Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  He took a deep breath as he gathered himself for an attempt to rush forward to his next piece of cover. Hopefully it would give him a view of the men he hunted. He let out his breath and in a crouching sprint dashed for a large tree further along the creek line, acutely aware that by doing so he was dangerously stretching the distance between himself and his troop.

  With a gasp for breath he flung himself down on the ground and waited in the grass. Nothing! Cautiously he peered above the grass at the thicket of trees to his front and saw the flash of a red shirt.

  Calder was running as fast as he could away from the campsite and Gordon stood, steadied himself and fired on the fleeing man. Two shots whined through the trees, clipping leaves from branches and causing Calder to swerve and go to ground.

  Gordon was not sure whether one of his bullets had found its mark. The second shot had not been his and the bullet that had plucked at the sleeve of Gordon's jacket came from his flank. Suddenly he realised that he had exposed himself to the third unseen man. He spun and saw the thin haze of gun-smoke from the thicket of trees to his left.

  ‘You get him, Joe?’ Calder called in a voice that was muffled by the trees ahead of Gordon. But the blast of Gordon's pistol in the direction of the curling wisp of smoke soon answered his somewhat optimistic question. Behind him Gordon could still hear the ragged volleys of shots being fired at the man in the tangle of tree roots. He was certainly putting up a brave – but foolish – stand against the overwhelming odds stacked against him.

  Gordon was down on his belly and, using the grass as a cover, crawled forward so that he could reach the thicket of river trees. Another shot from the third man kicked up dirt in his face. The bastard knew where he was, Gordon thought, with a terrifying realisation that he was in a cross-fire. He had three shots left and knew that to load his pistol took precious time – time that could cost him his life. He would have to make his three shots count.

  He tensed and sprang forward like a spring uncoiling and his action took the third man unawares. He fired a wild shot that found only an empty space where Gordon had been. From the sound of the gun firing Gordon knew that it was a single shot Snider, which gave him the chance to make the cover before the man could reload.

  He flung himself into the thicket and went to ground where he wriggled forward to the protection of a fallen trunk of an old tree and paused to listen. He did not hear the telltale snap of twigs or the swishing sound of grass being disturbed.

  Gordon's hands sweated and he trembled uncontrollably as if he was in the grips of a fever. The bush around him seemed to have narrowed to a long tunnel and his heart pounded. Maybe he had made a lethal mistake in chasing Calder alone, he thought despairingly. And he had foolishly placed himself well away from the support of his troop which continued to exchange fire with the bushranger stubbornly holed up in the tree roots.

  Calder, however, had not seen Gordon make his dash for the thicket of scrub that grew profusely in places along the creek line. The former trooper slithered on his belly to the edge of the creek and onto the barrel of his lieutenant's rifle.

  Joe Heslop's eyes bulged with fear and his lips were curled back from his yellow stained teeth. His expression was that of a trapped animal as he pulled down the rifle a mere second before he was about to fire at the figure slithering towards him. ‘Jesus, I thought you were that bloody trap,’ he snarled. ‘You know the bastard out there shooting at us?’

  Calder dropped down beside him behind the bank of the creek. ‘The bastard was my boss once,’ he said. ‘Inspector James is the mongrel's name.’

  ‘Same bloke who did the Kalkadoon in?’ Heslop asked.

  Calder nodded as he checked his revolver that had been tucked in his belt. ‘How much ammo you got?’ he asked Heslop.

  ‘Not much. Left it all behind at the camp. Three rounds left for the rifle and only what's in my pistol. How about you?’

  ‘Rifle ammo's gone. Just six rounds for the pistol.’

  ‘That's not enough to hold the bastards off,’ Heslop spat. ‘Maybe we should give up.’

  ‘You can if you like,’ Calder snarled. ‘But I'd rather take my chances, while I'm free to.’

  Heslop fell silent as he stared across the top of the grass. He knew the fearsome reputation of Inspector Gordon James in getting a job done. If only half of what they said was true, their chances of getting away were about as good as nothing. Maybe it would be better to surrender now. At least he would be granted an extension on his life until he met the hangman. ‘I'm going to throw it in,’ he said softly. ‘No sense in dyin’ out here.’

  ‘Your choice, Joe.’ Calder snarled. ‘But leave us your guns and spare ammo.’

  Heslop shook his head as he handed over his pistol and rifle ammunition. ‘You won't get out alive,’ he said.

  But Calder flashed him an evil and enigmatic smile. ‘I have a plan,’ he answered. ‘All Mister James has to do is show himself for a second.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Heslop frowned.

  ‘That's my business.’

  Heslop shrugged and raised his head. ‘I'm comin’ out, Inspector James,’ he called out uncertainly. ‘Don't shoot!’

  Gordon heard the voice call to him but dared not reveal himself. At the same time he knew that he must give away his position behind the fallen tree if he was to accept the man's surrender. He was at least protected from gunfire behind the thick trunk so long as he kept his head down. What worried him most was the unknown whereabouts of Calder. ‘Show yourself and walk towards the sound of my voice,’ Gordon yelled back, peeking very carefully from the end of the tree trunk until he saw the bushranger at the edge of the creek. ‘Put your hands in the air where I can see them,’ he added, and the man obeyed. ‘Where's Calder?’

  Heslop was about to answer when he heard a warning hiss from the bushranger behind him. ‘Keep yer mouth shut Joe or I'll send yer to hell.’ Heslop knew that his threat was not an idle one and his mouth clamped shut as he began his slow walk towards the sound of the inspector's voice.

  Behind him Calder slipped the rear sight setting to fifty yards – the distance he calculated he was from Gordon James. He propped himself against the lip of the creek bank and scanned the ground between himself and the thickets. All the bastard had to do was show himself for a second, he thought, and James was a dead man.

  Gordon watched Heslop walking with his hands in the air uncertainly towards him. He appeared to be unarmed but the policeman was taking no chances. The man approaching him had nothing to lose by attempting to pull a concealed gun at the last moment. But where was Calder?

  The firing from further up the creek had ceased. Gordon could hear the jubilant voices of his men chattering and guessed they had finally subdued the bushranger.

  All he had to do now was call to them and bring them up as reinforcements to flush out Calder. The third bushranger could wait where he was until it was safe to manacle him. ‘Halt! And stay where you are with your hands raised,’ he called to the man who was now only ten paces from him. Heslop obeyed.

  Calder cursed softly. The bastard had outguessed him. Or had he? He had hoped, in the arrest of Heslop, James might expose himself. Drastic situations called for drastic solutions! ‘Get him now, Joe!’ he yelled and the bushranger half-turned. What in hell was he talking about?

  The heavy Snider round took him in the back between the shoulder blades with a thwacking sound and Joe Heslop pitched forward with a thud as he hit the ground.

  Gordon was stunned by the seemingly senseless killing. Without thinking, he rose from his hiding place, as if to catch the man falling towards him, and stood fully exposed with his pistol half raised searching for Calder.

  The bushranger sucked through his teeth in his triumph and ejected the empty brass cartridge. After reloading, he flung the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. Gordon was in his sights. So occupied was he, however, that he was not aware of the stealthy, black shadow rising from the murky water of the creek behind
him. Nor was he aware of the axe descending on the back of his head in a deadly blurring arc. His sight of the exposed inspector exploded in a sheet of red. With a grunt he dropped the rifle from his nerveless fingers and the Snider clattered down the bank of the creek where it sank out of sight.

  Gordon saw the giant Kalkadoon raise the axe again and realised immediately what its intended target was. ‘No!’ he screamed and his order was immediately obeyed.

  The sun glistened on the water that ran from Terituba's muscled body as he stood over the unconscious body of the bushranger. Now Terituba was confused. Did he not have the right to kill an enemy they had hunted?

  ‘Sergeant Johnson! Over here!’ Gordon shouted as he heard the voices of the troopers calling to each other as they approached his position.

  Terituba stood patiently over his victim and watched the troopers burst from the cover of the scrub with their rifles pointed forward. They lowered their weapons, however, when they saw the two bushrangers lying on the ground.

  Sergeant Johnson holstered his pistol as he came to Gordon and stared at the dead bushranger face down in the dry grass. ‘We got the other one,’ he said.

  ‘Dead?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘Shot to pieces,’ he replied in a flat voice. ‘You shoot this one?’ he asked, and Gordon shook his head.

  ‘Calder shot him.’

  The sergeant frowned but made no comment. It made little sense for a man to shoot his mate.

  As the two policemen gazed down at the body of Joe Heslop the Aboriginal troopers hauled the unconscious body of Calder onto the bank with little consideration for his injury. Calder groaned as he fought to regain his senses and his groan was answered with a savage kick to the ribs by one of the troopers. Gordon called on his men to leave the prisoner alone. He wanted him in a reasonably good condition to escort him to Rockhampton.

  Sergeant Johnson and Gordon walked over to where Calder lay on his back in the grass. Blood welled from the severe cut to the back of his head. When he finally opened his eyes they were glazed. His lips curled in a snarl which bared his teeth. ‘James … You murderin’ bastard. You had no cause to kill poor old Joe,’ he sighed before he lapsed into blissful unconsciousness again.

  ‘He's lying,’ Gordon snapped. ‘He killed Joe. Shot him in the back for no apparent reason.’ The sergeant nodded his agreement but Gordon could read the doubt in his eyes. ‘You got a doctor in town?’ he asked, dismissing the accusation of murder.

  ‘No. Nearest thing to a doctor around here is Missus Rankin at the Balaclava run,’ he replied. ‘She was a nurse before she married Humphrey.’

  ‘I know him,’ Gordon said. ‘He's the manager. Also just happens that I know the owner of the property.’

  ‘You know Missus O'Keefe?’ Johnson asked.

  Gordon nodded. ‘She's not Missus O'Keefe anymore. Got herself married to a Yankee, by the name of Luke Tracy some years ago.’

  ‘I got a message last year to keep a lookout for him,’ Johnson stated. ‘Appears he went missing somewhere up in the Gulf Country. I doubt that he would be still alive if he hasn't turned up by now.’

  ‘Missus Tracy holds the same opinion. I suppose we better get Calder over to Balaclava, and see what Missus Rankin can do to keep him alive until we get him to Rockhampton.’

  ‘Bit of a waste of time if you ask me,’ Johnson growled. ‘Considering what he's done. The bastard looks like real trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, well by keeping him alive for a bit longer, he gets the chance to sweat about hanging.’

  ‘Suppose you're right, sir,’ Johnson agreed. ‘We'll bring him around and put him on a horse. What about the fourth? The one that we started chasing back at Barcaldine?’

  Gordon frowned. Poor Willie Harris, he thought. The news of his involvement in the Halpin murder would break Ben's heart. ‘I will organise for another patrol to come out and search for him once I get to Rockhampton,’ he said. ‘But he's probably halfway to South Australia by now the way that horse of his could gallop.’

  Gordon arranged for the items at the bushranger's camp to be gathered up. Amongst the items collected was evidence of the bushranger's raid on the Halpin homestead at Cloncurry. He also arranged with Sergeant Johnson to ride back to Barcaldine with Terituba and take Heslop's body to be buried there.

  Terituba was now released from his duties and the young inspector instructed the sergeant to supply the Kalkadoon with a horse and supplies for his journey north. He wrote out a personal requisition to cover the costs and handed it over, with a promise that the formal paperwork would follow. Then Gordon approached Terituba who stood watching the proceedings of keeping the bushranger alive. None of it made much sense to him.

  Gordon fully realised that had not the Kalkadoon tracker intervened when he did he would not be alive to extend his hand in gratitude. ‘Thank you, Terituba,’ he said with gratitude. ‘What you did was a brave thing. You could have easily been killed and your actions will be duly noted in my report.’ Terituba accepted the extended hand and at the inspector's words of praise glanced down at the ground shyly. ‘I do not understand why you did what you did when God knows you have no reason to risk your life for mine. For whatever reason, I am eternally grateful.’

  Although Terituba's knowledge of English was limited he understood the emotion in the officer's voice. Nor could he understand why he had risked his life to save the whitefella except a spirit voice had told him to do so.

  And so they parted – Terituba riding out with Sergeant Johnson for Barcaldine; Gordon riding east for the Balaclava property with the wounded Calder sitting groggily astride a mount, jammed between two troopers.

  The irony of Terituba's courageous act was not lost on the young inspector as he rode east with his troop. Only a year earlier they had met in a struggle to kill each other. Now the same man who had permanently marked Gordon with his axe, had used the same weapon to save him.

  Gordon's patrol was not alone in riding east. When Willie Harris came to from his drinking binge he found his horse grazing nearby. He pulled himself into the saddle and through a haze of rum fumes sought sanctuary from those who would search for him. He remembered Kate Tracy's stories of the hills of Glen View Station. Hills where very few people visited because of a supposed curse on them.

  Willie turned east for Glen View where he would lay low until he could figure out a safe way to reach Sydney. He had very little left to do in his life except to meet the man who was his father and kill him. He had nothing to lose anymore. He fully knew that he was most probably facing the gallows should he ever be captured.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Granville smirked as he held up George Hobbs' statement to allow the ink to dry. ‘You have done the right thing, Mister Hobbs,’ he said to the frightened man sitting opposite him on the other side of Granville's desk. ‘I know that you have a high regard for Captain Duffy but there are more important issues at stake than your misplaced loyalty.’

  Hobbs did not reply. He felt that he would rather answer for his act of treachery in the next life rather than face the devil in this one. What matter that the rich fought their battles, when he was but a mere pawn in their games? At least Mister White had also provided a large sum of money to sweeten the treacherous act. He knew that his statement corroborating Granville's forged entries was damning. He could imagine the headlines of any newspaper that might run an article on the supposed allocation of monies to an organisation viewed by the government as hostile to the peace of the British Empire: HERO OF THE SUDAN A TRAITOR TO THE EMPIRE …

  At least, Hobbs consoled himself, the newspapers would not be told of the entries. Mister White would probably just confront Captain Duffy with the false evidence. Captain Duffy would realise how a public disclosure of the accusations would bring a terrible scandal down on Lady Enid, even though he would know that the accusations were fabricated. But the captain was an astute man and his commonsense would prevail. Mister White had given his word as a gentleman that Captain Duffy would sim
ply be asked to resign his position as head of the shipping department and be provided with a stipend so that he could pursue his interests in the colonial militia. The army was still his love and so drafting the document probably the best thing he could do for the captain in the long run.

  ‘You may leave, Mister Hobbs,’ Granville said without looking at him. ‘Just remember that your support on this matter will benefit not only you but also the future of the company. I am sure that under my management you may expect promotion.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister White,’ Hobbs mumbled as he rose and headed for the door. He closed the door and noticed a slight and nervous man standing in the annexe with his hat in his hand. ‘Mister Hobbs, isn't it?’ the man said by way of greeting. George remembered who the man was. The realisation sickened. With his head down, he pushed past the man who stepped aside. Was Mister White's power so great in Sydney that he could induce Lady Enid's own newspaper to be part of the sickening conspiracy to besmirch the name of a true hero?

  ‘Mister Larson, please take a seat,’ Granville said as he rose and indicated the chair that had only just been vacated by George Hobbs. ‘I wish I could say it is a pleasure to meet with you again but I am afraid that under the circumstances I have requested this meeting there is little pleasure in what I must tell you.’ Larson took the seat and Granville felt a twinge of fear. Getting George Hobbs to cooperate he had known would be easy. He had known the man for many years and as such was aware that he was basically a weak man, easily swayed by the power of his betters. But the editor of Enid's newspaper was a different matter. In his late forties Mister Larson was a man with a reputation for integrity–an unusual characteristic for a newspaperman. But he was also known for his zeal in pursuing stories that might discredit the upper classes. It was this combination of integrity and zeal that Granville most wanted to work for him against Patrick Duffy.