by Peter Watt
Near the end of the day's gruelling advance, and skirmishing with the retreating warriors of Osman Digna's army through the arid hills beyond Tamai, the order was given to about face and withdraw to the logistics base at McNeill's Zareba. They were returning to whence they had advanced from earlier that day and, although it was apparent that the eager colonial volunteers were disappointed with the outcome, they also looked forward to the cool of an evening tucked within the defences and a good night's sleep.
All had not been lost. Honour had been satisfied with the drawing of colonial blood and, with the sound of war still ringing in their ears, they turned about and marched along the same route as they had advanced. On the return they saw smoke billowing over the last of the standing buildings of the village at Tamai. Graham had ordered its total destruction. It would be a lesson to the Dervishes, proof that the British army could go anywhere at anytime. With stoic acceptance the retreating Dervishes watched the soldiers fire the village and saw their homes burn then crumble under the weight of the flames. Eventually the British would go and they could return to rebuild. It was, after all, the Will of God, that such things happened.
They had no sooner returned to their own hills when Patrick found himself summoned to brigade headquarters. To furnish a verbal report on the conduct of the colonial volunteers, he surmised.
But when he arrived at the tent of Major Hughes, to whom he regularly reported, he noticed that the officer had a worried expression on his face. Major Hughes had been in a deep discussion with the artillery colonel who had commanded the guns that had fired that day at the retreating enemy. ‘Captain Duffy,’ he said, as Patrick threw a reasonable salute for the benefit of the artillery colonel. ‘Colonel Rutherford and I have just been talking about you.’ Patrick was mystified. And the colonel's grave look was disconcerting. ‘The colonel was commenting on how you gave his best fighter a thrashing in the ring at Suakin last December. He feels there should be a return fight for the sake of the artillery's honour. A chance for the gunners to redeem themselves.’
‘I feel, sir, that your gunners redeemed themselves today from what I was able to observe,’ Patrick replied gallantly.
The colonel smiled at the flattery. ‘They did well,’ he replied. ‘But I fear we fired a lot of shells for little return.’
‘Colonel Rutherford has an idea on how his guns might get the maximum return on their expenditure of ammunition, Captain Duffy,’ Major Hughes said conspiratorially. ‘And I agree his idea has a lot of merit. But it involves somewhat of a personal risk to whoever should volunteer to undertake the task. How is your wound progressing?’
‘The wound has never been any bother, sir,’ Patrick replied cheerfully, and unconsciously flexed his arm to prove so. ‘Not much else I can do with the Tommy cornstalks, sir. They seem to be performing admirably well considering it's their first campaign.’
‘Good show,’ the major said absent-mindedly, staring out at the setting sun. Clearly he was still troubled by whatever the artillery colonel had suggested to him concerning a special mission.
The brigade major brought his attention back to Patrick. ‘I have to put the idea to the brigade commander for approval. But I think he will give it, considering his frame of mind at the moment.’
‘General Graham must be feeling as frustrated as the Tommy stalks,’ Patrick suggested. ‘They want to get at the Madhi's men in a decisive battle, too.’
Major Hughes nodded and Patrick realised whatever the artillery colonel had suggested might achieve the commander's aim as well as the ambitions of the eager colonial troops. ‘At night the fuzzy wuzzies creep in close to the Zareba to snipe us,’ the major said. ‘We bear the sniping and leave the night to them to virtually move about at will. But, as any soldier knows, even Dervishes must have a place to fall back on before the morning comes. And it appears that they have probably grown rather arrogant about their ownership of the night. A well-trained soldier just might be able to locate that forming-up point, then report back to the guns on their position for a precise bombardment on them. Catch them while they are sitting around scratching their arses and congratulating themselves on a good night's harassment of us. Do you have any ideas on how the mission might be achieved, Patrick?’ he asked using his first name fondly, for the man he knew would not hesitate in volunteering for the dangerous task.
Patrick sighed and turned to glance out at the hills before answering. ‘I would reconnoitre ground in front of our defences for a likely position to take up. The ground would be a position most likely used by a sniper firing on us.’
‘If so,’ Major Hughes cautioned, ‘then the chances are high that you might bump into any Dervish who should use the cover of night to take up that position.’
‘I could take care of that, sir,’ Patrick replied quietly.
The brigade major knew it was this critical factor in the mission that only one of his officers was truly capable of. And this young man had a proven record of coolness in the madhouse of killing that was battle. Besides, his physical strength was unsurpassed in the brigade.
Hughes nodded. ‘I have no doubts that you could, Captain Duffy.’ The artillery colonel nodded in agreement at the B.M. ‘s choice of officer for the mission. He had seen Patrick defeat his best fighter in a punishing match with his strongest gunner in the inter-unit fight at Suakin. ‘I will seek the brigade commander's approval then,’ Major Hughes sighed. ‘In the meantime you can get on with your reconnaissance, Captain Duffy, and prepare yourself for the job. I will have word back to you before last light whether you will go ahead or not, but at this stage, I think you would be advised to liaise with Captain Thorncroft to have the picquets aware of your movements on the perimeter. It would not do if they shot you. Not with the vital information you will carry for Colonel Rutherford.’
‘Sir,’ Patrick replied, saluting the brigade major and the artillery colonel. ‘If there is nothing else I suppose I should use the little time I have to prepare.’
‘Yes, Captain Duffy, I agree.’
‘Good luck, Captain Duffy,’ the colonel said warmly. ‘Your intelligence just might deliver the fuzzy wuzzies a parting lesson in good manners. And I hope to see my gunner give you a sound thrashing when you return to fight him back at Suakin.’
As Patrick walked away from the brigade headquarters to join Private MacDonald who was preparing their evening meal, he passed by the ambulance wagons where Private Francis Farrell was being treated. It would be good to talk to the man who, he now remembered more and more, was like some distant uncle in the close circle of Irish immigrants to the Colony of New South Wales.
Those days had been an innocent time when he believed Daniel Duffy was his real father and Michael Duffy, his long dead uncle. The truth of his parentage had been explained to him as a young lad and his maternal grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, had also explained his mother's apparent treachery.
But what had originally grown out of Lady Enid's need to use the boy as a weapon against the duplicity of her own daughter and son-in-law had developed into a genuine, doting love of the stern woman for her grandson. His natural charm had beguiled the matriarch who held precious the Macintosh bloodline and the boy was granted all the privileges of English society. Patrick had taken to his life with the ease of his noble blood.
The surgeon major greeted Patrick warmly. The white apron he wore was spotted with the blood of the soldier's wounds he had tended to. No, Private Farrell had not as yet recovered sufficiently to rejoin his company, he replied to Patrick's question. Patrick thanked him and then parted company to carry out a survey of the ground in front of the perimeter of the Zareba.
Angus wondered at the strange expression on the young captain's face as Patrick squatted in the dust to accept the mug of coffee he passed to him. The mission had been cleared by the commander and he was to move out at last light. He had quickly briefed his batman. Angus knew what the expression was. He had seen the same look on the faces of men before battle. Men who belie
ved their luck had finally run out.
‘You'll be needin' this,’ Angus said softly as he presented an item he had long hoarded.
Surprised, Patrick accepted the lethal knife. Designed by the American of the Alamo, Colonel Bowie, the weapon's fame had spread to the far corners of the earth, to any place where fighting men required both a sharp point and razor fine cutting edge. ‘Thank you, Private MacDonald,’ he replied gruffly. ‘Better than the English steel they issued us.’
‘That it would be, sor,’ Angus winked conspiratorially. ‘The Sassenachs have no appreciation of the broad blade.’
Patrick turned the knife over in his hand. He hoped that he would not be close enough to his enemy to have to use it. Somehow he had more faith in the protection of Sheela-na-gig.
TWENTY-THREE
The hills appeared smooth and round, like an old crone's molar teeth. It was as if the Godkin Range had chewed at the blue skies for so long that they were just plain worn out with age. But a few of the low hills were chipped along their summits, with small lines of rocky cliffs where they had bit on the occasional hard cloud. It was into the hills in the late afternoon that the expeditionary force of police and bushmen rode in search of the Kalkadoon.
Gordon James led the column while Peter Duffy rode with an uneasy eye on the sparsely scrubbed, concave slopes of the hills baked dry under the harsh sun. He had passed this way before and vividly remembered how the Kalkadoon warriors had risen from the ground from behind the barest of cover to ambush them. And he was not the only member of the current patrol to ride with an eye cocked warily on the surrounding silent hills. Ahead of the column rode the scouting trackers of the Native Mounted Police, rifles balanced across their saddles.
As Peter rode he reflected on the gulf that had to some extent always existed between himself and the man who led the expedition. At first in their early years it had been as a small crack which had widened, however, when they joined the Native Mounted Police. His Aunt Kate had attempted to talk him out of joining the ranks of the very people who had hunted his mother's people into almost total extinction, the same force that was eventually responsible for the death of both his parents.
Peter often had recurring nightmares of his mother staring at him with lifeless eyes from the flames of the campfire as the fire licked and sizzled her flesh. In his nightmares she was still alive but helpless in the flames as she pleaded to him with soundless words. If only he knew what she was calling to him? What was she asking him to do?
Why had he remained in the force when his friendship with Gordon was no longer something he could consider a part of his life? Now he was certain that this would be his last patrol. He would resign when they got back to Cloncurry. From there he would return to Townsville to work for his Aunt Kate. Gordon James could go to hell.
The hushed silence of the bush was shattered by the sound of a gunshot and the echo rolled off the hills from somewhere up ahead. Troopers snatched carbines from saddle-buckets and frontiersmen thumbed back hammers on their single shot Sniders. Gordon James raised his hand for a halt and called to his police riding ahead to keep a sharp lookout. All in the mounted force felt the gut wrenching fear of ambush as the hills seemed to close in around them. Frightened eyes scanned the slopes for the movement of shadows.
‘Look to the hills,’ Gordon roared unnecessarily as every eye was already staring up at the summits, searching frantically for sight of the dreaded warriors.
Horses pranced nervously and men taut with fear swore curses to relieve the tension. But nothing happened until an Aboriginal trooper burst through the scrub to rein his horse in beside Gordon. ‘Mahmy! Catch ′im blackfella gin long creek.’ The trooper's dark eyes rolled, revealing a smoky whiteness. ‘Kill ′im one fella gin.’
Gordon spurred his mount forward and signalled for the troop to follow. They rode until they reached the river where, on the sandy bank that led down to a deep rockpool, an old Aboriginal woman cowered under the gun of a European trooper. A twine dilly-bag lay beside her, from which spilled freshwater mussels.
Further along the bank lay the body of an old Aboriginal woman spreadeagled by the impact of the projectile that had taken her in the back and shattered her spine.
‘What happened?’ Gordon asked the trooper.
He was one of the recent white recruits who Gordon did not like or trust and was standing over the terrified old Aboriginal woman cowering at his feet. ‘Came on ′em in the creek,’ he replied, viciously prodding the old woman with the barrel of his rifle as she wailed with terror for what she knew was inevitable. ‘Called on ′em to stand in the name of the Queen,’ the trooper continued. ‘But they decided to run. Got the one over there, boss.’
‘So I see, Trooper Calder,’ Gordon said from the vantage of his horse. ‘Good shot considering the distance.’
The trooper beamed with pleasure for the praise from his commanding officer. Commanche Jack sidled his mount up to Gordon and stared down at the old woman curled on the ground in a foetal position. He was chewing tobacco and rolled the twist in his mouth. ‘What are yer gonna do with her, Inspector?’ he asked and spat a long brown stream of tobacco onto the sand between the two of them.
‘If I let her go she will go straight to her people and tell them where we are,’ he replied quietly. ‘That leaves me with little choice.’
‘They's already know where we are,’ Commanche Jack said as he leant on the horn of his saddle and gazed thoughtfully up at the summits that reared from above the thicker bush beside the river. ‘Know'd where we was the minute we rode into these hills.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Mescaleros, Kalkadoons. All fightin' people,’ Commanche Jack replied, rolling the remaining tobacco in his cheeks to savour the nicotine. ‘They'd be watchin' us right now. Probably discussin' what yer gonna do with this here darkie lubra.’
Instinctively Gordon glanced up at the tops of the hills surrounding the river valley and the American chuckled, ‘You ain't gonna see ′em, Inspector. That's the whole idea of a good fightin’ man. He knows more about you than you do about him.’
‘Well,’ Gordon replied ominously, glancing at the old woman cringing in the hot sand. ‘If they are watching then they are going to learn a lesson concerning the fate of those who resist the Queen's law.’
‘You gonna shoot the darkie?’ Commanche Jack asked quietly. He caught Gordon's gaze. ‘You could let her go.’
‘I'm not an executioner,’ Gordon replied. ‘You, or one of your party, will have to dispose of her.’
The tough American straightened in the saddle. ‘Not me, Inspector. I signed on to fight Kalks. Not shoot old darkie wimmin. You want her shot, you do it yerself.’
With a gesture of disgust the American spat a stream of tobacco into the sand, barely missing Gordon. He wheeled his horse aside to ride back to his men. Gordon scowled and swore under his breath. If the seasoned Indian fighter was not prepared to execute the woman, who would? ‘Trooper Calder!’ Gordon knew the man had a reputation for callous indifference towards life and although he had only been on one dispersal Gordon had been sickened by the man's obvious relish for killing Aboriginal women and children.
‘Sir!’
‘Take one of the patrol with you and help the darkie gin down the track a bit,’ Gordon said quietly. ‘I think you have a good idea what I mean.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the trooper replied with an evil grin. He prodded at the old woman with his rifle, causing her to wail piteously as she curled defensively into a ball. ‘Duffy, you half-caste bastard. Quit starin’ an’ help me with yer cousin here,’ Calder snarled. ‘′Elp me get 'er up on 'er feet.’
Peter slid from his horse with an easy movement and without a word he gripped his rifle and strode across to the trooper who had slammed the butt of his carbine into the petrified woman's back. The spectacle of the terrified woman curled on the sand had triggered a distant memory of his mother. What had she called to him?
Peter stayed
Calder's arm as he made ready to hit her again. ‘We aren't going to get her on her feet and out of here if you keep hitting her,’ he said.
The trooper glared at him with the eyes of a savage animal but reluctantly conceded to Peter's advice. ‘Yeah. You get 'er on 'er feet,’ he snarled. ‘Or drag the black bitch, if yer ′ave to.’
Peter heaved the woman to her feet and her eyes met his briefly. What she saw was a strange compassion and although she trembled with terror she felt less frightened than before. With gentle words Peter coaxed her away from the mounted horsemen.
Calder followed, his carbine slung carelessly over his shoulder. He turned to glance over his shoulder and wink at Gordon James who stared stonily at the backs of the two troopers disappearing in the scrub. ‘A good distance away, Trooper Calder,’ Gordon called. The further away the better, he thought, as if the distance would divorce him from what he knew was about to occur.
‘Yer doin′ a good job there, Duffy,’ Calder said, as he followed Peter who half-supported and half-dragged the Aboriginal woman through the bush adjoining the river. ‘Looks like yer got 'er thinkin’ she's gonna be let go.’
Peter did not reply but continued to help the woman through the bushes until they emerged in a clearing adjoining a section of the river where it widened and flowed between jutting reefs of rocks.
‘This'll be far enough,’ Calder said and brought the rifle off his shoulder. ‘Get 'er to make a run across the river on them rocks.’ Peter let the old woman go and she fell to the ground in terror. He knelt and with calm, friendly words coaxed her to her feet.