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] Harry Morant
: Shoot straight, you bastards. - Don't make a mess of it!
: Did you write that, Harry? Harry Morant
: No, no. It was a minor poet, called Byron. Peter Handcock
: Never heard of him. Harry Morant
: I did say he was a minor poet.
: [after Handcock has admitted to murdering the missionary
] Major Thomas has been pleading justifying circumstances and now we're just lying. Peter Handcock
: We're lying? What about THEM? It's no bloody secret. Our graves were dug the day they arrested us at Fort Edwards. George Wittow
: Yeah, but killing a missionary, Peter? Harry Morant
: It's a new kind of war, George. A new war for a new century. I suppose this is the first time the enemy hasn't been in uniform. They're farmers. They come from small villages, and they shoot at from behind walls and from farmhouses. Some of them are women, some of them are children, and some of them... are missionaries, George.
: Live every day as if it were going to be your last; for one day you're sure to be right.
: Do you want the padre? Harry Morant
: No, thank you. I'm a pagan. Sentry
: And you? Peter Handcock
: What's a pagan? Harry Morant
: Well... it's somebody who doesn't believe there's a divine being dispensing justice to mankind. Peter Handcock
: I'm a pagan, too. Harry Morant
: There is an epitaph I'd like: Matthew 10:36. Well, Peter... this is what comes of 'empire building.' Major Thomas
: Matthew 10:36? Minister
: "And a man's foes shall be they of his own household."
: We shot them under Rule 303.
: As a matter of interest, how many courts-martial have you done? Major Thomas
: None. George Wittow
: None? Peter Handcock
: Jesus, they're playing with a double-headed penny, aren't they? Major Thomas
: Would you rather conduct your own defence? George Wittow
: But you have handled a lot of court cases back home, sir? Major Thomas
: No. I was a country-town solicitor. I handled land conveyancing and wills. Peter Handcock
: Wills. Might come in handy.
: It really ain't the place nor time to reel off rhyming diction, but yet we'll write a final rhyme while waiting crucifixion. For we bequeath a parting tip of sound advice for such men who come in transport ships to polish off the Dutchman. If you encounter any Boers, you really must not loot 'em, and if you wish to leave these shores, for pity's sake, don't shoot 'em. Let's toss a bumper down our throat before we pass to Heaven, and toast a trim-set petticoat we leave behind in Devon.
: [Saying his goodbyes to Morant and Handcock
] Harry! Peter! Peter Handcock
: See you in hell, mate! Harry Morant
: [Gripping George's hand
] Goodbye, George. George Wittow
] Why did they do this to us, Harry? Why? Harry Morant
: They have to apologize for their damned war. They're trying to end it now, so they need scapegoats. George Wittow
: [Being dragged away by prison guards
] HARRY! PETER! Harry Morant
: George! We're scapegoats to the bloody empire! George Wittow
: [Being led past the soldiers preparing their rifles for Morant and Handcock's firing squad
: [Thomas is visiting Morant on the morning of his execution
] Cheer up. You look as if you were going to a funeral. Major Thomas
: Harry... Harry Morant
: It's all right, Major. I've had a good run. There's nothing for me in England anymore. And back in Australia, well they say if you need a couple of stiff drinks before you climb up on a wild horse, you're finished.
: [after the ambush in which Captain Hunt is killed
] Well, Mr. Taylor, sir, so much for your damned intelligence report. "Eight Boers, exhausted" - that's what you said. "Horses with fever", you said. What do you say now? Capt. Alfred Taylor
: I say avenge Captain Hunt.