by Peter Watt
‘Yeah, boss,’ Andrew replied. ‘Can you get me a transfer out of here to the real war?’
‘Only if we get another sig to replace you,’ Tom answered. ‘You are bloody good at your job, and despite what you might think, our role out here is vital. We are the eyes and ears of this country against Jap incursion from the north.’
Tom reached for a stick of timber from a small pile that had been collected during the day and suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his left wrist. He knew immediately that he had been bitten by a snake.
‘Bloody hell!’ he yelped, grasping his wrist.
Andrew saw the snake disappear out of the light cast by the campfire and recognised it. ‘Hey! Fellas!’ he yelled. ‘The boss has just been bitten by a snake. A bloody taipan.’
The men of the patrol jumped up and rushed over. Each and every one of them knew that the Gulf harboured only the most dangerous snakes in the world. Even with medical treatment the chances of surviving a taipan bite were almost zero. Tom Duffy had survived two wars, only to find himself facing death by snakebite. The tough men standing around him simply shook their heads and tried not to catch his eye. All they could do now was try to make him comfortable until death claimed him.
Nine
At first there was no pain at the site of the taipan’s strike. Andrew had leaped forward to assist Tom, and in the glimmer of firelight he could see blood oozing from the twin lacerations. Both men locked eyes and Tom knew that he was a dead man. No one had ever survived a taipan bite that he knew of. The others of the patrol had already gathered around their stricken leader to see him off into death.
‘Grab an axe,’ Andrew shouted, and one of the men stumbled away to return quickly with a razor-sharp axe.
‘Sorry, Tom,’ Andrew said and looked up at the men standing around him. ‘Hold him down,’ he commanded, and four of the soldiers quickly grabbed Tom, forcing him to the warm earth. One of the men quickly shifted a small log under Tom’s arm.
Andrew lifted the axe above his head, teeth gritted, and with all the strength he could muster swung down halfway between the wrist and elbow. Tom screamed as the lower part of his left arm was severed, flopping in the dust.
Already one of the men was wrapping a length of leather strip as a tourniquet around the bleeding arm, to stem the flow of blood. How far had the venom run in Tom’s veins was the question in each soldier’s mind as they moved to reassure their much liked and respected leader that he would live.
Andrew broke away to try the radio one more time. There was no reason that it should suddenly start working now, but he had to give it a go. Unexpectedly it hissed into life, and he was able to transmit a message that they were taking Sergeant Duffy to the nearest homestead for urgent medical attention. Already the other men were organising horses for transport.
Andrew watched as Tom was helped into the saddle. One of the mounted soldiers led his horse and another two rode closely along each side to ensure that he did not fall from his saddle in the dark. Tom was conscious and knew that he must remain so if he were to live. Andrew glanced at the bottom section of Tom’s arm lying on the ground and was overwhelmed by nausea. He buckled over and vomited. He had no idea whether or not he had done the right thing. He knew that Tom would have died from the snakebite long before they could get him help; severing his arm was his only chance, although he did not hold out much hope that it would work.
When the party had been swallowed by the vast panorama of the night, a dingo howled its forlorn song in the darkness. Andrew suddenly noticed that his hands were sticky with blood, and he glanced down to see that they were trembling. It had been a miracle that the radio had suddenly come to life, and for a moment he had sensed something that he could not explain in rational terms.
At the edge of the campfire’s glow he had thought he had seen an Aboriginal warrior standing and watching him as he fiddled with the radio to bring it to life. He was an old man and for a moment their eyes had locked. Andrew had seen that the man had scars on his chest, and a long white beard. He had also held a long spear and Andrew could swear that he had asked for tobacco.
Andrew took a burning stick from the fire now and walked over to where the Aboriginal man had stood. He crouched to examine the place for footprints, but there were none.
‘You see Wallarie,’ Billy said softly behind Andrew, causing Andrew to almost jump out of his skin.
‘I saw a blackfella just standing here staring at me,’ Andrew said, unsteadily standing up straight. ‘But there does not seem to be any indication he was here.’
‘Tom tell me ’bout Wallarie,’ Billy said, peering into the night fearfully. ‘He a spirit man look after Tom. Spirit man live up there.’ He pointed to the night sky and the mass of twinkling stars.
With his observation made, Billy walked back to the campfire to pour a strong cup of tea, leaving Andrew baffled. There had to be a logical explanation, he thought. He did not believe in blackfella superstition. Dead people could not appear to the living.
*
The men escorting Tom reached the homestead before first light and were met by the station manager holding a lantern. ‘I got a call on the radio that the doctor will be here shortly,’ he said by way of greeting.
The soldiers assisted Tom inside the building and into a bed in a spare room, and there he lay wavering in and out of consciousness. He experienced a violent headache and stomach cramps, and the pain from his severed arm swept over him in waves. He wanted to cry out but forced himself to swallow the pain. Sweat beaded his forehead, and the bandage around his stump oozed dark blood. Eventually Tom lost his fight with the pain and fell into a strange world of swirling stars and darkness. He was hardly aware of who he was, and the voices around him faded into silence.
So, this was death, he thought, as the stars flickered out and he was left alone in the absolute blackness. In the distance a tiny light burned and Tom was suddenly flooded by the memory of a place he knew so well. He was sure that he stood on a hill surveying the brigalow plains under a rising sun. ‘You come home to us, Tom,’ the voice said and Tom turned to see a young Aboriginal man standing beside him. More surprising was another man beside the young warrior, a European dressed in clothing reminiscent of the Victorian age of colonial bushmen. ‘You come home to me and your grandfather,’ said the Aboriginal man. ‘We hunt together, and you meet your grandmother, Mondo, who is with the women by the waterhole on our land.’
Before Tom could respond, the picture faded, and he felt as if his body was weightless. A female voice came softly to him, ‘Sergeant Duffy, do you need water?’
Tom slowly opened his eyes and became aware that he was in a small room lit by a kerosene lantern. He focused on a face peering down at him and felt a soothing wet cloth on his brow. Tom was so thirsty that he could not speak, and nodded his head. Water was brought to his lips and he sipped gratefully.
The woman assisted Tom to sit up, and he became acutely aware of the pain that throbbed in his left arm. Tom winced, and the woman seemed to understand, placing pain killer tablets in his hand.
‘Take these,’ she said.
Tom popped them in his mouth and instinctively reached out to take the glass of water. Suddenly he realised that his left arm was missing from the elbow down. For a moment he stared at the swathe of bandages covering the stump.
‘The doctor was forced to remove what was left of your arm to your elbow,’ the woman said. ‘You were in a deep coma and none of us thought that you would survive.’
‘How long ago?’ Tom asked weakly.
‘Three days and two nights,’ the woman answered. ‘Your men have returned to their patrol, and I am here to look after you until you are fit enough to get back on your feet. I am Miss Abigail Frost,’ she said. ‘I was a governess on the station, but with the evacuation of the family down south to Adelaide, I have been without any real work here. Mr Luland has kindly kept m
e on as a cook until I can find employment elsewhere.’
Tom gazed at the woman. She had a strong face that had its own beauty, and he guessed she was in her late thirties. Her long dark hair was tied in a bun, and he could hear the strong English accent when she spoke. It was an educated accent, and Tom could sense that she was a gentle woman by the touch of her hand and tone of her voice. ‘Well, I am glad that you are here at this time, Miss Frost,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Sergeant Duffy,’ she said with a hint of a smile. ‘I am glad that you were able to get through the worst of the fever. I am afraid one or two of your men had a bet that you would not survive.’
Tom grinned. He liked the fact that his men were prepared to put money on his survival – it was the Aussie way of coping. ‘That is not nice,’ he said. ‘They did not give me a chance to bet any money of my own on whether I would survive.’
For a moment Abigail did not realise his joke, but then she laughed. ‘I am sorry, Sergeant Duffy. I agree, that is not nice.’
Tom joined her with a chuckle. ‘I think you should call me Tom,’ he said. ‘May I address you as Abigail?’
‘Certainly, Tom,’ she replied, laying her hand on his good arm. ‘I would like that.’
In her company, Tom was able to ignore the pain racking his body. He remembered how quickly young Andrew Paull had reacted to the taipan’s bite by removing his arm, and that this had probably saved his life. He owed the young man a great debt.
*
As soon as Lord Ulverstone had recovered from the bullet wound to his shoulder he telephoned Sir George Macintosh for a lunch meeting at his club.
Over a gin and tonic, his arm in a sling, the British army officer said quietly, ‘In a previous discussion, old chap, you told me that you had someone working inside the firm of Levi and Duffy.’
Sir George swilled his single-malt Scotch, watching the small blocks of ice drift in the tumbler. ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘It pays to know what the opposition is up to.’
‘You may not be aware that the blaggard who tried to kill me is a client of Major Sean Duffy.’
‘That bastard,’ Sir George spat. ‘Despite my strong dislike for the man, I have to admit he is an excellent criminal lawyer. He could get the devil himself off a charge.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ Ulverstone sighed. ‘If the matter goes to court I am afraid some very sticky questions might be raised. I daresay that your name would crop up too.’
‘What are you trying to say, Albert?’ Sir George asked. ‘Is this some kind of blackmail?’
‘Oh no, old chap,’ Ulverstone said smoothly. ‘I may be a little clumsy in asking for your help.’
‘What help can I offer?’ Sir George asked.
‘Inside knowledge from your source in Levi and Duffy about the man who tried to kill me.’
‘What does it matter?’ Sir George said. ‘He will be tried and no doubt found guilty of the attempted murder of a peer of the realm. I am sure the judge will view that very harshly.’
‘It might be better for all if the man does not reach the courtroom,’ Ulverstone said. ‘It would save the legal system a lot of time and money were the accused to suffer an accident.’
Sir George looked sharply at the British officer. ‘You mean if the man were killed before he gave evidence.’
‘George, I suspect that with your contacts, and the rather vast means at your disposal, you could get access to the man in prison.’
A crooked smile crossed Sir George’s face. He sensed that Ulverstone was a desperate man, and desperate men were easy to manipulate. ‘If . . . and only if I could arrange something,’ Sir George said, leaning forward in his chair, ‘I would expect such a big favour to be returned.’
‘You may ask your price,’ Ulverstone replied, taking a swig from his gin and tonic. ‘I am sure you would appreciate another title from the mother country when the war is over. Possibly even a seat in the House of Lords.’
Sir George slumped back into his big leather chair. ‘We will see,’ he said.
‘Ah, but there can only be a deal if the man in prison does not make it to the first hearing in court,’ Ulverstone reminded.
Sir George raised his glass and Ulverstone responded. The deal had been sealed. Tony Caccamo – alias Peter Campbell – was a dead man.
*
Signalman Andrew Paull pulled off his slouch hat and stepped inside the small bedroom to see Tom lying back against pillows.
‘G’day, Tom,’ he said. ‘I heard that you were getting better.’
‘Good to see you, Andrew,’ Tom said with a smile. ‘Your visit gives me a chance to thank you for saving my life.’
Andrew shifted uncomfortably. ‘It was all I could think of at the time. I remembered stories about canecutters in north Queensland who would use their cane knives to cut off limbs if they were bitten by taipans.’
‘You did the right thing and I owe you one. By the way, what happened to my arm?’
‘Well,’ Andrew said, clearing his throat. ‘We, ah, we dug a grave and said a service over it the next day, just in case you didn’t make it. The boys then had a drink and said good things about you.’
‘Wish I had been there to hear them,’ Tom sighed. ‘By the way, who scooped the pool when I didn’t join my arm in the ground?’
‘I did,’ Andrew said sheepishly. ‘I knew you were going to live because Billy told me some old blackfella by the name of Wallarie said you would.’
‘You know that’s just blackfella superstition,’ Tom said with a faint smile. ‘Wallarie has been dead for years.’
‘Yeah, I was told that by Billy,’ Andrew answered. ‘But funny things happen out there on those plains that I don’t think anyone would believe unless they had been there.’
‘So you saw him?’ Tom asked.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Andrew quickly responded. ‘But I will admit that odd things happen to a man out there.’
Tom realised that the young soldier was not going to admit to seeing anything otherworldly lest he be marked as having gone troppo – a term used in the north for the madness that could come upon a person too long exposed to the loneliness of Australia’s far north. ‘If there is anything I can do for you, lad, you have only to ask. I am in your debt.’
‘There is something you could do,’ Andrew said. ‘You could get me transferred to a unit in the Pacific. I’ve heard from the boys that you have some influence about the place.’
Tom gazed at the young man standing at the end of his bed twisting his battered slouch hat in his hands. Wrangling him a posting to an infantry unit fighting in New Guinea might be what he wanted, but it could also be a death sentence. Tom could see the pleading in the signalman’s eyes and sighed in defeat.
‘I will promise you that I will do everything in my power to get your transfer,’ he replied. ‘But remember, your job with the boys up here is vitally important.’
‘I know that,’ Andrew said. ‘But I just want to have a go, before the war passes me by and one day my kids ask me, Daddy, what did you do in the war?’
Tom shook his head. That attitude had cost so many young men their lives, but who was he to try to persuade the lad to keep safe rather than risk his life for his country?
For himself, he knew that the loss of his arm meant he was no longer physically fit to serve in the armed forces. He would return to his properties in Queensland and take over the running of them. His war had come to an end in the strike of a taipan snake. But he was still alive, and a strange thought crept into Tom’s mind that Wallarie had let him live for a deeper purpose.
When Andrew had left, Abigail stepped into the room with a cup of tea and a plate of freshly baked scones. Tom had come to learn a lot about Abigail Frost over the weeks of his recovery. The civilian doctor who visited once a week had grunted that Tom was ready to return to whatev
er life lay ahead of him now. Somehow Tom hoped that the woman standing by his bed with the mug of tea would have a role in his life. He was becoming more than fond of his English nurse.
*
Sir George Macintosh had a man in the police force who had once worked with his old contact, Jack Firth, before his unsolved murder a few years earlier. The detective was cut from the same cloth and he regularly supplied damaging information on Sir George’s business rivals, information that could be used to blackmail favourable business deals.
The policeman and the business tycoon sat in the corner of a busy Sydney hotel.
‘So you want that Canadian we have in custody done away with?’ Detective Sergeant Lionel Preston said, gripping his glass of beer.
‘It will pay well,’ Sir George said.
Preston leaned back in his chair. ‘I can arrange it but it will not be easy as he is currently holed up at Long Bay. You will have to pay this much to get the job done,’ he said, pushing forward a coaster on which he had scribbled down a figure. Sir George looked at it and nodded, pushing the coaster back to the detective.
‘Consider it done, cobber,’ the detective said, holding up an empty beer glass. ‘Your round, Sir George.’
Ten
Captain James Duffy did not want to get out of bed. The dinner he had attended the night before to raise war bonds had virtually stretched to breakfast time. That is, if the consumption of bourbon was counted as part of the meal. He was weary of smiling all the time and having men slap him on the back, congratulating him on sending many sons of Nippon to their heaven with his fighter plane’s guns.
He rolled over and was not overly surprised to see the naked back of a young lady beside him. James groaned when he tried to remember what had happened last night. There had been a young woman with aspirations to break into movies, and James racked his memory to recall if he had promised her introductions to the many directors and producers he had met over his weeks in Hollywood.