by Peter Watt
With tentative steps she tottered towards the river and the path of reefs that spanned the rapidly flowing eddies where she broke into an unsteady hobble. Calder slid the sights on his rifle to fifty yards, tucked the butt into his shoulder and took a sight on the old woman. ‘See if I can get a second darkie with a single shot,’ he muttered above the gentle bubbling sound of the river. He closed one eye and breathed in slowly and was releasing his breath when he felt the muzzle of Peter's carbine bite behind his ear.
‘Pull the trigger and I'll blow your head off, you white bastard,’ Peter hissed as the trooper froze. ‘Unload the gun very carefully,’ Peter commanded.
He watched with grim satisfaction as the old woman reached the far bank where she disappeared safely into the scrub. She could have been my mother, he thought sadly. Just an old woman whose only crime was being Aboriginal. But now she had been given the right to be with her people and live out her life as God had intended.
‘You half-caste bastard,’ Calder spat as he opened the breech of his carbine and ejected the unfired round. ‘Mister James will have to be told you let the darkie bitch go.’
‘Isn't that what he told you to do, let her go?’ Peter replied with feigned innocence.
‘You know what Mister James meant as well as I did,’ the furious trooper replied as he lowered his rifle. ‘′E never intended the black bitch to leave 'ere alive.’
‘To kill her would have been murder,’ Peter said quietly. ‘So you should be grateful I stopped you doing something you might have been sorry for if it ever got out.’
Shaking with rage Calder stepped back from Peter who by now had lowered his rifle. Calder's fury, however, was such that had his rifle still had a bullet in the chamber he would have preferred to kill his fellow policeman. ‘You know, Duffy, you don't even talk like a darkie,’ he hissed glaring at the young man who faced him. ‘You don't even act like a blackfella.’
‘Maybe it's because us blackfellas are smarter than you white shit,’ Peter replied. He had never felt more in control than this moment but knew that his decision to save the old woman's life had placed him on one side of his bloodline.
‘We go back an’ I report what you did here, Duffy, yer finished,’ Calder snarled.
‘We will see,’ Peter answered quietly and turned his back contemptuously on the trooper who was still fuming with frustration for having an unloaded rifle.
‘I didn't hear any shot,’ Gordon said to the two men standing at his stirrup. ‘What happened?’
‘Trooper Calder's gun misfired, sir,’ Peter replied before Calder could answer. ‘She got away before I could get her in my sights.’
‘That right, Trooper Calder?’ Gordon asked suspiciously and Calder shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Never dob in anyone to the bosses, echoed in his mind.
‘Like Trooper Duffy said, boss, bloody gun misfired.’
‘Get Sergeant Rossi to have a look at it when we camp tonight,’ Gordon growled, dismissing the two police troopers. ‘Join the troop.’
Gordon scowled as the two men walked over to their horses. He knew when men were lying. He also had no illusions that Peter could be trusted. It was only inevitable that he would eventually revert to his blackfella blood. But for the time being he dismissed his reflections on his former friend's loyalty to the Native Mounted Police and thought about the present situation. If what Commanche Jack said was true about being watched by unseen myall warriors they would have to find high ground for the night campsite. High ground that gave them the advantage, should the Kalkadoon decide to launch an attack on them in the dark. ‘Sergeant Rossi,’ he bawled down the line of horsemen strung out through the bush on the river bank. ‘Get the scouts up the hill over there. Make sure no-one else has taken up residence before us.’
The sergeant acknowledged the order and relayed it to the troopers.
Peter swung himself into the saddle and turned to glance at Calder. The man returned his look with a sneer. Peter reminded himself to stay clear of the man who clearly had murder on his mind. He reined away to join the patrol and prayed that the old woman had found her people. He also prayed that Gordon would not find the Kalkadoon. For if he did, the young tracker knew that his former friend would show no mercy to the men he hunted.
TWENTY-FOUR
Divested of his webbing Patrick breathed deeply to steady his nerves as he sat cross-legged, watching the sun disappear below the horizon. He tried not to think beyond the next few hours.
When the sun was gone he gave Angus a friendly slap on the back as he bade him goodnight. The big Scot shook his head and he watched the young captain swallowed by the darkness. The bonny lad had the look of a dead man about him, he thought sadly.
Patrick passed through the outer guard perimeter post where Captain Thorncroft was personally briefing the sentries on Patrick's mission. It was important that a nervous sentry did not shoot the returning officer in the early hours of the morning. Otherwise the cold-blooded courage required to carry out the mission would come to nought. Thorncroft whispered Patrick good luck in his mission. Better him than me, he thought as Patrick disappeared into the hostile desert.
A clear sky and the shadows of the silent, rock strewn gullies was Patrick's surreal world as he crawled on his belly towards a tiny knoll of stone. His hands and face were blackened with charcoal, which helped conceal his tanned flesh, but he still felt acutely aware that his khaki uniform stood out like a beacon in the night. He only carried his service revolver, a pocketful of spare rounds and the bowie knife.
He had carefully selected his route to reach the knoll which he had identified as an obvious place for a sniper to take up. It had a commanding position outside the effective range of the defenders in the fortified camp, but it was close enough to deliver random harassing fire. And now the knoll was in sight, silhouetted against the vast star studded skyline of the hill. But would the position already be occupied? Very carefully he slid the knife from inside his boot gaiter and rolled the blade on its side. A thrust from the bowie to the chest required the blade to penetrate in such a way that the blade could slide between the ribs and not be deflected by the tough connecting cartilage. In his other hand he gripped the butt of his pistol which was attached to his uniform at the end of a lanyard.
It was an eerie and frightening feeling to be so far from the Zareba. The only sounds he could hear now were those of the desert: the yipping howl of a jackal calling in the night; the flutter of some nocturnal bird seeking or escaping its prey or hunter.
Crawl slowly and avoid dislodging loose stones, Patrick forced himself to remember. Take your time. Sheela-na-gig is protecting you.
Then it suddenly dawned on him that the little goddess was still with his webbing. This was the first time they had been separated in the campaign. The dreaded thought went through his body with a shudder of primeval fear. He was without the talisman he had grown to firmly believe kept him alive.
He lay still and considered returning to the safety of the Zareba. Nothing made sense anymore. The panic welled up in him threatening to send him into an uncontrollable quaking fear. No. He had come this far and he knew there was no turning back. It was a stupid and illogical thought for an educated man to believe unseen forces guided one's life. That a stone idol and the words of a beautiful girl could keep him alive!
On the skyline, mere yards away, the rock moved! No, not the rock, but the head and shoulders of a man. So his extreme caution had been justified.
Patrick lay very still, his eyes barely above ground level, watching the Dervish sniper moving about in the dark with little concern for his security. He knew that he must neutralise the sniper and take his place on the knoll and from there he could slip off and follow the other snipers to wherever they rejoined the main body of their supporting base area. Once identified, he could double back and provide the coordinates for the guns to range on and then the artillery could deliver a concentrated bombardment. Not only would the bursting shells of the gun
s deliver to the enemy a reasonably good lesson, but also show them that approaching a Zareba at night could be fatal.
The head and shoulders merged with the rock on the knoll as the warrior rested his long, flintlock rifle ready to fire his first shot into the British camp. His thoughts and concentration would have been on the possibility of his shot finding a target amongst the British as Patrick uncoiled from the cooling earth with the speed of a striking snake. The sniper died with the knife plunged into his chest. His gasp of pain was the last noise he made as he crumpled to the ground.
Patrick reefed the knife from the dead man but he did not have a chance to congratulate himself on his highly successful ambush. He was acutely aware that he was not alone.
Shadowy figures rose out of the earth from all around him. Ten, twenty, maybe more warriors rose, shocked by the sudden appearance of an evil spirit of the desert that burst with lethal fury amongst them. They had been squatting silently behind the sniper's knoll waiting to disperse to their own positions in the hills when Patrick had struck.
‘God almighty!’ Patrick cried in despair as he turned to face the unexpected threat, instinctively flinging up his pistol to fire blindly into the mass of warriors only yards away.
Stunned by his unexpected appearance, the Dervish warriors reacted slowly. Two of Patrick's wildly fired rounds found targets in their ranks and the men grunted in pain as they crumpled. When the pistol was empty Patrick spun on his heel and sprinted down the knoll towards the desert, away from his own lines.
Only the forward picquets heard the very faint popping sounds drifting to them on the still night air – and they dismissed the rapid volley as some mad tribesmen firing off their guns in the hills. They did not bother reporting the matter in the morning; they had been more interested in the sniper fire that came from closer quarters during the night, plunging uncomfortably close into the Zareba.
In the morning Private Angus MacDonald realised that the young captain had not returned. Major Hughes sent out a scouting party of Indian cavalry to reconnoitre the path that Captain Duffy had taken. They rode onto the deserted knoll and a cavalryman noticed the many blood stains in the earth. But there were no bodies – nor any sign of Captain Duffy.
When they reported the matter back to the brigade major he nodded and turned away from the bearded soldiers astride their big horses. The brigade had lost their finest junior officer and he had lost a friend.
General Graham had issued his orders to return to Suakin that day as the brigade major transmitted a telegram to Lady Macintosh informing her of the tragic news that her grandson was officially listed as missing in action. His telegram would be followed in due time by a letter of condolences for her loss, for although Patrick was listed officially as missing rather than killed in action, Major Hughes held little hope for the young captain's survival. If the Dervishes had not killed him then the desert soon would.
As they marched away from the hills of Tamai for the port of Suakin, Angus carried the webbing slung over his shoulder and remembered Captain Duffy's last request before he went off into the night. He had told him that under no circumstances was he to open the pouches of his webbing, and when he had reached the Red Sea, he was to throw the webbing into the waters.
Angus had not questioned the request. He knew a man facing death made such strange requests. But Captain Duffy had explained something to him that was stranger than the unusual request. He had said he thought the webbing might drift on the currents of the ocean to Ireland where it would be found by the Morrigan. Angus had not asked who the Morrigan was but he suspected that the webbing contained something very precious that no man had a right to know about. But he would not have to dispose of the webbing in the Red Sea, Angus told himself with an unshakeable belief. Captain Duffy would claim it soon himself when he rejoined the brigade.
As the army fell back on the port city of Suakin Private MacDonald held tenaciously onto Patrick's webbing. He should have handed it back to the quartermaster but that was not necessary. Captain Duffy would want it back when he returned, the brawny Scot reasoned and the quartermaster tentatively agreed.
TWENTY-FIVE
As the sun set below the tops of the hills the troopers and frontiersmen set about establishing their campsites. Sentries were posted and the horses hobbled for the night as firewood was gathered and bedrolls laid out.
Although the scene appeared deceptively serene all the men of the expedition harboured their private fears. They knew they were deep in Kalkadoon territory in the Godkin Range and the night could easily be rent with the bloodchilling war cries of the tribesmen. The talk around the campfires during the evening was subdued and few men lingered in the circles of light that were cast in the dark.
Peter sat alone, away from his fellow troopers. Word had spread to the others of his treacherous act and now he was shunned by men who had once respected him. But he was not alone for long.
Calder lumbered across from his campfire to stand over him. ‘The boss wants to see you, darkie,’ he sneered. ‘Get your black arse over there now.’
Peter rose and casually brought up his carbine with the barrel pointed at Calder. The gesture was not lost on Calder. He backed away in fear. But he was a tough man and spat at Peter's feet. ‘You an’ me going to settle up one day, Duffy,’ he snarled. ‘You can bet on that!’
Peter ignored his threat and strode across to Gordon who was sitting on a log, hunched over his fire with his coat around his shoulders. The evening chill was beginning to creep into the still night air of the mountain range.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Peter asked in a flat voice.
Gordon gestured for him to sit down. ‘I just wanted to talk to you, Peter,’ he said. ‘I think we have to clear the air between us.’ The fire that framed Gordon's face flickered in an uncertain expression. Peter sat with his rifle between his knees and waited. ‘I have a good idea that you stopped Trooper Calder from carrying out my request this afternoon. You may have done the right thing.’ Peter blinked with surprise but did not comment. It was obvious Gordon had much on his mind. Gordon continued staring into the flames as the fire crackled softly. ‘I've never shot down darkies who weren't resisting before,’ he said quietly. ‘Never shot down gins and piccaninnies, unless it was an accident. My father never agreed with shooting darkies unless it was necessary … so my request this afternoon was wrong.’
‘She got away,’ Peter lied. ‘Trooper Calder's carbine misfired.’ He would stick to the story, protect the original lie.
Gordon glanced up at him with a sudden shift of anger in his face. ‘You and I know that's not true so drop the bullshit,’ he flared. ‘No matter what happened you probably saved me from some unpleasant questions if someone had got drunk and talked about the incident later on.’
The subdued talk of men beyond the campfire drifted to them. In the far distance some unknown animal squealed as an unidentified predator took its life. Dingo, owl, native cat – who knew? Both men paused in the conversation to listen. All noises in enemy territory were suspicious; it could have been some form of call between the Kalkadoon.
Gordon swung his attention back to Peter and continued, ‘You might have prevented a bad situation developing for us by your actions. But, at the same time, you have forced me to decide to send you back with the resupply party to Cloncurry tomorrow morning. I'm sorry, but your loyalty is in doubt and now your continued presence is bad for the troop's morale.’
Yes, sir,’ Peter answered. ‘But you are wrong about questioning my loyalty. Despite what happened this afternoon I was ready to fight the Kalkadoon. I just wasn't ready to murder anyone. Not even for you.’
Gordon did not reply. He picked up a mug of tea beside his boot and sipped the hot beverage. ‘That's all, Trooper Duffy,’ he said softly as he stared into the darkness. ‘You can go.’
Peter rose and walked back to his fire where he sat down heavily. So, it was all over. He felt no regrets.
At piccaninny dawn the m
en came awake as the sentries shook them from their sleep. They ate hurried meals of cold damper bread washed down with hot tea and as soon as they had saddled their horses Gordon called a briefing for his patrol commanders concerning the route they would take that day. He had decided to follow the river valley south having calculated that, if they were going to locate the main base of the Kalkadoon, it would most probably be in the higher and more rugged hills which posed natural fortresses against a mounted attack. He also guessed that the tribesmen would locate themselves close to a good supply of water, and the river valley pointed like an accusing finger south.
Peter Duffy swung himself into the saddle and joined four heavily armed frontiersmen who had been tasked to return to Cloncurry for extra supplies. Gordon had not disclosed the reason Peter was riding with them and they accepted him as an extra escort.
By the time the sun kissed the valley floors the column of troopers and bushmen auxiliaries were slowly weaving their way cautiously through the thicker scrub adjoining the river bank.
In the south the Kalkadoon tribesmen waited for their enemy. They had stockpiled extra spears, boomerangs and nullahs on the hill tops they had chosen to fight from. Their tactical decisions would have pleased any European general of the day but their decision to stand and fight did not please the wily old Darambal warrior. He had vainly attempted to persuade the supreme war chief of the Kalkadoon to return to waging the successful guerrilla tactics of hit and run.
When Wallarie gazed around the hill tops at the men who proudly stood with backs unbent he felt a deep sadness and honour to be amongst the warriors who had dared to stand and fight. Could such audacity not prevail in battle?
The runners came to the hills with messages from other hill tops further north. They reported that at the present rate of advance the white man would be on them in a day. Wallarie squatted in the dust of the hill and crooned a song for the young men who boasted of deeds to be done in the coming battle. But they ignored his Darambal song for the dead as he sat cross-legged on the craggy heights, gazing north into the thick scrub and tree-lined valley below and wondering if he would ever see his kinsman Peter Duffy again. Perhaps they would meet in the Dreaming.