Peter Watt - Flight of the Eagle

Although inspired by real events, this novel is a work of fiction. All central characters are creations of the authors imagination and in no way reflect on any persons living or dead. Racist language in the text does not reflect the authors own views, but is intended to reflect the attitudes and expressions of a particular time in Australian history.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A very special thank you to my wonderful mother and equally wonderful aunts, Joan Payne and Marjorie Leigh. Without their initial support this project would never have existed.

In the world of publishing special thanks go to James Fraser at Pan Macmillan.

As always my thanks go to Cate Paterson whose editing adds gloss to the story, although sadly a bit of bloke stuff gets scrapped in the process. Besides the author, I think the only person who truly experiences the doubts of whether a novel is ready to release is the publisher. I must cause Cate a few sleepless nights. And thank you to Elspeth Menzies who also pored over the manuscript.

For Jane Novak, my publicist who must also lose a bit of sleep when my books are released.

For my agent Tony Williams, and all who work for him, their friendships are valued as much as their professional services.

A special thank you to Brian Cook whose initial appraisal of the manuscript for Cry of the Curlew was the catalyst for publication. You are not forgotten and your professional services for manuscript appraisal are highly recommended to would-be authors.

As always my love goes to Naomi Howard-Smith who puts up with the insecurities of a writer and manages to bring stability to what was my dysfunctional life.

Finally, my special thanks go to the greatest writer of his genre, Wilbur Smith, for showing the way.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the tops of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes,
Have made him a hunter again:
A hunter and fisher again.

The Last of His Tribe, Henry Kendall

PROLOGUE

Colony of Queensland

I t was a land as hostile as any the white man knew.

Vast spaces of lonely scrub and sand where the worlds deadliest snake sheltered in the cracks of the clay pans during the blistering heat of the day and hunted the marsupial creatures by night. A land where a solitary Aboriginal hunter roamed in a tenuous existence with nature.

But Wallarie did not feel alone in this land. For he walked with the spirits of his people and the fact that he lived proved their existence. His life was indelibly marked by the waiting for the storm that would come to the world of men and change the unborn years ahead.

The warrior was now in his middle years and his long beard was shot with grey. His body was scarred and his eyes were fading with the progress of time. But despite his years he was still a warrior to be feared by the tribesmen he met in his long wanderings across the length and breadth of the Colony of Queensland. Nor was his reputation as a killer of white men forgotten on the frontier by the European settlers.

For Wallarie was now shrouded in the mythology of the frontier. He was now remembered as a spirit man who would come to snatch away little children should they be naughty, nannies chided.

But this night he would sit cross-legged before his campfire and chant the songs of his people. The spirits of the land would listen as his fire crackled softly in the night and the ageing warrior would fall into a deep sleep. The spirits would come to him on the hush of the night wind to tell him things of the future as he slept by his fire. They would tell him of strange events unfolding: that the ancestor spirits had been disturbed from their long sleep and a vengeful storm was rising from the earth to lash the world of the white man. They told him that he must travel north to the lands of the fierce Kalkadoon warriors where he would meet once again with the blood of his past. He did not know what this meant but knew he must listen to the voices.