by Peter Watt
‘Alive as you can see,’ Jack replied. ‘And ready to return to Moresby.’
‘The pub?’
‘No, a visit to an old friend who I think will impress your English sense of class.’
George’s hand brushed Iris’s hand and she smiled. Jack noticed the serenity in his former sergeant major’s expression. He had never seen him so peaceful and happy. The three strolled back to the house where Sen’s wife had prepared a breakfast of a fresh fruit platter. As they ate, the fruit juices helped wash away the remnants of the previous day’s excesses.
George was duly impressed, as Jack had predicted, when they arrived at their Moresby destination. The two men were ushered into Sir Hubert Murray’s office at Government House by a stiff-necked clerk.
A robust giant of a man in his mid fifties met them from behind his desk. ‘Young Jack Kelly,’ he said with a broad smile across his still handsome face. ‘I heard that you covered yourself in glory for the Empire in the recent Great War.’
‘Sir Hubert,’ Jack said, a little self-conscious in the presence of the man who was somewhat of a legend in his lifetime. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Sir Hubert’s eyes came to rest on George. ‘We have not had the pleasure, sir,’ he said and George shook his hand.
‘George Spencer, sir,’ he said. ‘I assure you that the pleasure and honour is mine.’
‘Spencer, you say,’ Sir Hubert said with a puzzled expression. ‘I knew a Spencer from my days at Oxford. A man who looked very much like you. Lord Spencer I believe he is now.’
Jack noticed that George seemed to be taken by surprise, his normally reserved demeanour shaken for just a moment. ‘Possibly a distant relative,’ George countered.
‘Well, so much for idle chit chat,’ Sir Hubert said, clasping his hands behind his back and standing ramrod straight before the two men. ‘So I am going to tell you, Jack, before you even ask – as I suspect that you are here for a reason – the answer is no to me granting you permits to go off into the uncontrolled regions prospecting for gold. The military administration in the old German territories has not resolved that matter yet.’
‘Sir Hubert,’ Jack said throwing up his hands in protest, ‘it is not gold that brings me to you personally but the Orangwoks.’
Sir Hubert blinked and for a second gaped. ‘Good lord! Surely you don’t believe those stories written by that mad Froggy do you?’ he exclaimed.
‘I do, Sir Hubert,’ George said quietly. ‘I believe that an island this big must have at its unexplored heart many people living in settlements. Who and what they are I feel is one of the last great questions begging an answer in our modern times. Sir, we know more about the heart of Africa than we know about the heart of this land.’
Sir Hubert turned his attention to George and was silent for a moment as he appraised the Englishman. He was so like the young Irish Catholic Oxford graduate who had won the English heavyweight boxing title years earlier. He searched for a weakness in the aristocratic looking Englishman who stood in his office and talked of Orangwoks. ‘What makes you think that there are people living in the unexplored territory?’
‘Well, sir,’ George reasoned, ‘we know that people live along the coastline and into many parts close to the coast. I just believe that it is in the nature of mankind to forever migrate into uninhabited areas. And thus for thousands of years I believe that the ancestors of the people from the coastal areas must have moved inland to new areas. It is as simple as that.’
Sir Hubert pondered on the answer. ‘I have always thought that myself,’ he mused in measured tones. ‘I have heard rumours that the German Lutheran missionaries have some knowledge of people living beyond our control but they have stayed tight lipped on the subject.’ He glanced at Jack with a hint of suspicion. ‘And you are not looking for gold?’
‘Just Orangwoks,’ Jack answered him in his sincerest voice. ‘George has kindly requested my services as an old Papua hand to assist his exploratory expedition.’
‘Damned if I should believe either of you,’ Sir Hubert guffawed. ‘But I will see that the proper permits are drawn up – with no gold prospecting and a few other conditions.’
Jack felt his initial enthusiasm wane. ‘Conditions, Sir Hubert?’ he asked. ‘What other conditions?’
‘That you take a contingent of police boys with you. And any other conditions that I might think of between now and when I sign the permits.’
‘Reasonable enough,’ Jack said, and held out his hand to seal the deal. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Sir Hubert, for what you are doing to advance man’s knowledge of his fellow man.’
‘Jack Kelly, you are a rascal, but your exemplary service to the King and Australia in the war has warranted some loss of memory for all the trouble you caused me with my German counterparts years back. I wish you all the best and hope that you do not cross paths with O’Leary again.’
George was quick to pick up on the mention of the name. Who was O’Leary and why was he to be avoided?
The two men politely excused themselves and left the charismatic ruler to continue his day of administering the territory. They were striding back to the buggy under a hot sun and cloudless skies before George asked, ‘Who is this mystery man O’Leary?’
‘Who is Lord Spencer?’ Jack countered.
Neither question was answered and they rode in silence back to Sen’s residence. George was not naive enough to believe that Jack was merely interested in his dream of making the last great discovery of the twentieth century – the finding of the Orangwoks. He knew Jack would be searching for gold as they trekked into unexplored country. But at least he had a partner who knew what he was doing. For George, Jack Kelly was the only man alive he truly loved as a brother and trusted with his life. That friendship had been forged in hell. But now they were in a strange and contradictory paradise. Even more important had been the discovery of the most exotic and beautiful of all creatures – Iris. He knew he was hopelessly in love and would eventually ask her to be his wife, even though they had only known each other a few days. That did not matter. He had lived through a time at the Front when life had been often measured in mere minutes and seconds.
‘We are going to take a boat from Moresby around the point at Samarai to this river here north of Morobe but south of Lae,’ Jack said, jabbing at the map spread on the floor of Sen’s house.
George followed Jack’s finger around the tail of Papua to a river marked on the coast north of the former German settlement of Morobe in the Huon Gulf. He noted that the map had a red brown colouring close to the coast to indicate areas under government control, but inland an expanse of grey with dotted outlines of a great spine of vaguely mapped mountains with the title Bismarck Range. Somewhere in that grey area George knew they would find the Orangwoks.
‘Does Isokihi still have his boats?’ Jack asked. Sen was standing above the two men as they crouched over the map spread on the coir mat floor. He nodded and Jack turned back to the map. ‘After we land it’s going to be a bastard getting up the hills in from the coast,’ he added. ‘We are going to need porters and it looks like we will have to take whatever we can from Koki gaol for that job.’
George frowned at the suggestion of native prisoners working for them but Jack noted his concern. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s common practice around here for the boys to work off their sentence and, at the same time, get paid.
‘Why don’t we avoid the mountains by taking a course up the MarkhamValley?’ George asked quietly.
Jack seemed a bit evasive. ‘Been done before. If you are going to find your lost tribes you are going to have to look in places less accessible.’
‘I was hoping to look up in this region,’ George said, pointing to a grey area at the centre of the island between two ranges marked as the Victor Emanuel and Muller ranges. ‘That would mean it would be better to follow the MarkhamValley.’
Jack looked peeved. ‘Why not give this area a try first? It’s closer, wherea
s to try for the place you just pointed out, would require a longer sea voyage. That would put a bit of a strain on our supply line.’
George had to bow to Jack’s rationale. Logistics of supply had been his role as a company sergeant major during the war. ‘All right, old chap,’ he sighed. ‘So may it be that we find something in the region you have selected.’
Jack grinned and slapped his friend on the back. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’
George was acutely aware of what the Australian was really seeking. It did not matter so long as he had the opportunity to blaze a new trail into unexplored country. Should Jack find his gold then they would both find what they sought. For George the lure of gold held little value. Gold merely translated to financial wealth and that was something that no longer mattered in his life. ‘If there is nothing else then Sen and I can discuss the finer details of the plan,’ Jack said. ‘Give you a chance to improve your mah-jong game with Iris while we work on.’
George stood and stretched his legs. He was not offended by being dismissed. Indeed Iris’s company was something to look forward to. Especially as the departure date of their expedition was growing close.
George found Iris in the garden amongst the broadleafed monsterios. With the delicate fishbone ferns and colourful waterlilies, it was a cool, pleasant place of tranquillity. A place to sit and talk. A place to express gentle words of love.
It took three weeks to finalise preparations. George left the organising to Jack and spent his time in the company of Iris. She proved to be as intelligent as she was beautiful and George had to admit to himself – with a touch of guilt – that the expedition was taking a secondary place in his life. At times he had forced himself to join in Jack’s enthusiasm when in fact he felt depressed at leaving Iris behind. It was ironic that he had travelled to Papua to search for lost tribes and instead found love.
Iris had returned his feelings in a gentle manner. Although George ached to take her to his bed he also knew that this was not the way to prove his love for the mysterious woman. He had seen the same longing in her eyes however, and felt it in the touch of her fingers on his arm.
But the day came when Jack declared they were ready to take one of the Japanese boat builder’s modified ketches out of Moresby harbour for the voyage to the Huon Gulf.
‘How about we all go to the pub to celebrate?’ Jack declared in his usual cheery way. ‘Maybe say goodbye to Harry and the boys.’
Sen shook his head and mumbled, ‘Not a good idea for me to go with you, Jack. You know how the boys feel about us Chinese.’
‘You’re with me. No one will give you any trouble.’
‘Not a good idea,’ Sen reiterated. ‘You and George go.’
Jack turned to George who stood a short distance away. ‘Well, you old bastard, how about it?’
George smiled weakly and mumbled that he would go with him. He still felt the old duty to protect his friend. It had been like this when they were on leave in France. He knew of Jack’s wild ways once he had a few drinks under his belt. If they were to leave in the morning he felt that he should ensure Jack came home in one piece.
Jack scooped up his big floppy hat as Sen placed his hand on his arm. ‘Be careful, Jack,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘I have heard rumours that O’Leary is back in Moresby.’
George noticed the slight shift in the Australian’s expression, but his concerned look suddenly shifted back to a broad grin. ‘It all happened a long time ago,’ he said and turned to walk out the door.
George followed to the buggy. ‘About time you told me about this O’Leary chap,’ he muttered. ‘His name keeps cropping up.’
‘Just a bloke who I upset a bit a few years ago,’ Jack replied as they walked.
‘How upset?’ George asked.
‘I shot him once,’ Jack said mildly. ‘But the bastard had it coming. I only wish I had finished the job then because, if he is around Moresby tonight, I have a feeling he is going to upset my drinking.’
‘You shot him! And you think he is going to be around tonight?’
‘Hard to keep any secrets in Papua,’ Jack said when they reached the buggy hitched up by the houseboy. ‘Hey, Dademo. What do you think of O’Leary?’
‘Bad bastard, Mr Jack,’ Dademo replied with a wide grin. ‘You killim when you see him, Mr Jack.’
‘See, George,’ Jack said as he hauled himself up onto the buggy seat. ‘Told you O’Leary was a bad bastard.’
George took his place beside his friend who gave a flick on the reins. ‘You could at least tell me who to look out for just in case I meet him,’ George stated reasonably.
‘A really big and ugly man with two scars on his cheeks. The left hand scar is a bit bigger than the right hand one. My bullet blew his teeth through that side of his face. Anything else you want to know?’
‘Just a simple explanation as to why you shot him in the first place,’ George said, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
‘He was raping a native meri who was barely eight years old – if that. It seemed the best way to take his mind off what he was doing at the time. Anything else?’
George shook his head and stared at the dusty trail ahead. The sun would soon be below the hills and the dust that filled the air was turning a mauve mist on the horizon. He knew he was on a frontier not too different to the American West. Here the indigenous people could still kill a man with bows and arrows and only the toughest survived in the bush. For Jack to have settled a matter with a gun was just a natural extension in a frontier like Papua.
They had only been in the bar for a hour when George noticed a sudden hush among the normally raucous row of men drinking under the tilley lamps. George turned to see a man framed by the doorway.
‘Kelly, you bastard,’ the voice boomed and Jack, already half drunk, turned to see O’Leary glowering at him.
‘You can’t see where I shot him,’ Jack slurred to George with a grin. ‘Because he has a beard now.’
George paled under his recently acquired tan. The Irishman’s eyes were dark like a snake’s and yet reflected a danger that George could see. ‘Shut up, Jack,’ George hissed. He was glad that he had insisted on staying out of the rounds of strong rum being consumed by Jack and his mates. ‘I think we have a real spot of bother right now, so don’t aggravate the situation.’
O’Leary strode forward. He was truly a huge man with a thick bushy beard to his chest and George guessed him to be in his forties. The men moved aside to allow him passage to the bar where Jack leant back, grinning at him.
‘I was hoping you would survive the war,’ O’Leary said, thrusting his face up to Jack’s. ‘So I could settle with you.’
‘No trouble in here, O’Leary,’ the barman growled, causing the giant to turn his attention to him.
‘Kelly and I will be going outside,’ he said and the barman nodded.
‘Mr Kelly will be going nowhere,’ George said quietly.
The big Irishman frowned at him. ‘You sound like a bloody pommy,’ he snarled and George could smell liquor on his breath. ‘I don’t like you English bastards any more than I like Kelly here.’
George noted that they were both the same height but the Irishman had many more pounds on him. He was an imposing figure and a life of living in the bush had stripped any fat from the muscle. George felt real fear in close proximity to him. But he had experienced fear many times in the past and was still alive to know what he must do.
‘Leave him be, George,’ Jack said, straightening himself as best as he could. ‘I will go outside with him and finish what I should have done years ago.’
George could see that Jack was in no shape to confront the Irishman.
Contemptuously O’Leary lifted his arm to push George in the chest as if dismissing a slightly bothersome pest. But George had made up his mind. The speed with which he struck was blinding and O’Leary staggered backwards in a spray of blood.
George felt his forehead ache from the collision with the Iris
hman’s now shattered nose. He had used the street brawlers’ tactic of the ‘Liverpool Kiss’ once before against a French pimp when on military leave in Paris. It had worked then – and it worked now.
O’Leary stumbled on a chair and crashed heavily onto the floor. George did not give him a chance to react while he was down. With all the strength he could muster he lashed out with his boot, catching the prone man in the side of his head. O’Leary let out a loud groan, his eyes rolled and he lay still amidst broken glass and wood. But his chest rose and fell, indicating that he was still alive.
‘Come along, Jack, there’s a dear boy,’ George said, grabbing him by the arm. ‘I think we should leave before Mr O’Leary wakes up.’
Stunned by the speed and ferocity of the Englishman’s actions, Jack just gaped at O’Leary on the floor. ‘Best go, Jack,’ someone said sympathetically. ‘I think we all should go before the big bastard wakes up.’
George hauled Jack after him and guided him out to the buggy. It was dark and George helped Jack up to the seat. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Jack uttered in his absolute shock. ‘I thought I was going to be a dead man tonight until you got in first.’
‘Didn’t have much choice, old chap,’ George replied mildly. ‘It was either him or us.’
Jack did not reply but merely shook his head in wonder. What else did he expect than that his best mate would cover his back.
‘Oh the whiz bangs go ding-a-ling-a-ling for you, and not for me . . .’ Jack sang for no other reason than it was good to be alive.
As the buggy rattled along the dirt track back to Sen’s bungalow George joined him in the song.
SEVEN
The tiny craft rocked gently at the wharf and George wondered how they would all fit in. It was not much more than a large whaleboat with a canopy and a thin funnel which indicated that at least she was powered.
Jack bawled orders for the supplies to be carefully loaded. Eight native labourers had been released from the Koki gaol to serve as porters and they grinned as Jack harried them with words that were unintelligible to George. Motu was the language of the coastal people who lived in the vicinity of Port Moresby. Maybe George would pick up a few phrases in the course of the expedition.