But he was a moment too late; his friend Classen suddenly stiffened and tried to grab at something on his chest. He twisted slowly around to look at his peers in confusion, his eyes pleading and hoping for some easy explanation as to why he suddenly felt hot and weak, stumbling like a newborn kitten trying to find its legs. A deadly thin, still-vibrating spear revealed itself as he twisted around further. It hung down and pulled at his shirt that had quickly filled up with his thick, steaming blood; while the spear yet quivered in his flesh in anticipation of its deadly work being completed, as its prey fell to the earth. Yet, an almost pure-white faced Classen held on, opposing the forces against him – standing still and appearing completely stupefied…
Save your ammo!
Suddenly a shot rang out, then another and more until there was a chorus of loud booms accompanied by heavy acrid clouds of gun smoke that covered the clearing. But the great blasting crash of noise only served to spook those few nervous animals remaining and now, the few that had returned or been close enough to round up, tore off again into the night to become easy targets for the cunning blacks.
“Stop shooting! Stop shooting!” Hentig yelled around at the armed men, wrenching his eyes from the sight of the mutilated body on the mule. “Safe your ammo unt powder boys!” But one terrified man kept shooting his rifle into the darkness as fast as he could reload. “Stop zat man! Vee are going to need efry bullet before zis day is tru!” He stepped up and shouted into the frightened man’s face then grabbed hold of his shirt and shook him like a rag doll, trying to bring him to his senses.
“Gazzer roun me – quickly now!” He assumed his role of second in command as naturally as if he had been born to it. “You and you!” He pointed to the men who had wasted the most rounds in their panic. “Go! Get Mr Classen!” he told them, nodding to where Classen still stood swaying and holding onto the spear in his chest, while looking about as if he had lost someone or something.
“Unt try to stay behine-za cuffer - vile ju are about it,” he said, scanning the darkness surrounding them.
“You there!” He called to Stewart, the former convict who now looked as ashen-faced and terrified as everyone else around. “Arvter ju get Mr Classen to safety, get our veapons togezzer in vun place, zo vee can defent from any direction.” Hentig began to search for the best defensive places for the attack that he was now sure would come…
He won’t give in!
Classen was a walking dead-man: the bloody spear head poking out through his back carried moist bits of his heart and lungs hanging from its bone tip, but the stout tough old German would just not lie down. The men walked him, holding the spear up, to the broken-up wagon area that they had pulled together into a circle of cover and from where they had decided to make their stand.
Classen was ashen faced now and weakening fast. The group gathered around him, helping ease him to the ground. Although there was nothing they could do to remove the spear while another attack was imminent. At best, they could push it through and that would simply kill him faster. And Mr Classen made it harder for them, as he fought them all the way down to the ground.
And appallingly to each of his peers there, when the man tried to speak, instead of his gruff, heavily accented German, he spoke as if he was a child again. His once grinding, guttural accent was reduced to a child’s babble, as his life-blood ran away. “Can I have my present now mummy?” he asked in a singsong voice, as tears and blood mixed on his face from eyes nose and mouth.
“Ok men!” Hentig said quietly to the three gathered around him, taking their attention away from the dying man. His voice kept breaking intermittently into the accents of the several languages he spoke as they squatted around Classen. “You and you – guard dere, und ober dere – behind the double wagon barrier – und que-vickly now boys.” He pointed to the two of the crew left, sending them to their posts immediately.
Even taking time to honor a man’s death here, Hentig thought, can’t be taken for granted when one’s own is imminent. Hentig’s mind worked quickly despite the shocking and unreal events that had taken place so fast that night. He knew they were in a precarious position. Billy was dead, Jimmy had disappeared and Classen was near death; they now had four men left to fight an unknown number of natives. The minds behind those attacks worried Hentig as well. They had used shock to draw attention, while a few warriors had come close enough to kill one of the white men. It showed that these were clever warriors – the attack had been carried out so efficiently that no one in his party saw an attacker during the entire time. They’d not even been aware it was an attack until he’d seen poor Billy’s ragged body ride in, though he realized now that the attack had begun by stampeding their animals…
Chapter 8
The ‘Doc’ cracks
Death and the ultimate rest finally overtook Classen. He went quietly, babbling to his mother in his native tongue, with a warm smile on cold blue lips that twisted his ghost-white face into a gruesome smiling death mask. Leichardt himself was in turmoil. What had gone wrong? he wondered. He had sent his native scouts out to learn all the local native protocols that he knew would be asked of them, to enter and pass through the area they now traversed. Such parleying and display of respect had always worked previously, he thought. What had gone wrong this time? He lifted his shoulders to mentally bear the load and blame for the terrible calamity that had fallen heavily on his small party.
The night was dark and across the clouded sky blue lightning flared, as Hentig handed out weapons and ammunition to the surviving members of Leichardt’s reduced party. The flickering light from the fires also gave the warriors a beacon to shout insults at. None of the men including Leichardt had any idea what was being said, although the anger and insult was obvious despite the tongue. Sweat poured from each man as he considered his death. The only movements they made were to wipe the wet flood of fear and anguish from their eyes and at the least, enable them to see that death coming for them.
“We will try to hold out until light,” Leichardt said as he looked around at his faithful men. He saw in their eyes the stoic acceptance of the fight’s almost forgone conclusion. The three men with him showed great courage and spirit. “Many men would have run screaming by now,” he said, surveying his companions. “I have lived a life of discovery and revelation about our world and all its inhabitants.” He regarded the dead white face of his friend. “I don’t understand why this has happened,” he said with shame. “I do know that the natives out there who want to kill us are not barbarians. They have lived extremely well within this harsh land and provided for their kin and family for longer than we whites have had a society,” he said sadly, hoping in vain for a miracle to save these good men.
The small group around him shivered in the cool night, as yet more taunts came from the darkness – seemingly from all around them. Leichardt could no longer tolerate the taunts at his men. He raised himself up to his full height and stood proudly. Hentig tried to pull him back down out of harm’s way but Leichardt had gained a desperate strength from the great respect the natives had shown him previously. He threw off Hentig’s hand roughly as he stood and called out into the night.
“I am Ludwig Leichardt!” he shouted out to the shadows in the bush. “I came to your lands wishing only to explore your country and its animals. I have no wish to harm any of your people, nor to take your lands,” He opened his arms wide, as he allowed the echo from his voice to fade. “You are welcome to the beasts we have brought into your country,” he offered.
The reply came with a whistling that issued out of the night directly in front of Leichardt. In the quiet of the night, after Leichardt’s bold crazed challenge, the sound grew in volume until it took form as a whispering sharp missile that flew out of the darkness into the flickering light and drove its sharp stone head deep into the wagon wood a few inches from Leichardt’s shoulder with an audible hollow thunk.
“Get down Ludwig! Dr Leichardt!” Hentig cried. He pulled at his clothes an
d with the help of the other men who’d crawled over, tried to force him to the ground while avoiding exposure to the attackers. “No! No! Let me go!” Leichardt shouted loudly at his own men, striking at their hands and pushing them off. “They could have hit me if they wanted,” he argued, twisting wildly around to spy his silent, deadly attackers…
Let’s make a run for it
Unknown to the two squabbling leaders, Stuart the Scot and the Irishman Kelly were not prepared to await for death to come to them out of the dark like some supernatural avenger. They had conversed furtively while Leichardt ranted at the blacks and now believed that their best chance for survival here was to run and try to disappear into the surrounding bush at the first chance. They could wait no longer. It seemed that the boss was falling apart and Hentig was ready explode, muttering and cursing about the filthy murdering savages and repeatedly breaking into his guttural German, while alternating between abject fear and sobbing rage.
Now, as Leichardt stood exposed and half expecting to be speared, though still frantically hopeful of any form of sanity to intercede, the overwrought men glanced at one another and nod in unison. They slapped each other’s shoulders for luck, before crouching, adrenaline pumping and ready to spring into action. It seemed that for some reason the blacks had decided not to kill Leichardt as yet, while the two terrified men had decided that any attempt at escape was better than waiting to be wounded with a lucky shot and then to die slowly and painfully like poor Mr Classen. Although they respected Leichardt and his belief that the blacks had some type of society, which was being devastated by their people’s invasion, they believed that such knowledge wasn’t going to help their present situation, or keep them alive through the night. They might even be roasted alive, if any of those cannibal rumors were true.
They made their move before their colleagues could act to stop them. In unison they leapt out from the shelter and ran for the tree line in different directions, blindly shooting off their guns in front of them as they tore across the clear ground toward the dark shelter of the thick bush surrounding the camp.
Yet standing in open view, Leichardt gaped wide-eyed; his mouth perfectly rounded in astonishment as both men jumped the low barricade and made it to the tree line. But as they reached the darkness of the first small bushes under the tree line, their screams of rage and fear were abruptly clipped short, betraying their fate…
Jimmy returns
The experienced explorer screwed his eyes shut and clawed at his face, trying to shut out the vision and sound of this latest round of deadly violence. He shuddered violently and abruptly collapsed into his only living companion’s open arms, and as they fell to the ground under Leichardt’s dead weight, a terrible low keening came to their ears.
They squat together for any comfort like trembling wild animals, wiping cold sweat and tears of impotent rage from their eyes. In their fear, they had forgotten their weapons and instead, held each other in desperate anticipation of the next atrocity that would reveal itself.
In answer to their fear, a weird mewling sound drew their attention as it approached their dark hide. Un-armed and unconsciously the men rose slowly, drawn to their knees by that terrible sound – and saw their other black boy, Jimmy. He was gamely trying to walk toward them, but his ankles had been cut at the back of both feet. He was bleeding heavily from those wounds and had deep cuts around his head and shoulders. He also bled thick dark blood from the crotch and both men watching shuddered, grimacing and wondering how on earth he could still be upright with such terrible injuries.
Mr Hentig - now impossibly enraged by so much horror, killing and mental anguish; his very sanity stretched to breaking point - abruptly jumped to his feet, dragging his boss awkwardly up with him; his large round face now a blushed red that matched his flame-red hair and beard. He untangled himself from Leichardt, picked up his pistol and began yelling and shouting wildly in his native tongue. He leapt over the makeshift shelter, stumbling loosely as he hit the ground, undecided as to fight or flight: knowing only that to sit and wait further was beyond his capacity as a man. His eyes, head and gun hand swung fiercely to and fro while he searched around for anything to inflict violence upon, and take some small revenge for his dead friends and the awful hours of anxious terror he’d been through.
His friend and current boss – Leichardt - exhorted him to stop, but he took no heed; he was deaf to language, needing only terrible violent action to assuage his frustration anger and fear. He lurched around the clearing in a crazed daze, holding out his pistol and swinging it wildly up down and around his zombie-like stumbling. Finally, he walked stiff-legged and frantically toward the dark tree line, itching to pull the trigger and fire at any movement as he cursed the unseen attackers profanely…
Culture shock
Suddenly, out of the darkness directly in front of Hentig, a woolly black bush of head and beard burst into the flickering light. The native’s black eyes burned with the fires of his judgment, though as yet his spear was held by his side and he made no move to attack the crazed Ghost. Hentig froze - close enough now to be able to smell the musky wood-smoked scent of the wild man – then inexplicably the explorer allowed both his gun and gaze to drop. He beheld a scantily clad warrior, all glossy black muscle and sinew with several raised scars across his face and various parts of his chest.
Time slowed – sound departed. Each man stared at the other.
On the sidelines and now completely alone, Leichardt watched the tableau unfolding before him. He bowed his head and prayed that somehow this terrible situation would reverse itself, allowing his friend and companion to claim sanctuary from his imminent death.
It was the first time in his life that Hentig had stood toe to toe with an authentic Australian native. He noted that there were no dumb downcast eyes or cowering in this man. He had no sickness or disease, and actually looked healthier than most white men that Hentig knew. There was no fear of the white man in the obsidian eyes that regarded him curiously as he stared back. But neither was there anger or the expected wild-eyed look of a savage. We were wrong, he thought to himself absurdly. This man looks shrewd – and much more intelligent than I would have thought possible in a supposed savage.
The converse men from contrary societies stared into each other’s eyes across the short space. Hentig’s face and body were frozen in indecision, although the wild black-fellow had no such issue, he noted. The black lifted an eyebrow – chin-lipping minutely at the weapon Hentig held.
Then slowly, unbelievably, and of its own free will - or so it seemed to a shocked Hentig - the gun in his hand began to rise toward the motionless black. His amazed eyes kept wandering from the rising gun to the warrior’s resigned dark eyes. Mr Hentig felt distanced, surreal, as if he wasn’t there and about to perform an action that would force the warrior to stop him. Then in the next moment, Hentig could strangely see both of them, as actors in a scene set for the stage - as if he were the audience: detached in some magical sense from this mad scene. Even when his finger began to tighten, pulling back the trigger that would make the hammer strike the flint and explode the gunpowder, the warrior opposite made no effort to act, his spear held casually in the throwing stick at his side. As the gun reached heart level, about to fire its deadly missile, the warrior finally moved.
To Ludwig’s wide eyes, it seemed that the black man flowed casually to one side and let his spear fly in one fluent motion. Leichardt cried out as the spear hummed, flashed and passed through Hentig’s soft flesh and on into his heart, dropping him like a stone and causing his weapon to discharge into the ground as his lone companion dropped to his knees; dead. Leichardt howled and threw himself to the ground in a mad frenzy of passionate, childish frustration. When he looked again, Mr Hentig was gone now also – just like that - as was the warrior who’d caused his fateful fall; blown away by the wisp of night wind like the swirling gunpowder smoke covering his friend’s now supine still body…
Chapter 9
Not entirely alone
Leichardt was alone now, although poor mutilated Jimmy had kept moving inexorably through Hentig’s death scene and had somehow reached their improvised shelter. Here finally, he collapsed to the ground, weakened and dying, and still the hardy native began to speak softly to a horrified Leichardt.
“Dis ere blackfella bin lef little bit live eh, special to bin tell you-fla what is, boss,” he said, gaining his boss’s full attention. “Yeah boss, ‘m s’pose tell yu-fla dat you bin ahh, protect, eh boss,” he wheezed with the little breath left in him. “You fla bin go dat Dreamtime place boss,” he sighed. His head hit the ground exhausted, but now satisfied that Leichardt could hear him, the dying native continued.
“Dat one ole fella dere boss.” He coughed out dust and blood as he explained. “Dat ole fella,” he gasped. “He bin tell dem myalls, leave you-fla ok boss. You safe now boss.” Jimmy tried to raise his glazed eyes to the only man who would see his passing. “Finish killum ere now,” he said, trying but failing to nod to himself. “’Im dere! Dat ole one, he, he – ‘e bin come one-time por you-fla – soon now boss.” Dust fluffed up to stick to the blood leaking from his mangled lips and mouth as he spoke.
Dying, he was unable to withhold the knowledge and warning that his boss should have known before, and even now, the weak, wounded man struggled to explain what and why for his boss. “Dat Mitta Classen b‘long you-fla, e shoulda-bin warn you boss – bout that big meetin, eh!” he told Leichardt from his awkward position on the ground. “Alla dem wild black fellas bin meetin near where we pass, few day ago boss,” he said, his breathing labored and becoming weaker by the moment.
Leichardt listened intently, stunned at the man’s words and, as he weakened his voice reduced to a rasping whisper, forcing Leichardt to lean in close to hear him.
The Fethafoot Chronicles Page 4