Papua

by Peter Watt

  SEVENTEEN

  Jack knew he was in love. Erika was everything he ever imagined: beautiful, smart and charming, like one of the erotic Celtic goddesses revered by the Druids in the ancient dark oak forests of Germany.

  And Erika knew she could command the tough former soldier as if he were one of her private troops. She was fond of him but she had also determined to use whatever means were within her power to get out of Australia and return to Munich.

  Being rejected by a string of staid and conservative bankers was easier to accept when Jack returned to Strathfield and Erika’s passionate, unrestrained lovemaking each night. They kept their secret from his brother-in-law. Jack knew he would not approve of any sexual practice outside of wedlock. Each night Erika would come to his bed and leave for her own room before the sun rose over Sydney.

  But the numerous rejections for finance rankled Jack. The same reasons were given by all the stodgy grey men in dark suits who peered across their desks at the tough looking adventurer down from Papua: was it not unlawful in the newly mandated territory to mine for gold? Finding the gold was not illegal but mining it was until the New Guinea administration got itself together to issue such licences, Jack would accede. The more far sighted bankers would add the impossible provision of Jack producing considerable collateral to secure any kind of loan. Jack had laid out his case convincingly across their highly polished desks, but the grey men had no real sense of risk. But then, what banker did?

  In the end Jack had exhausted his last avenue of raising the capital and grudgingly admitted to himself that he was more gold prospector than businessman. But he also knew what he had discovered in the Morobe mountain stream had the potential to make himself and any investors who might back him very rich men. The fools have no spine, Jack thought as he stood on the footpath with his collar up against the biting wind.

  ‘Bloody idiots,’ he cursed as he hunched against the chill as cold as the feeling in his heart. At worst he could probably return and grub for gold on a pegged lot when the New Guinea administration finally organised the granting of mining licences. He had heard the rumours around the bar of the Moresby hotel before he returned to Australia that there were other prospectors sniffing in the same region as himself – men with reputations of knowing where to find the precious metal.

  Time was of the essence and Jack had just one last card up his sleeve. He turned over the elegant business card that Sen had given him and read the name and address. It was only two blocks away in Bridge Street and Jack knew what he must do. He hoped his last card would be an ace.

  The offices of Quentin Arrowsmith were impressive. That had to be a good sign, Jack thought as he stood before a desk in an anteroom of marble and polished teak inlay. He did not look like a successful businessman. The suit he wore was probably out of fashion now in 1920. Jack had purchased it years back when he got married. It still fitted but had been in mothballs during his absence overseas. Maybe it even smelt of camphor, Jack thought, and was tempted to sniff the sleeve.

  ‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Arrowsmith?’ a severe looking woman in her fifties asked, as if addressing an errant schoolboy.

  ‘I am afraid that I do not,’ Jack replied politely. ‘But I would like to make one if that is possible.’

  The woman glanced down at the leather bound appointments diary. She held an expensive fountain pen with a gold nib poised above the pages. ‘If you could state your business I will see if I am able to give you an appointment, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘The name’s Jack Kelly and Mr Arrowsmith was recommended to me by a Mr Sen from Port Moresby. It’s about a large gold strike made up there.’

  The mention of gold got the reserved woman’s attention, as Jack knew it would. Nothing like the mention of gold to stimulate a little greed, he thought. Even matronly secretaries can be flustered by the word. She glanced up at Jack with undisguised interest in her pale eyes.

  ‘If you will excuse me for a moment, Mr Kelly,’ she said as she rose from behind her desk. ‘I will have a word with Mr Arrowsmith and see if he is prepared to speak to you.’

  Jack nodded and watched as she knocked lightly on a cedar door behind her desk. A muffled voice bid her enter. Now it was only a matter of waiting.

  Jack hardly had a moment to gaze around the anteroom when the door opened and the secretary stood to one side. ‘Mr Arrowsmith seems to have a short amount of time to speak to you,’ she said, holding the door open. ‘You may go in.’

  Jack flashed her a smile as he stepped past. As she closed the door behind him, Jack quickly took in the trappings of old money in the sombre oiled timbers that furnished the room and the expensive carpet on the floor. There was a gloomy ambience about the office and the rows of leather bound books in the glass fronted bookcases were no doubt collections of rare and expensive journals and first editions. But it was the man sitting behind the desk that gave the room its meaning. Jack guessed him to be in his mid thirties. He was tall with aristocratic features and the look of a man used to power and money. Jack sensed in the man a dangerous ruthlessness too. Sen had been right to warn him.

  ‘My secretary has told me that you are an acquaintance of Mr Sen, and that you have something to do with a gold strike,’ he said without bothering to rise and introduce himself.

  It was time for Jack to seek an advantage before they settled down to any talks. ‘You remind me of someone I met in France during the war,’ he lied.

  ‘I am afraid you have the wrong man, Mr Kelly,’ Arrowsmith replied as he steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘My service to my country was here providing the necessities required to wage war. However my brother served with some distinction . . . possibly you have us confused.’

  ‘My mistake,’ Jack replied.

  At least he knew that Arrowsmith was not of the brotherhood of returned soldiers. But Arrowsmith must have known why Jack had asked the question. He appeared to soften his arrogant manner by stepping away from the barrier of his desk. ‘My name is Quentin Arrowsmith, Mr Kelly, and if you have something important for me, I am in a position to make decisions. I am sure that you have done your homework with Sen and know that I control a rather substantial base of companies – here and overseas.’

  ‘I suppose it all depends on whether you are a man prepared to stick his neck out, Mr Arrowsmith,’ Jack said, determined not to be intimidated by the man and his wealth. ‘What I have may not be of interest to you.’

  Arrowsmith flipped the lid of a silver cigar box and without offering one to Jack withdrew a large Havana cigar and proceeded to light it. Jack had already formed the opinion that he could never like this arrogant and self-centred man. But business was business.

  Arrowsmith took a long draw and blew the smoke into the confines of the office. It hung in the still air like a blue mist between them. ‘What do you have, Mr Kelly?’

  ‘I have discovered a source of gold that I know has the potential to produce enough to rival some of the biggest mining operations in the western hemisphere. But naturally I want to see it exploited to its full value, and not just extract a few nuggets and grams of weight by panning alone. I need capital.’

  Arrowsmith studied Jack through the smoke without making any immediate comment. It was unnerving and Jack felt the pressure. He was about to bid the man a cold goodbye when Arrowsmith finally spoke.

  ‘I am sure that what you say has a truth behind it, but such an enterprise requires a lot of capital and a great deal of risk, as I’m sure you are aware. I concede that if you are right then the return would be worth the risk. But at the moment I need time to make some inquiries about you, Mr Kelly. I am sure you would do the same if you were in my position.’

  ‘You would consider a proposal?’ Jack asked, feeling a little lightheaded. Someone was actually considering to grub stake him!

  ‘If your credentials stand up to scrutiny I will consider your proposal and give you a decision next week. I have a place at Point Piper on the harbour shore and my wife has orga
nised some friends to come over for tennis and tea next week. Do you play tennis, Mr Kelly?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ Jack answered reluctantly.

  Tennis was the sport played by the rich when he was growing up in South Australia. For Jack boxing, football and cricket had been his games. He was a natural sportsman and a strong swimmer and athlete. But not a tennis player.

  ‘No matter,’ Arrowsmith continued. ‘Bring your spouse if you have one. I am sure she will be impressed by the view. Mrs Phillips will give you the particulars on the way out.’

  On the street Jack did not feel the cold. Things were finally starting to look up. If all went well he would have his capital and a chance to establish a future for himself, Erika and Lukas.

  He did not stop off at the hotel on the way home. Instead he went to Erika, swept her up in his arms and told her the news. She appeared happy for him and he naturally concluded her happiness was yet another sign of her love for him. But then Jack was not a good judge of a woman’s moods – only those of men.

  EIGHTEEN

  All day Paul Mann lay in the dank undergrowth observing O’Leary’s camp. Covered in dry mud he blended with the earth, and his camouflage had been completed with the insertion of branches and twigs into his clothing.

  O’Leary had twenty-three prisoners chained in a line to a tree. The dispirited young men and women sat silently all day in the sun and were fed once in the middle of the day with stodgy sago paste. Paul counted seven native porters in O’Leary’s party. All were armed with old but effective French rifles. O’Leary himself had a pistol holstered at his waist as well as his Mauser slung over his shoulder. His French companion carried a Mauser pistol with a broomstick-type rifle butt.

  The mood of the camp appeared relaxed – almost festive – and Paul was under the opinion that they were fairly settled, as if waiting for someone or something. Probably the boat to return them to Moresby, he guessed, as the camp was located close to a deep and broad stretch of river, capable of allowing a large coastal boat to anchor close offshore and take aboard cargo.

  As he watched and waited for dusk he attempted to gather more information: where the porters were likely to bed down for the night, which of the two tents O’Leary would use to sleep in, and if he would post guards. As it was, he did not notice any particular guard post on the prisoners and guessed that O’Leary had faith in the strength of the chains.

  Even as he made his observations Paul was already formulating a plan of attack. It was important that he neutralise O’Leary and the Frenchman first. With any luck he could make the porters think that they were under a heavy attack and cause them to panic – especially if the two white men were killed from the outset. He might not be able to bring Iris back to Sen but at least he could report back that vengeance had been exacted. That would give the expedition some meaning.

  Paul felt a scorpion crawl across his hand. He did not disturb the tiny but venomous creature, just lay still and watched it warily as it went on its way in search of smaller creatures to eat. When he glanced up he was staring directly into the bearded face of O’Leary. For a terrifying few seconds he thought that he had been spotted, as he was a mere fifty yards out from the camp. But O’Leary looked away and Paul was certain that he was merely looking around the jungle in an idle way.

  Paul knew that justice had to be dispensed. He was not only doing this for Sen but also for his new friend Jack Kelly. Sen had told him how O’Leary had sworn to kill Jack at the first opportunity that presented itself; with any luck that opportunity would never come.

  The only real concern Paul had was the armed native porters. What if they did not panic? What if O’Leary had instilled in them a sense of discipline? The German was slowly appreciating the fighting prowess of Papuan warriors. Should he call off the attack considering the dangerous variable of the greater number of arms arrayed against his own party?

  One option was to work as a sniper would and just shoot O’Leary from cover. Paul slowly inched his rifle into a firm position where it rested easily in his grip. He slowly pulled back the rear site until the gradient read fifty yards. In the foresight, O’Leary was an easy target – a big man with a broad chest.

  He lowered the rifle. Not a good option. He might kill O’Leary but it was daylight and he would soon be discovered. He had survived the trenches and was not going to get himself killed in some godforsaken territory that did not have a map to mark his grave. As a rescue mission he could justify his actions and a court of law would probably exonerate him if he were ever brought to trial – which he strongly doubted. He had right on his side. But then, Germany had God on its side in the war, and God had forsaken their just cause. It was not a comforting thought.

  The more he thought about an attack at night the less convinced he was of its success. Sure, they might get a few of them but he could lose some or all of his own men. It was frustrating to come to the conclusion that O’Leary could possibly get out of the jungle alive. There had to be another option. All it needed was some thought. But night was close and in the tropics it came fast. Time was running out. He sighed and waited for darkness to come.

  Just on sunset, as Paul was making his preparations to slither from his hide, he hesitated for a moment. The camp seemed to have come suddenly alive with activity. There was much shouting and his attention was drawn to movement at the edge of the tall forest.

  He turned his head cautiously and with a sinking feeling saw that four more armed native porters had appeared from the bush, with what appeared to be another prisoner. He well knew that the appearance of the extra men further shifted the balance of arms. Paul focused on the prisoner through the undergrowth and felt his heart beat jump. The prisoner was a white woman! A Eurasian, to be exact! He gasped in his surprise. It had to be Iris. The young woman appeared gaunt and had obviously suffered in the jungle since her escape. But she did not appear cowered by her captors.

  O’Leary strode across the clearing and with a powerful backhanded blow sent her crashing into the ground. Paul’s instinctive reaction was to raise his rifle and kill the man. But he checked himself. He still had the advantage of surprise and knew that he must keep it until he was in a position to strike at a time of his choosing. He watched as O’Leary bent down to grasp Iris by the hair and drag her to his tent.

  Paul was pleased that they had not launched any rash assault on O’Leary’s camp the night before. To do so would have been to lose the reason for the expedition in the first place. But if the option of pulling back and allowing O’Leary to leave had been a consideration at any stage, it was not now. No matter what it took Paul knew that he must get Iris out of the Irishman’s hands.

  When the sudden darkness came to the jungle Paul withdrew from his hide and made his way back to where Dademo and the rest of his small party had waited patiently, concealed in the dense jungle by the river. Paul had formulated a desperate plan and it involved dividing the considerable force arrayed against him and his small party. His plan required patience and the key element of surprise. But there was also something that niggled the former German officer’s thoughts. As he had crouched in hiding all that day and observed the enemy camp there were matters regarding the situation that did not seem to make sense. Something about some of the native porters was not right. There were unanswered questions, questions that defied any logical answer. How did O’Leary expect to take his captives back to Port Moresby without questions being raised as to how he had recruited them? And how could he keep secret the abduction of a woman related to a prominent Chinese businessman in the Port Moresby community? Paul would soon enough get the answers.

  Dademo listened to Mr Paul outline his plan of action for the next day. It had a certain simplicity but Dademo still felt apprehensive. They would move into positions not far from O’Leary’s campsite and conceal themselves, then wait until either O’Leary struck camp to make a march or until the boat that he seemed to be expecting turned up. Paul suspected that the latter would occur first becaus
e he had overheard mention of a boat rendezvous. The prisoners would have to be loaded aboard. The guards would be preoccupied and less alert to an attack. Paul would swap his Enfield with its attached magazine of ten rounds for Dademo’s single shot rifle. He issued his pistol to a porter nominated by Dademo as the man most capable of using it. Paul doubted that he would be very effective but it did give his small party more firepower – and it bolstered spirits. He was pleased to see that his men seemed not to be afraid of the coming action. Whatever Dademo had told them seemed to have worked. Or was it that Paul had underestimated their innate courage?

  ‘I will shoot O’Leary and then the Frenchman,’ Paul briefed. ‘You will shoot as many of the armed native boys that you can,’ he told Dademo. ‘The canoe builder and the rest of the boys will use the canoe to attack whoever turns up in a boat. They will use their machetes. I have seen a place they can paddle to tonight and hide until they hear my first shot. Then they must paddle as fast as they can to the river side of the boat and cause as much damage as possible. Just try and avoid shooting any of the prisoners and make sure that Serero does not act until he hears my first shot. You savvy?’

  Dademo grinned his understanding and briefed the others who sat in the dark fingering their machetes. It was a desperate plan, as Paul well knew, but history had shown that sometimes desperate plans come off. Sometimes small bands of determined men could inflict casualties disproportionally beyond their numbers.

  Paul went over the plan again and again until he was satisfied that his men knew what they must do. Then they snatched a couple of hours of sleep until Paul roused them.

  Just after midnight Paul and Dademo made their way down the river, while Serero and the remaining porters paddled quietly into the hide on the river bank a short distance from the campsite. All was in place. Paul prayed that he had not overestimated the fighting prowess of his small army. He also knew that he would have to use every ounce of his skills as a tactical commander to take advantage of any opportunities that may present themselves during the execution of the plan.