Albert of Adelaide

by Howard Anderson

  Albert looked out toward the water hole and the ridge beyond. He could see movement in the trees by the water hole, but the ridge was quiet.

  “Did we win?” Albert asked.

  TJ shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve been stuck in this damn rock pile since the shooting started. It’s been a hell of a fight, though.”

  Albert could feel the heat of the sun for the first time that day. He took his hat out of his vest and put it on. He heard a faint cry above him and looked into the sky. A crow flew over the rocks toward the far ridge. Albert watched the bird until it became too small to see anymore, then he looked over at TJ, who was struggling to get up.

  “Give me a paw off this rock, would you, Albert?”

  Albert saw a pile of stones behind the boulder, and he climbed up to TJ and helped him down. TJ leaned on him for a moment.

  “I haven’t seen a dingo since the shooting started at Muldoon’s camp. When it sounded like you’d started a war down there, I couldn’t hold them back. The cannon started up again, and that’s when Muldoon took off. I tried to keep the gunners distracted, but I don’t know if it helped much.”

  Albert looked over at Jack. The old wombat looked very tired, but managed another smile. “I told him I’d hold his coat, Albert. That’s all anybody could ever do for Muldoon.”

  TJ took his paw from Albert’s shoulder. “Who knows, we might have even won this damn thing.” TJ held out his paw and helped Jack to his feet. “You head on out, Albert. Jack and I will be along directly.”

  “If it doesn’t look good, you come back for us. A good run is always better than a bad fight, and I want you to remember that,” TJ cautioned.

  Albert nodded and walked quickly down the hill toward Muldoon’s camp. He looked back once to make sure that Jack and TJ were moving, then made his way into the bush.

  Another crow flew over his head and landed in the top of a gum tree near the water hole. It began to call out and Albert followed the sound. He reached one end of the water hole and saw a few dingoes moving through the dead that littered the ground where Muldoon used to live. More crows were gathering in the treetops, and they watched with unblinking interest as below them the dingoes gathered up the guns of the fallen.

  Albert hurried on past the camp. He had seen enough death that it held no fascination for him. He knew there were other bodies waiting for him on the ridge, and that was bad enough.

  Small parties of dingoes searched for any of the militia that might have survived. They seemed indifferent to him and passed him by without any acknowledgment.

  He reached the base of the ridge and walked up into the abandoned militia positions. There were a few dead kangaroos and wallabies lying in the first trench, but dead dingoes littered the slope all the way up to the gun on the top of the ridge. Muldoon’s body was lying in front of the gun emplacement just beyond the last trench.

  Albert walked slowly up the ridge, avoiding the dead as best he could. He stopped a few feet from Muldoon. The last shot from the cannon had carried away Muldoon’s bad arm, but the explosion that close to the muzzle had killed the gun crew. Theodore’s body lay in back of the gun, partially covered by bloody kangaroos.

  A light wind blew gently across the ridge and ruffled the fur that poked through the torn fabric of Muldoon’s purple tights. He lay on his back with his head turned to the side and Albert couldn’t see the burns on his face. Except for the terrible wound that had taken away his arm and shoulder, he looked every bit the Muldoon he once had been.

  The dingoes that had charged the hill at his side were all dead. There was no one left alive who saw Muldoon’s last fight. If there had been any cheers, Albert hadn’t heard them. Muldoon had fallen with the quiet companions he’d had for the last eight years. In the end, he hadn’t died alone.

  Albert saw something shiny hanging around Muldoon’s neck, but before he could bend down to look at it, he heard a hissing sound. Albert looked up into a set of goggles and the twin barrels of a shotgun.

  Theodore was standing beside the cannon with his shotgun pointed at Albert. He started cackling, and foam began forming at the corners of his mouth.

  “Zoo!” he whispered. Then he giggled and cocked the hammers of the gun.

  “Zoo!” he screamed as saliva dribbled down the front of his uniform. He giggled again.

  Albert heard the report of the rifle before he heard the sound of the bullet hum past his head. The minié ball caught Theodore in the chest and knocked him back against the gun carriage. The giggling stopped, and Theodore slid into the dirt beside the gun.

  TJ took the Enfield off his shoulder and let Jack help him up the ridge. It took a long time for them to navigate the trenches and the dead, but they finally made it to Albert and Muldoon.

  They stood silently together. TJ took off his hat and bowed his head for a moment. Jack bent down and put the jacket he was carrying under Muldoon’s head. TJ put his hat back on.

  “Anybody have a pistol?” he asked.

  Jack reached in his coat pocket and took out the pepperbox. TJ traded the rifle for the pistol, went over to Theodore, and carefully shot him five more times.

  Albert bent over and looked again at the shining object that had caught his attention. A misshapen disk hung around Muldoon’s neck on an old string. Albert bent down and looked closer. The melted metal disk said “Winner,” but some of the letters were hard to read.

  Dingoes had come out of the bush and were moving up the ridge scattering red earth on those who had died trying to silence the gun. Albert hoped that wherever Muldoon had gone, the red pigment might mean more to him than the medal around his neck.

  30

  A Lesson in History

  The Gates of Hell was dark except for one dim light that flickered through a dirty window in the back of the building. Albert waited until TJ positioned himself near the back door, then he walked around the building to the front entrance.

  He carried Theodore’s shotgun under his arm. TJ had given it to him after the fight at the water hole. Albert had never been a good shot, and TJ thought he might have better luck with a firearm that was more forgiving than a pistol.

  It had been three months since Muldoon had died, and TJ was impatient to finish what Bertram had started when he had invaded Hell. Except for a plumed hat lying in one of the trenches, there had been no sign of the wallaby after the battle.

  That day, there had been no talk of looking for Bertram. A sadness had settled over the water hole and had replaced, in most, the relief of still being alive. Even the dingoes were quieter than normal and were quick to scatter back across the desert without feast or celebration. They just walked away and left the dead, both friend and foe, to be eaten by the crows that had continued to gather in the trees.

  TJ had put all he had into directing the fight, and he was content to let Albert gather their gear and help him walk far enough into the desert to where the sounds and smells of the water hole were a memory and not a reality.

  Jack had stayed with Muldoon’s body while Albert gathered the packs from the rocks beyond the water hole. Then he, too, left the battlefield for the last time and limped after Albert and TJ into a late afternoon on the flats of Hell.

  They traveled slowly, not really caring where they went or how long it might take them to get there. When it became too dark to continue, they made camp where they found themselves, one place seeming to be as good as any other.

  Albert made a fire, pulled blankets out of the packs, and passed them around. At the bottom of his pack he found the whiskey bottle he had given to Muldoon. He passed the bottle to Jack without comment. Jack took a drink and gave the bottle to TJ.

  Albert sat down next to Jack and drank from his canteen. There seemed no need for conversation; they had acted out the parts given to them that day and their assignments for tomorrow could wait until the morning. One by one, they fell asleep.

  At daybreak, they moved on in the same fashion as the day before, and so it went for two more d
ays until they reached water. A small spring fed clear water into a small pool that overflowed into a stream lined with acacia and gum trees.

  They stopped with an unspoken agreement that they had walked away from the recent past as far as they could, and it was time to live in the present and prepare for the future. The tasks they had done so many times before were done again with a certain relief in being able to escape into the familiar and the mundane.

  Albert gathered firewood and hunted the water hole for crayfish. Jack searched the bushes for snakes, and when he was satisfied there were none he set up the tripod and made tea. TJ was still recovering from his wound, but he found the energy to wash his clothes and make sure that all the guns were loaded and in working order.

  Over the weeks, a routine was established in the camp. Once the chores were done, they rested in the shade, swam in the water hole, and made conversation over tea and crayfish in the evenings. Several times, dingoes stopped by and would share their beetles and grubs in return for whatever TJ had roasted by the fire.

  They never stayed long but would make signs to TJ, which he seemed to understand, then they’d leave as quietly as they had come. TJ said that the dingoes had saved the cannon for him, and as soon as their business with Bertram was sorted out, he was going to take the gun down to the coast. There was a chance the ship might show up again, and if it did, he was going to try to capture it and take up piracy. It was something he had never done before and he had an urge to give it a try.

  Jack would smoke his pipe and tell stories about what happened to him or to Muldoon long ago in the small-minded towns that were scattered throughout Old Australia. He would often get confused and repeat the same story several times. TJ and Albert always pretended they were hearing it for the first time.

  Muldoon was always there in Jack’s stories, but it was the Muldoon from before the fight in Winslow. They were always young in the stories, with Muldoon’s fame still ahead of them. In those days, each new town was just another adventure and not a tragedy waiting to happen.

  Albert listened to TJ and Jack in the evenings, but he never told any stories of his own. His days in Adelaide were all he could have spoken about, but they were dark days, best left as fading memories. He hoped that someday he would be able to sit with new friends and relate to them the things that he had seen and done in Old Australia. But that hope lay in an uncertain future, and for now he was content to listen to familiar voices tell tales about places he’d never seen.

  As TJ’s wound healed, he became restless. At first he would take short walks up the stream, stopping to rest in the shade of the trees. The walks became longer and the rests less frequent. Soon, he began taking his rifle and disappearing into the desert for hours at a time. One day, after being gone from before sunrise until after dark, he came back into camp and told Albert and Jack that the time had come to return to the Gates of Hell.

  The dingoes had reported that they had seen some lights coming from the building and there was a good chance that Bertram had returned. Even if Bertram wasn’t there, they could destroy his printing press and burn the building.

  It took them four days to reach the Gates of Hell. Jack was still dragging his left leg, and it slowed the march considerably. No matter how long it might take them to get to their destination, there had been no question about leaving Jack behind. He had been responsible for rescuing Albert in Barton Springs and had been under fire at the water hole. He had a right to be there when the Gates of Hell met its end.

  Albert was pretty sure that Jack didn’t hold Bertram responsible for Muldoon’s death and in some ways might have been grateful to him for indirectly providing the relief that Muldoon had been looking for. But he knew if there was going to be a fire, Jack wouldn’t want to miss it.

  A large militia recruiting poster covered the sign by the door, but other than that, the front of the Gates of Hell looked much as Albert remembered it. The wind had shredded the corners of the poster, and the glue holding it to the sign was beginning to give way.

  Albert shifted the shotgun to his right paw and pushed the door partway open with his left. He listened for a moment and heard a faint scratching noise coming from inside the building. He slipped into the Gates of Hell through the half-opened door.

  Bertram was sitting at the table in the center of the room. He was wearing a uniform jacket covered with gold braid and writing on a sheet of foolscap with a steel pen. A pile of papers sat on the table next to a candle and a full shot glass. There wasn’t a tablecloth on the table, and the noise of pen on paper was clearly audible in the quiet of the room.

  Bertram looked up briefly as Albert came in the door. “For a moment, I thought it might be Theodore.”

  “I wouldn’t wait up for him, if I were you.” Albert looked across the room and saw TJ standing in the darkness at the back of the room. The Enfield was cradled in his arms.

  “I suspected as much. He was a brave and noble creature. I’ll miss him.” Bertram looked down at the paper and started to write again. “It’s all in here. Theodore’s valiant stand. His tragic end. How we saved Old Australia from the dingoes and their accomplices. In addition, I have included a section about how I rose from humble origins to the rank of General in the Armies of Old Australia. I’m hoping it will be an inspiration to others.”

  “I hope you’re close to the end,” TJ said very quietly.

  Bertram looked over at TJ and shrugged. “I’ve already written the part where I am betrayed for the last time and murdered in cold blood by a foreigner and a platypus.” He put down his pen and took a drink. “You will be long forgotten, while my name will still be on every lip. A martyr to the preservation of the marsupial way of life. There will be a statue of me in every square.”

  TJ tipped his hat off the back of his head and let it hang from his neck by the chinstrap. He scratched an ear. “I never thought of that,” he said.

  Bertram smiled. “That’s because you lack my imagination.”

  TJ kept scratching his ear. “Maybe we ought to let you go. What do you think, Albert?”

  Albert was confused. He didn’t want Bertram to escape, but he didn’t like the idea of killing him in cold blood. “I don’t know, TJ. He tried to kill us.”

  Bertram continued to smile. He took the sheet of paper he’d been writing on and placed it carefully on top of the manuscript. He folded the manuscript and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “I know he did, Albert, but he wasn’t very good at it,” TJ said. “I look at it this way. As a constable, Bertram here got an entire town burned down. As a general, he got an army wiped out. If we let him go, he will get elected to public office, and inside of a week there won’t be a live marsupial left in Old Australia.” He started laughing.

  For the first time Bertram became visibly angry. “Do you think all that matters?” He stood up and reached back in his pocket and took out the manuscript. He shook it at TJ. “This is what matters. History is what matters.”

  TJ took the rifle out of the crook of his arm. “You talk too much, Bertram. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Bertram reached over and picked up the shot glass. He finished his drink and tossed the glass into the corner of the room. Then he started toward the front door, but he looked at Albert and hesitated. He spun on his heel and pushed past TJ.

  “I still don’t believe in demons,” he muttered to himself as he stepped out the back door and slammed it behind him.

  TJ started poking around the piles of junk that cluttered the back of the room. “Might be something we can use in here. Help me look.”

  Albert slung the shotgun over his shoulder and went over to where TJ was. “Are you sure it was a good idea to let Bertram go?”

  TJ smiled. “Don’t worry, Albert. If he’d gone in your direction, I would have shot him before he got out the door. As it is, we’ve got friends out back.”

  Albert and TJ searched through the piles of furniture, stacks of barrels, and crates that surrounde
d the printing press standing along the back wall. They were still looking when Jack came in the back door. He waved to them and then he, too, began rummaging around at the back of the store.

  Most of the barrels and boxes were empty, and the bolts of cloth moth-eaten. TJ found a couple of bars of lead and put them in a pocket. Albert was hoping to find his old rucksack that he had lost the first time he’d come to the Gates of Hell. He was sure the money that had been stolen was long gone, but he missed the rucksack.

  Albert moved a dusty crate that had once contained parts for the printing press. Behind the crate something shiny reflected the light from the lone candle in the room. He bent down and took a closer look. The soft drink bottle he had brought from Adelaide was lying on the floor.

  He picked up the bottle and wiped the dust off it with the sleeve of his coat. He had forgotten about the bottle. He didn’t need it anymore, but it was all he had left from his days in Adelaide. As he put the bottle in the pocket of his coat, he smelled paraffin.

  Jack was limping around the interior of the building carrying a large tin of lamp oil. He was pouring it on anything that looked flammable. When the tin was empty he threw it toward the front door and went looking for another one. TJ ran over and grabbed the candle off the table before the fumes could reach it and carried it to the back door. Albert edged closer to the door and waited until Jack poured a second tin of paraffin all over the floor.

  “I never had this much time before,” Jack said. “It sort of takes the fun out of it.”

  TJ carefully opened the back door before he gave Jack the candle. “If you’re not careful, there’s liable to be more fun than you had in mind.” He jumped out the back door with Albert close behind him. They were fifty feet from the building when they heard the paraffin ignite. They turned to see Jack silhouetted in the doorway and flames pouring from every window of the building. Jack took a long look into the fire before he limped back to where Albert and TJ were standing. He hauled himself a few feet farther and sat down on the desert floor, facing the fire. TJ and Albert sat in the dirt next to him.