar illness gripping me in the midst of previous duties upon other vessels, important duties which did not brook such interruption. Duties as a naval surgeon, so oft embarrassingly cut short by my forced and rushed departures. Operations abandoned midstream to be salvaged by others whose muttered oaths, shaking heads and disapproving looks had followed me angrily as I had fled those rooms to avoid contaminating my colleagues and my poor patient with the erupting contents of my cursed weak vitals.
 
There now followed an equally ghastly impression of my poor mother, shaking her grey head in dismay - at yet another graphic and irrefutable report of her son’s abject failure in the line of naval duty.
 
This in turn was followed by visions of my most recent nightmare: the long months of rolling, pitching, gut-wrenching discontent, confined for what seemed an eternity in the fetid bowels of a vessel tossed like a scrap of debris upon the mighty and utterly unsympathetic seas. My diet during this voyage, of salt beef, flat bread, biscuits and stale vegetables, ameliorated only by the fact that I had kept so very little of it down. The voyage was not, to be sure, the stuff of which dreams are made.
 
Shaking these wretched recollections from my pounding head, I now slid gracelessly from the rail and dropped to one knee upon the deck. I winced at the painful crack of emaciated bone against hardened timber. Rubbing the bruised knee, I clambered with some effort to my feet, grasping the rail with both hands, and raised my head to blink blearily through reddened eyes. Out over the side of the ship, its immense cream sails already loosened and fluttering, and away through the mist toward the emerging dark shape beyond.
 
Yes, no mistaking - it was indeed land. To be precise, the Great South Land. The new jewel in the Crown of the British Empire. Not exactly jewel-like now, it loomed up out of the greyness, a dark, low, craggy and eerily indeterminate presence - but it was land nonetheless. I could not suppress a great rasping sigh at the knowledge that at last my gastric torment would be over.
 
I had arrived at His Majesty’s Colony of Port Fortitude. And, I added to myself with what vehemence I could summon, it was about bloody time.
 

 
The problem really started with the Americans. Many problems do seem to start with Americans; but this particular problem was a particular headache for the British Empire in the late eighteenth century - just before this story begins.
 
The Americans had been part of that great Empire until they turned rather ungratefully against their colonial masters in their impertinent War of Independence – which in 1776 they had the additional temerity to win. They then added insult to insurrection by refusing to allow