Free Dead Americans by Ben Peek Page B

that cut a dark mark through the English land.
    Pausing at the top of a hill, the Eora warrior dropped into a crouch and gazed at the ragged ugliness of Sydney Cove.
    According to the English, it had been named after a man who had never seen it, and who would never do so. One young Eora had told him that Sydney was a genteel man—though he had been unable to explain to him just what made such a man—a friend of the white beeàna, but that he was a man who held the land, and everything upon it, in contempt. It was not an uncommon opinion, and after so many years of fighting the English, Pemulwy had grudgingly accepted that the only native born Englishmen who did not hold the land in contempt were the Rum Corps [7] , who he hated with a passion. He had learned, too late it appeared, that there were divisions as wide as the Harbour between the English here and those in England, and despite his animosity towards them, he believed that if he had known this years before, he would have exploited it.
    But of course, he had not.
    I
have
lost my taste for the war
, Pemulwy whispered, rising from his crouch, his muscles complaining.
I don’t want it anymore. I have watched my friends and family die and walk into the towns, yet the English living here no longer appears as the crime I once thought it was.
    Time had, he realized, defeated him. And yet, as he gazed down at the town, he realized that he would not be able to turn away from his current actions: he would still kill King. But it was not for hatred that he would do it, or for the Eora way of life, or even the land. In truth, he did not know why he would do it.
    He felt no anger or fear as he made his way quietly down the hill. His hard feet left only the barest hint of a track in their wake, and when he skirted around a pair of Redcoats in the street, he did not attack them. They were young men, and ugly like all the English were to him, but that was not why he stayed his hand. Part of him wanted to believe that he did so because he did not want to alert others to his presence, and in a small way that was true; but mainly, his refusal to step into the street with his spear was the physical manifestation of his unwillingness to continue the war.
    He wondered, briefly, if a new Spirit had settled upon him. When the land had belonged to the Eora, the Elders had told Pemulwy that the Spirit of the land demanded protection, that it was angry if he allowed any tribe to take the land, and it was this that had fuelled him in the first years of his war. But he did not feel it anymore, and indeed, admitted that there was a different feel to the land now. Was it possible that it rose out of the quiet houses of the English that he passed, dark with sleep, and with dogs chained to the back doors for protection? Pemulwy did not know, but it was entirely possible.
    King lived in a two-story sandstone building in the middle of Sydney Cove. It was where all the Governors had lived, and was surrounded by large lawns, and vegetable gardens that were beginning to show produce. Pemulwy had seen similar gardens around the houses throughout the settlement, but their vegetables had showed sagging green tops, while at King’s dwelling there was more life, the promise of things to come.
    Pemulwy slipped over the surrounding fence, and made his way quietly and silently to the back of the sandstone building. Coldness was seeping into his fingers, and he flexed them as he scanned the garden slowly. Once, he had been able to scan the surrounding ground quickly, but now, even with the aid of moonlight, he needed more time. Time to distinguish the shapes, such as the fence palings to the left, and the firewood next to it.
    When he was sure that the yard was empty, Pemulwy continued to the back of the house. There were no lights coming from the house, but on the second floor the Eora could make out the hint of something, either movement or a candle. The windows that the English had placed in the building were