As the expedition entered a gently rolling, green hilly area, where the low-lying hills on either side folded neatly into a little green valley that they would soon pass through, the tired, dusty men relaxed even more and several began to clown around cheerfully, causing loud happy laughter that echoed back at them through the hills around. They were looking forward to the stop this day, having been promised a few dollops of rum after today’s work was completed: all blissfully unaware that many shrewd angry eyes smiled as they watched the slowing caravan go willingly into their clever trap…
‘Reserve’ born and bred
Of the native herders, Billy - alias Billy Wombat or Flash Billy in the towns he survived in and around - never noticed the irregular shadows become regular followers either. He was born a “reserve black” – and thus, not allowed to learn his people’s language, hunting skills or any of his ancient “heathen” culture. Billy saw this trip as his only way out of being constantly abused in his half-life on the outskirts of the white settlements. As he was considered a non-entity in traditional native and Ghost minds alike, Billy didn’t care if they were being followed or not. It would be the animals that any wild blacks pursued, and the expedition’s Miglos’ who would be attacked if it came to that. He had nowhere else to go anyway. At present, his full attention was on tonight when he too would get a rare allowance of the gut-warming, mind-numbing rum that he could never get enough of in town.
His dark-skinned companion Wommai – known around his settlement as Jimmy or Kiuah in his native tongue – had traveled with Leichardt on his last expedition and was now proudly allowed to carry the big boss’s rifle. It was an honor so great to him and his standing in the group, considering his own non-entity reserve black status, that he also missed the movements and smells that would normally have alerted any bush-bred native to genuine bush blacks being around and close at hand – “dem proper-wild myall blackfellas” – as he called those of his ancient race who were still living traditionally. Wommai also had only eyes and ears for his job at present, as he too would be allocated a portion of the Ghost drink rum, which he’d craved since first feeling its wonderful warm numbing effects…
Proper wild ‘Myalls’
However, the foremost reason that the various experienced men in the party missed noticing the wild blacks’ shadowing them, was that their combined knowledge of the area and the native people was limited to their own experiences with town blacks. It would have also surprised them, had they known that the mysterious shadowy figures who’d been watching the expedition, were also strangers to this land. Despite this, the sand and sun-crinkled eyes set in stony black faces could see the great abundance in this land. Its features held many qualities that any desert warrior could use to stay well fed and hidden for as long as their need prevailed.
This hilly, forested and well-watered land made staying out of sight so easy for them, it would seem like magic to those unused to hiding on flat featureless plains, where patience was learned with walking.
The watchers were fully initiated desert warriors, trained to live unseen from childhood and, whose daily survival depended on seeing and not being seen. They were warriors who had joined the gathering that the expedition had passed: near enough for Billy and Jimmy to seduce some of the lubras who’d stayed on the fringes of the meetings. These were young naive girls who had been bored enough to fall for the flash and excitement of these two swash-buckling black adventurers. Now, their cold-eyed clans-men held a terrible anger toward these two strange black-fellows who had bedded their women, while the warriors were carrying out their serious men’s business.
These hardy desert warriors were also not at all happy about these arrogantly bold Ghost-people with their destructive animals, approaching their lands uninvited and without permissions: their ancient flat Desert lands were continuously balanced on a fine edge of sacred maintenance for their survival - and these many ignorant and destructive creatures would destroy that delicate balance within a season: and that was just from the ghost’s constant, indelicate chatter, was the current joke within their ranks…
Right and wrong
Classen was accurate in his belief that most of the fringe dwelling guerilla fighters from this area had been cleaned out. Disease, sickness, government troopers and their own people dressed in bedraggled trooper uniforms and from far away Dreaming lands had annihilated them. Terrible, ignorant Heart-rock warriors gave their souls to the Ghosts and killed for them with alien abandon as they rode their government provided horses arrogantly across other tribes’ lands, where they would never have dared cross without permission in times past.
The problem with Mr Classen’s reasoning and a problem for the expedition now, was that the capable groups now following them were not from this area at all. The gathering itself had been made up of hard, true and blooded warriors from lands yet untouched by exploration or settlement. Many distant tribes had sent senior warriors to the meeting to find out how they could stop the relentless progress of these land-hungry white devils, who showed respect for neither nation nor tradition.
The watchers were initiated men, charged by Law with holding and preserving the Dreaming laws of their respective clan lands. They included warriors from The Barunggam, Mandandanji, Gungabula and Yiman. There were also the charcoal-black and hardy desert dwellers, the Kooma, plus the Gungarri and the feared Nguri tribes. It was true that the local tribes were decimated, but these tribesmen had come together here with the angry remnants of the local tribes, having spied on and watched the terrible slaughter, slavery, debauchery and imprisonment of their coastal neighbors, and they wanted desperately to stop any further intrusion into their sacred lands.
This noisy odorous traveling procession of “food” – as they saw the many large animals that the group rode and drove with them – and arrogant pale-skinned enemy that trampled across every sacred thing in their way as they moved relentlessly toward the sacred moving lands of sand, had drawn them from the gathering like flies to carrion. Not to mention, the two walking-dead native men who were traveling so brazenly with the Ghost tribe. They had sung several of their young women into acting indecently, adding fuel to the fire that burned slowly and surely in the eyes and hearts of angry warriors as they followed and carefully watched the unsuspecting expedition.
These cunning warriors also understood that when the attack occurred, the sheer number of warriors shadowing the group would take away any advantage that the Ghost’s dreaded fire-stick power usually gave them, when wielded by so few of the arrogant invaders…
Chapter 6
Night terrors
It was barely a month after they’d left the tiny homestead on its large cattle station. The men were relaxed and the expedition moved easily through the middle of the long gentle valley, blessed with good grazing and plenty of water. The expedition had been following the gentle sloping valley for days now without stress or blockage, when the inexorable hand of fate rose to slap awake the idyllic group.
It was just another beautiful star-filled night in the new land for the expedition members. The men were drifting off to bed after eating heartily and having received their portions of the promised rum, their minds filled with fond memories of campfire songs and bawdy stories – all comfortably routine now – as the camp began to settle down for the coming night…
What’s that smell?
The animals noted the change first. The mules, oxen and horses that had been grazing peacefully, flicking tails, munching lazily and snorting softly now and then, suddenly began to raise and shake their dusty woolly heads. Soon they were snorting fearfully, stomping at the earth and pulling on the ground hitches while peering around in the darkness with white rolling eyes wide in panic, as if some terrible predator were waiting out there to slaughter them. Nothing that Jimmy, Billy or Hentig attempted could stop the rising panic among the animals. The men peered around at the darkness that hemmed them in, suddenly noticing that there was a little smoke and some foul smell drifti
ng across the camp, but nothing else that they could see.
Billy and Jimmy quickly identified the foul, human-made odor arriving with the smoke, and immediately realized that they were under attack. Between them, they quickly surmised it was for the beasts; to provide easy food for the large gathering that they’d passed by a few days ago. There was no time to explain to Hentig though, as both men ran toward the bullocks first, to try to settle them before they broke free and panicked everything else. However, even as they arrived, the roped-in workhorses broke free, galloping straight across the traces and the ground stakes that held the mules tethered to each other, freeing them in a frenzy of panic. Dust, smoke and that odor overwhelmed their senses, yet they were blind to what was in the darkness, where the feeble light from their fires flickered dimly.
The braying mules ran kicking into the night past them, rapidly setting off the usually placid oxen. The three men near them moved back quickly. They knew that once these big beasts were spooked, nothing in the known world could stop that terrible thundering stampede of snorting bovine madness. It was all Jimmy, Billy and Hentig could do to save themselves, much less stop or slow the mob that abruptly scattered and tore blindly through their neat, well-stocked camp.
Tethers, halters, leads for the wagons and several wagons themselves were instantly smashed and destroyed – torn apart like light cobweb – by the frightened herd in their rush to escape whatever had frightened them and the other animals. Men began to yell out to each other as a cloud of thick dust further reduced the visibility to a few meters in any direction. Even the campfires had been scattered by the stampede and now it became difficult to see anything at all.
“Billi! Jemmi!” Hentig shouted, reverting to his guttural German accent. “Get out zer now an’ start gettin’ dem bloody hox back togezzer!” he ordered the two natives. “Zey won’t run far, an’ zey’ll stop in da schmall groups ven zey do!” he shouted as loud as he could to be heard over the calamitous noise and through the thick cloying dust.
Then, through the swirling dust he spotted and ran to Jimmy, the black he’d known the longest. “Ju know da story Yimmy – roun’ zem up, eh my boy – yust keep em togezzer till da morning,” he yelled despairingly.
Jimmy and Billy had both thrown saddles over their own horses, which had been tied close. They were still dazed at the speed of events. They knew they were under attack and all they really wanted to do was to get right out the way, not hunt down huge, panicked animals in the dark. Without acknowledging the boss at all, they swung nimbly onto their workhorses and rode off at full gallop in the direction that the oxen had last been seen. However, as soon as they were out of sight of the camp, both men slowed their mounts and came together, exchanging questioning glances.
“Dem bloody myalls done spooked dem animals, eh Jimmy,” Billy said.
“Bin proper bloody sure-a dat,” Jimmy said as he scrutinized the surrounding bush for anything that moved.
“Dey bin use sumting inna smoke – dried-out their own shit eh?” He searched his partner’s face for a response, then seeing his mate’s scared face, spat down at the ground. “Anyways, dey bin drive ‘em bloody animals wild eh!” He shook his head at the impossibility of catching the stampeding animals.
“Reckin us-one-fla bin proper finish too, dey catchin’ us – ‘ore ‘bout dem lubras dere - ah bin tink eh?” Billy reminded his partner of their crime.
Jimmy’s eyes widened as he thought of the wild men catching them for bedding their women. “We bes run eh?” Jimmy lowered his head shame-faced, before glancing guiltily back toward the camp.
“Yah, nuttin us fla can do por dem animal - or dem walkin dead-men too eh,” Billy replied, voicing his acceptance that the expedition members would be killed in the night.
“Sure neber bin get dem cattles back from dat mob – dat fer plurry sure – dey proper gone one-time, eh!” Jimmy looked for acknowledgement from his mate to be sure he understood that they were both about to flee from the area as fast and far as possible.
“Wah! Anyone try dat – get-em animal back now – e-gone be dead: or worserer eh!” Billy screwed up his face as he tried to convince himself that running away was the best and only option.
The black stockmen took one last look at each other and then back at the expedition, but they‘d already made up their minds. As one they pulled the animals heads around roughly and spurred their flanks. The sounds of their horses’ hooves echoed against the trees and rocks as they flew away from the camp into the night as fast as the dark and terrain would allow – away from the wild men who would kill them or worserer if they were caught…
Chapter 7
Shattered
Classen, Leichardt and Hentig stood together surveying the trail of destruction the maddened beasts had left in their wake. Only two of the wagons remained upright, although they too were badly damaged. The rest of their wagons had their various loads scattered across the ground haphazardly. Food that had been stored in large hessian bags, barrels and most of the precious flour sacks were torn open and leaked their contents into the soft moist earth. It was still too dark to see properly without light and the three Germans promptly began organizing the men into the various fire and work details that would restore their camp.
The expedition fell into working as a team, with the hope of reclaiming whatever could be salvaged. And still, only the fleeing black stockmen realized that they had been - and were being attacked…
Oh mein Gott!
Several of the mules began to return as the group pitched in and established several blazing fires to provide more light, so that they could see what could be saved. The animals came drifting in out of the night as the men saved what could be saved and attempted to clean up the camp area as best as possible, until the morning light allowed a detailed inspection.
Mr Hentig first noticed the spear hanging out of one of the mules. It had been braying constantly since its return and he had gone in for a closer inspection to determine what was wrong with the noisy, bleating animal. He saw a long thin native spear hanging from its side, causing the creature to cry out in pain every time it moved. It was almost as if it were bleating its mulish astonishment at having been speared at all.
“Buuuuuss!” Hentig called out to Leichardt over his shoulder, while his mind froze at what he saw. “Come quickly! Now!” he ordered in his trepidation and shock at what he witnessed. “Bloody blacks av speart vun off da mules!” he called over his shoulder to Leichardt and Classen as they both approached, both still unaware of the reality of their situation.
The men gathered around the frightened animal, trying to hold it steady as they struggled to spy what was stuck into its flesh. It was at that moment that the unspoken promise of the expedition’s continuation began to take a bitter turn for the worse…
Look there!
It was one of the men working on an overturned wagon who raised the alarm and turned fate’s pitiless gaze toward the small, isolated expedition and its few pale-skinned members. He stood at the highest point on what was left of the wagon staring dumbfounded, blubbering and gesturing weakly into the dark at what he saw approaching. All attention instantly moved from the dying animal at their feet to the man who suddenly began gesturing and mouthing incomprehensible grunts at something coming in through the tree line, just out of reach of the firelight. Classen, Leichardt and Hentig stood stock-still in silence, as did everyone else, as they peered intently into the night as the thing came closer and into the flickering light.
“Ohh! Mein dear Gott!” Hentig choked as bile rose into his throat. The big German shook himself as he grappled with numb disbelief at what he witnessed. Then despite the shock, the big fellow promptly turned and dashed for the tent where the rifles were stored, leaving the others staring in open-mouthed horror at the terrible vision coming out of the night toward them.
The thing that was propped up on the back of a plodding mule had once been human; that much was clear. No one moved or dared breathe as the m
ule limped toward them, following the familiar scents that fed and cared for it. It understood only that these men could relieve it of the loose bloody lump of raw meat that had been tied to its strong bony back.
The mule veered towards one of the men who’d actually fed it as Hentig, rifle in hand, saw the empty eye socket of his black-boy Billy, hanging from what was left of his head. It appeared as though someone had taken a sledgehammer and hammered on poor Billy’s head until one eye had popped right out and disappeared, while the other eye hung down loosely from its socket, swinging gently in time with the mule’s pained movement.
The black’s body was now a tattered hulk of long strips of flesh that had been cut apart roughly with some blunt instrument. Hentig’s eyes were drawn to the bloody wound between Billy’s spread legs. His genitals had been removed and what he’d first thought was his boy’s swollen tongue protruding from what was left of his mouth, he now recognized as Billy’s cock and hairy black balls…
Two men down
Hentig was a strong, experienced man of the world, but even he could no longer control the nausea and the big man collapsed to his knees, spewing great chunks of half-digested food onto the ground between his trembling arms as he held himself up and retched repeatedly. That debilitating action saved his life as a spear flashed out of the darkness and passed over his kneeling body, skidding harmlessly along the earth to stop on the ground behind him. Hentig peered up from his prone position and drew in a stinking breath, choked with flecks of vomit as he shouted a warning.
The Fethafoot Chronicles Page 3